so today i realized that my fifteen pages of wannabe-but-not-not-quite
break up poetry were written for absolutely nothing.
if i'm anything, it's a fool—
the biggest. fool.
(but that's not even original, it's not even original, but i guess i'm running
out of good spine-tingling imagery to associate with you. funny, isn't it? i've
run you into the ground like you've run me into the ground—but you'll never.
even. know. it.)
i'm even laughing at myself right now (what are you doing? what are you doing?
i don't even know what i'm doing—about nothing or anything. i've got no short-
maybe i'm becoming one of those people who are too emo to be healthy—
i'm stewing—i've been stewing for awhile—and at the rate i'm going, i will
have written an entire book of poetry about you by the time September comes
maybe i'll be one of those fools who are star-struck and don't know it, but have
let the volatile, manic depressive girl of their dreams run away into the dusk of August
to never return from the subculture she immersed herself in.
but i guess that you don't want to be saved...
i guess that you don't want to be saved...
and i don't even like you like that anyway—or maybe i do, i wouldn't know and wouldn't—don't—want to—ever. of course it doesn't matter, you'd never think of me
like that either. i was never your type—there's not enough gel-induced grease clinging to
my brown hair. i'm not loud enough and i'm not whimsical enough—believing in what i do and disliking what you don't.
that's not "here nor there, really"—it might be at the root of this entire implosion. but i can't figure out
what went wrong—
but you looked kind of cute when you smiled at me today. it made me sink into the floor. because—
i guess you're missing the horrible, morbid, pessimistic, clichéd piles of scribbled-up-crossed-out pen-marked papers and sketchbook upon sketchbook of drawings that try to
puzzle everything out and fail.
i think i must be the only one here with nothing to occupy my thoughts and time (i need to forget you, i need to forget you, stupid brown eyes, stupid brown eyes—i'm the only
player in this game.)
it's twelve again. i need to stop coloring up my white white wall space with broken black
hearts and pictures of Converse all-stars that say your name (it was that one with your canvas and my canvas together, a cliché but a fun one, a really fun one), i need to stop listening to this sad sad music.
grow up, get up, get out. i'm gonna. i've got no short term dreams. no short term dreams.
A/N: there's something about this that bothers me, but i don't know what—i think it's rather um...sub-par. Once again, messed up format. Once I get a place to put it, I'll put a link that WORKS to this so that you can see the actual format if you'd like...of course, if you really wanted it you could email me, but meh. whatever. -blinks- it's very late and very early. i am sleepy.