The Places We Belong

I sit on the roof of this apartment - where I am not allowed, losing myself in the ethereal stars. The smoke from the cigarette dangling from my lips, making shapes as it rises towards the heavens.

How I wish you were here with me to form poetry from the stars and stories in the smoke. The perfect scene- how picturesque.

However, quite lonely when I sit here reminded of how you would enjoy this aesthetic perch, snapping memories with your camera and scribbling in your notebook as much as I.

Your poetic thoughts - my inspiration as they always have been.

We must visit soon.

Comments

The Silence of Two Heartbroken Lovers

The pain of silence between two former lovers who still love each other is heartbreaking. The physical ache they feel, wishing they could reach out to the other, but it's as if they are on either side of a deep ravine with a mile long gap between them,but with a shaky wooden bridge across. They are both afraid to cross, in fear of hurting themselves or the other. So they sit there staring sadly at their love. Occasionally, one of them will venture off to try to move on, but they always end up back at the bridge. The two former lovers know they need each other, but they don't want any more heartbreak. What they don't realize is the heartbreak they are causing the other person. They're hearts are so broken and damaged, even without this unnecessary heartbreak. They need each other to pull themselves up, to pull each other up. The silence is long and painful and stretches out beyond the bridge. Others, completely unrelated to the problem, can feel the pain and longing ju

"I'll Be There"

Everyone always says "If you ever need me, I'll be there." But when I do need someone, when I crying my eyes out in the corner thinking of bringing the blade out once again, when I can't find the motivation to get out of bed, when nothing feels right and all I want to do is cry and have someone tell me it's okay, nobody's there. Never. So how am I supposed to believe you when you say "Trust me, I'll be there no matter what. All you have to do is call.", but when I do call, you're busy or ignore the ringing? How am I supposed to tell you when something is wrong when you never listen for the goddamn ringing?

Pity For Those Who Don't Write

There are people who don't have pens randomly hidden in every room, every jacket, every purse finding them in the strangest of places like under your pillow, by the sink, in an empty bowl in the kitchen cabinet, sometimes even in a shoe for the spontaneous ideas that must be written down at once. There are people who don't wake up in the middle of the night, struck with inspiration, and stay up the rest of the night, writing their hearts out. There are people who don't have random lines, that make little sense -except to the writer- written on their hand. There are people who don't have their characters on paper haunting them. Butting into every thought they have, until the writer finished writing their story. There are people who get sleep every single night with no thoughts of imaginary worlds sprouting in their heads, keeping them awake. They have no push from that magnificent imaginary word to stay up all night writing about the complex wor

Rewriting The Stars

Search This Blog