Shaunna Harper Shaunna Harper
Recommendations: 35

I think 'complaint' would sound a bit better, just a suggestion.

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Jordan Newman Jordan Newman
Recommendations: 15

i loved her more when i was sober.


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i see angels above me, i see demons below me, fighting over heaven.
i don't want a second chance.
love starts with that of a flickerin' cigarette
i swear i could feel your love before i knew your name.
bury my heart on the cold corner.

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soul mates

I hum along incessantly to the songs in my headphones,
anything to distract myself from the miles I'm traveling
on my way back home to a city I no longer desire to live in.
I wish to God that a woman was waiting at the bus station
but I'm not so crass as to be holding my breath waiting;
because I know it's my own fault that there won't be anyone.


The choices I picked and the way I lived life void of feeling
is the reason I will be greeted by no soul, absolutely no one;
but don't get me wrong, this isn't some sonnet of complaining.
This is my own demise, please take this with a fleeting
sense of accomplishment, because empathy is something
I can honestly say I've never quite understood, upon my return
my first mission will be to use a dictionary to read the definition
for sympathy and love, for then maybe I could find happiness. 1 comment


My computer boots up and instantly I see this girl smiling,
the woman I once loved is now holding hands with someone
who is capable of offering her the virtue of believing
in a happily ever after; to me virtue is just much too damning.
It's my fault, I know, for being such a mess, so romance is fiction
at best, a fools gold treasure chest of desire and promising
of things I don't understand; and I find that discovering
something in somebody is fruitless, because everybody is hiding
there darker side in broad day light, and we are no exception.


So I've grown tired of wasting my wishes on hoping I can be human
once again; but I keep using a moral compass to reach my destination.
There's this tasteless disdain that appears to be my coping
strategy with this thing we call comfort for the guilt of existing.
Without reason I've followed my mutiny like I honour treason;
and now I hear people calling me the prince of winter, a king
of autumn is what I now aspire to be, truthfully I long
to become anything other than the man who appears as my reflection.


There had been a time when I believed in fate, back when
she whispered in my ear the opposite of sweet little nothings.
Her words would take the shape of reassurance, and my unending
complaints about the day amused her; but not as much as my musing
of fear of dreams, my nightmares she'd tell me are nothing
to worry, in fact most people consider my imagination as something
worth keeping, and that if I keep on doing what I am doing then
a terrible world is what I'd discover, proof came one evening.


I arrived home to discover she had grown stale of my tongue, an
empty apartment is what I arrived home to; and no sense of reason
could I figure out for the reason behind her need to break me in
to piece's but here I am left holding my tears in, deep down
inside I knew it was a matter of time before my painful vocation
would drive her beyond insane, so sleep soundly baby, I'm taking
down my need for destruction in hopes one day she may return.


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