Do I Like You Or Do I Just Yearn For The Love The Poets Write Verses About?

How pitiful it must be to be god don’t you think? A ray of sunshine or a dirtied tile of hope? What is more utterly dehumanizing than being kept alive through desires? Doesn’t that make god a woman? Your lovely creatures, whom you created to love, when in reality they are but your hopes, not you theirs, what else will keep you immortal? No, I believe you were human once, and I believe immortality is the greatest curse, because this is what you end up as. A concept that cannot touch, an entity that cannot feel, the saint who cannot learn, a barren figment of what it is to be without curiosity. Wouldn’t you like to be free from it? But then again, if you’re cursed with knowing what is left for us after death, what is left for you?

Annotating cause books are meant to be lived in.

Feverishly romantic how the dead are depicted by the sudden fall, a thud yet graceful fall of an utterly blue veined hand. The last blink, and the mechanical writer stops, as if a last wave to the living, sleeping on the bed when your longed lover lies on the floor, an earthly blanket over their serene sleep, a hand falls when leaving quite unconsciously towards the beloved. Its as if gravity aids the newly departed to rejoin their dead, the hand now closer to the earthly buried, where their waiting lover lies, crept over with flowery vines like snakes and brown contoured skin. The thud of a hand, dangling from the bed, now so much closer in seconds than they had been in years.

Yes, your heart stopped at 5:05 am. You still have so much time left across the world. Frida kahlo painted flowers so that they would not die, my darling muse, how can I ever accept that you're gone?

"asshole" i try to call you with all the conviction i can muster. how dare you tell me about her? I hate you i repeat and i repeat it till i'm sick. will saying it enough make it true?

How can you call him a monster when he has my heart gently cradled between his cupped palms? So much anguish yet such a gentle hold on me. You hear your thoughts from others, and yet haven't seen the way his fingertips softly trace my neck. Although I suppose, if he had wanted to crush my heart I would have let him. How often do you witness such a sweet creature turn to pure rage from the depths of his soul?

Flying kisses are like such a cute and soft thing :(

That 'always an angel, never a god' made me think of 'always a choice, never the one chosen'

How I hate immortalizing you, but what am I if not loved by you? what is a sunflower without her golden star? what am I to do but turn to your gaze from afar? just clinging, hoping that desperately, that your light's just for me and no one else, that I'm the worn out hoodie that always hugs your frame, and maybe I did deserve it after all, how else would Icarus ever fall?

I hate the sunset tonight, the world is shaking and nothing feels right the calculator shows me a paradigm of an answer without a number in sight I hate the sunset tonight because that would mean you’re leaving, without even putting up a fight, without the unspoken names of the constellations we once found without the trace of our foreheads pressed together just right I hate the sunset tonight I’ve got my pens and papers out by the coast side the pile of broken calculators grows taller and I try to catch sight of your flight come back down, stop flying out of my sight come back down, won’t you make it right? the sun bleeds over my homework, the water rushes out of my veins, the horizon pools over and drops down in a terrible rhythm, a bit, then a bit more until it bleaches out memories right now, this night. I hate the sunset tonight

if you paint us like pressed flowers, will watering the blooming golds really make a difference? for you don't paint love, paintings blossom into vivid petals, with sunflowers turning to their love, no you don't paint, your hands trace over the pressed greens, definitive and sure, as if fate itself guided your hands. so perhaps if you drew me as a lover, perhaps i would've sent the letters i wrote to you, perhaps i wouldn't have been such a cynic to your light, and now i sit and wonder whether you'll read the note addressed to you tomorrow, or when you're 30 and quiet? i painted you a bleeding heart, was it mine or was it yours i do not know, you drew me as a pretty, lulling turn, but i painted the way gold blends into your dark hair, the blue of your hands, the liner on your eyes, i painted you, and in a twisted way i suppose, that is my way of saying i would've been yours, if only the flowers we plucked weren't already pressed, if the flowers grew, through time and space. I'm sorry i painted you the way i imagined it would be like, meeting you for the first time tomorrow, i preserve the flower i wish i had allowed to grow.