sometimes the words just won't flow and I find myself writing and erasing and rewriting looking for some feeling that will describe something more than just my desire to than what I want to imagine as the facsimile of emotion or love. I know nothing of the matter as I have yet to find this mysterious emotional state of being in it and no matter the amount of books and movies just cannot make it any more real than the emptiness that surrounds my space, this abyssal lonely spot in the universe where no one but my own heart occupies and the alienness of the ensuing silence is only shattered by another book or movie stream.
I only know of love in my dreams, I dream of being in love most every night and yet when I wake the poetry of the moment that I had just lived is as empty as the page where I want to share all that I am with someone else. The irony is that I no longer feel anything over the loss of something I have never even lost. so there are only so many words that can say that I want to be in love but I don't even know what that love is, at all.
It's like bad seventies joni mitchell songs that get stuck in your head and you want a carpenter song instead and all that you have gone and read might as well be dead like the poetry that you hope each time you write will make these sweet little lies come to life, stop and take note as the poet rhymes it to strife striven across the razor's edge like running your wits along a dulled knife as if to taunt you with more words like wife which has no relation to anything but the dulled desires that no longer nor linger amongst the smulder that was this passion's fires and the words drain away from the poem as the meanings that I am sharing push anyone beyond the caring that I wanted everyone to know.
That is to say that it's truly sad to be someone like me, just wait and see
when there is no one left to phone, when your bed is empty, dinner sits on the table
cold, as you grow old and then you will understand why it stucks to be alone.
I only know of love in my dreams, I dream of being in love most every night and yet when I wake the poetry of the moment that I had just lived is as empty as the page where I want to share all that I am with someone else. The irony is that I no longer feel anything over the loss of something I have never even lost. so there are only so many words that can say that I want to be in love but I don't even know what that love is, at all.
It's like bad seventies joni mitchell songs that get stuck in your head and you want a carpenter song instead and all that you have gone and read might as well be dead like the poetry that you hope each time you write will make these sweet little lies come to life, stop and take note as the poet rhymes it to strife striven across the razor's edge like running your wits along a dulled knife as if to taunt you with more words like wife which has no relation to anything but the dulled desires that no longer nor linger amongst the smulder that was this passion's fires and the words drain away from the poem as the meanings that I am sharing push anyone beyond the caring that I wanted everyone to know.
That is to say that it's truly sad to be someone like me, just wait and see
when there is no one left to phone, when your bed is empty, dinner sits on the table
cold, as you grow old and then you will understand why it stucks to be alone.
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