Lonely confessions into the endless void. Phrases for those stories untold.
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I Love Letter to Life Itself
I love you like my days off work.
The way I wake to no alarms.
I love you like a morning dove's
unyielding earthly charms.
I love you like the sunlight,
dancing through the shifting leaves.
I love you like the picnic blanket
that gives me room to breathe.
I love you like the game nights,
where we fight to stay alive.
I love you like the music
that keeps me awake on a drive.
I love you like the cicadas
that sing all summer long.
I love you like the island
where home is a distant song.
I love you like the days that
don't swallow me like tar.
I love you like the trauma
that's left a pretty scar.
I love you like the rain on
a perfect lazy day.
Despite all my desires
to leave this earth,
Despite all the spirals
to prove my worth,
I love you.
I love you.
I love you,
just enough,
For a little while longer,
To maybe say I'll stay.
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I would rather lie in an unmarked grave than have it desecrated with the name of a stranger.
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An old home is where the withered heart comes to die.
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Oh to indulge in fruity words
picked from an endless vine.
To bear witness to their rot,
and yet turn a blind eye.
It must be nice,
to bathe one's soul
in that blood red wine.
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To the life I once knew
with a nauseating intimacy.
My grief is brief,
but heavy.
The shoes you left me
were laced in insecurities.
The masks that you carved me
have rotted and splintered.
The blood you gave me
curdles at the mere mention of your name now.
You are a roadside grave
deserving of fresh flowers,
covered in plastic petals.
I apologize if I cannot greet you with fondness.
You are my history better left as an undeveloped pinhole memory.
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Sometimes the midnight train is my only companion. The distance so vast yet the sound so clear. A mournful horn becomes the outlet of my thoughts.
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Sometimes I wish the pouring rain would never end. Maybe then will my love for you will drown with the flood that follows.
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The desire to outlive someone is stronger than the desire to disappear completely.
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How can you feel homesick from a planet you've never been to except in dreams?
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The stars make excellent company.
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And by nightfall when the clear glass becomes a black mirror, I will acknowledge the part of me that exists unapologetically.
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The halls are dark, but even the moon light chooses to wander.
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The house is quiet but the mind is loud.
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You can't prove that anything in life is guaranteed, so their is no point in knowing any true facet obout me.
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All I ever want to be is space dust along a rushing comet, circling the stars to infinity.
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If you dream of a world outside of my arms, my heart does not wish to hear it.
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A silent forest has much to say.
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