Bad poets are borne out of failed romances

Lying by the bedside,With my precautionary pause,Pretending to be blasé,While overwhelmed by that curve across your face,That pierces through the opague clout,Of doubt fused with this loathing,I call home. Stuttered my way upto the room,Where they have my least favourite class,Jumped up to the last row,Just to sneak in and sigh,At the way you walk up to that dim corner,Carrying a smile beset with a shimmering hue,By that tinge of pink on your cheeks,And the beguiling mischief that fills your eyes.

I thought I felt you,Tugging close to my chest,So we don't know, These nights from our days,While putting every heartbeat of mine into words,I stumbled upon your smile on this odd day,And now those caveats meant nothing,Cause there was no poem more enchanting than you.

I don't want to be here,Unless we're floating past this haze,You and me,To never be seen,Of the thousands of thoughts you've plucked from my head,To fill in for good,One was which implored me to seek the end,For I might never get to see you again,I might never be able to say goodbye.
 

 

This poem is about: 
Me

Comments

Need to talk?

If you ever need help or support, we trust CrisisTextline.org for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741