So what makes a bigger fool, love or pride? Intuition makes her heart much harder than usual. Her senses are magnified, what if she were right all along? She didn't want to be. Looking back on easier days, she'd never have to worry about someones whereabouts, because she simply didn't care. "Nice guys finish last", or maybe the assholes did, but they didn't care so it was hardly noticed...moments of rejection seemed foreign because there was always another option waiting for the call, always waiting to obtain the unattainable, who was never really unattainable, just cautious...full of pride, knowing that love was for fools. She was tempted to take a drag of a cigarette. Wanted to calm her nerves before she walked in the building. Her lover, her cause for plight was currently M.I.A. Not missing in action but making it arduous to figure out her motives. Why was she there? Her previous route would be to find a replacement, but she knew that doing that would only fulfill a temporary gratification, her mind would still be clouded with questions, heart still filled with mourning. She didn't know what she was trying to figure out, or why she was trying to hold on... but she was, and it was exhausting her.
I am smoking past myself
Hoping that I outlast the path of my past
Smoking the last
Dream I’ve had
And watching it burn away;
It’s going away-
I’ve tried speaking into existence
I’m walking hopelessly away from a distance
Reality shows no mercy when you don’t
Take advantage of your second chance
Smoke leads you into a cloud
Leaving you asking
Where’s my passion?
Doubts, have to run past them
Until they disappear, into the smoke
Until it all clears away.
These moments are infinitesimal;
An afterthought for the future.
Unless shared with you exhaustively
and ultimately, until the sky turns
from dusk red to dawn blue.
So full of artful jealousy is guilt,
It spills itself in fearing to be spilt.
I am not real.
I am just really inexplicable.
I am not real.
Real is relative,
I’m just trying
to make it
in the real world,
and the expectations
what can I expect
in a place where
the real me
is created by
of someone else’s
So, no. I am not real.
I am just really,
on this planet,
and no. I didn’t plan it.
Patience is like the revolution
Her colors may not luster
but she is not diverted
By the obstacles created by lifes
She is the demiurge,
Initiator of this world we call patience,
which is in the beyond bounds
Making rocks with
what starts as water drops
Proven what is impatiently
grazed by those of lesser compassion
Creates the essence of her sustainability
I cried this time;
The fight was real this time
The end feels real this time
Can’t help but wonder how we lasted all this time
But no sense in trying to recount time
Because we can’t bring back time.
Worst part of it all
Is we’ve spent a days time
Ending months of a relationship built and refined through time
Over a pastime that matters less than the 9..8..7
Experiences before you and I became you and I…
I’ve lost, failed and all.
Is it too late this time?
I don’t know…
This poem was featured on a website 3 years ago…one of the first that I posted on my hacked blog “Write and Prosper”. Still love it. Not just because of the message, but because of the way I wrote it. I wanted people to really take time to read the words in, so I put them together.