spilled ink

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You are an ocean I promised myself I wouldn't get lost in, but I went into this with no compass, no map, and no intention of asking for directions.
Let's get lost. Get in the car and drive until the buildings no longer look familiar. We can sing along to our favorite songs, ones we're embarrassed about knowing all the words to, but then scream them at the top of our lungs.
I can feel myself beginning to drown in you. My lungs are empty and I need the soft exhale of your breath as we kiss to keep me alive.
She taught herself how to lie. Through gritted teeth she claims that she's fine, but the world sees otherwise. She has fought for so long. Collecting purple hearts from the battles her soul has faced.
i taught you how to love again. i helped you open up your heart to more than just the familiar. the love you had grown to know.
A year ago,I would have done anything to make you stay.A year ago,I had it all in the palm of my handto have it all fall apart six months later.  
The Words Spill onto  The paper in Dropletts of agony Things that left my mind When the tenderness of the moment Encapsulated me in the Woven Tapestry of  Your adortion
As a bibliophilic writer, I've always been in love with words  It never ceases to amaze me how much meaning can be conveyed in just a single one
  tell me if this worth the waittell me if ‘us’ is enoughcause i've tried and triedto see beyond my doubtsand all of them;were just fruitless attempts
They say that to get to sunshine,You have to go through rain. But why would you enter the eye of a storm, knowing that all that is possible is causing pain? Everyone says someday it'll be worth it, but they all lied...
You were a pen Long, slender, and sleek A sharp tip aching to cut through ink and paper   I was an inkwell Dark, mysterious, and opaque
Poetry and I, We are inseparable.  We are long lost friends Who found each other Inside cracks of foaming hate And melting sorrow.    Poetry and I,  We are connected by truth. 
I am not a poet I am just poetic, every scribbled letter from an aching hand, every smudge of blue ink on a crinkled page is remembrance, experiences of metrical saddness  and symbolism of my existence
You are his Summer Girl. His Early June. His Late July. You are his quick fix. His in-between. You are his fall back. His default. You are the One That’s Always There. Baby. Do not mistake this for love. 
I had this dream about you. We were sitting on the hood of your car in a grocery store parking lot, you were apologizing for all the shit you did last summer and you wouldn’t let go of my hand.
I plant persuasion on your lips with every kiss, With every passionate touch my soul screams for your love. Pulling you closer, holding you tighter to test your response, Questioning whether you love me.
One Day, scissors will be for paper again.  One Day, razors will be for shaving again. One Day, food will be for eating again.
Brown eyes,  Black hair.  Heart-shape lip,  Unnerving stare.   A young woman looks back at the mirror, confused.  The long waves of her hair are cut to her shoulders,  Her eyes empty and lost. 
See, Hydrogen atoms started at the beginning of everything, At the base of the Big Bang,
There is a fine line between believing the world is goodand lying to yourself to lull you into a peaceful sleep.  
So, your eyes are brighter than the moon And your smile causes my hands to shake. So, you're a vast ocean, A special treasure, Hidden in a tidal wave of So- you're beautiful, and your skin shines like
I’m not sure what I am feeling.
Why is time ticking like this?I hope you can forgive my stuttering pride, for I’m just not sure what I feel anymore.
And with a toothbrush, I'll wash away my sins of the night, watching the tainted foam slide down the drain.
Tangled webs are woven by lies and cruel deceit human hearts are targets  for others mean conceit   He was abused, she was used they think that it's their fault there is no fault when hatred
The road almost meets the skyas I drive my tiny green caracross the bridge. Its like I can imagine my car fallingoff into the oblivion belowthe bridge, at least from thesight I see.
The house has gone quiet again;my body started to wake up atthe sudden difference in volume. I wasn't sure why the quiet wasthe reason I woke up;isn't it usually the other way around?
I miss you is a foreign phrasein our relationship;I won’t say it,you won’t feel it.
I’m finding the light justlike the daisies in the fielddo. You’re finding the darknesslike all the weeds try to do,but trust me the light is going toget to you.
Out in public You can get looks For the way You blow your smoke Not giving a damn  Who walks by And you still  Swear like a sailor  On the phone
You quivered at the sound of rainas it seduced you into a wickedpleasure of placidity. I’ll never beable to comprehend how magnificentlybeautiful you looked as your taintedgreen eyes were fixated on the ripples
Every poets’ voice is distinct. an indicative drawl or rasp, a characteristic blend of dialect, a certain brand of sarcastic humour;
They loved on a deathbed. Rather,their love was that of a deathbed love.
They started to fall when that song came on I don’t know why I wanted to run away I didn’t want them to see me cry But my feet weren’t moving And they fell and fell and I sang the words to the song
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(poems go here) x. I said my goodbyes in kisses And so did you. And when you did You always waited For the next goodbye. xx. You told me you were bothered by a man that said
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