Familiarity breeds contempt. You like people because you don't know them. People like you because they don't know you. The more you spend time with a person, the more cursed you are to seeing them as human.
Put the weight of the world off your shoulders. You are not a pet. When I look up at the sky, I see my past staring back at me—but this time, with softer eyes. Tonight, the sky is more black than white, and for once, I let my guard down. The stars blink twice, and the world seems calm. The breeze carrying an unfamiliar charm, and what’s absent now is my storm. Tonight feels less lonely. Less ghostly, more homely. The streets are muddy, the lights blurry—just the way I like it. I hope I never grow tired of sunsets, and or leave nothing unsaid. May I never find solitude boring or curse the rain when it’s pouring. I hope I always wish upon shooting stars and stop picking on my scars. I hope I stop painting my bedroom walls red, and stop anticipating the end. Maybe, one day, I’ll learn to enjoy what’s right in front of me. Finally, i hope i continue to love people even when i don't like them.
Am I allowed to do something I know is wrong, something against my conscience, just because I want it? Is that what they call a guilty pleasure? I promise, no one will ever know. In the end, isn’t it about what weighs more—regret for not doing it or guilt for having done it? It’s exhausting being placed on a pedestal. That’s when I realized, I can always grow my hair out. I can make mistakes—maybe in secret. That way, nobody has to know.
Someone once told me to write, even if it’s just a single line a day. They said it would protect me. I start poems I know I am probably never going to finish yet I don't give up. I scribble. I scribble and scribble. And scribble away. It seems strange—how we spill ourselves onto paper, hoping it will make everything go away, like we’re trying to purge the pain. But does it really? Perhaps it doesn’t, but maybe that’s not the point. Is that what we actually want? Maybe not. After all, would you truly want to lose the only attachment you have to those memories? You hold onto the pain because it’s all that’s left, and what’s the point in writing it away when it’s the one thing that keeps it alive? Sad people make me sad, but happy people don't make me happy.
You playing the piano, sipping your espresso
And the smell of your tobacco, on me while i talk Van Gogh
I forvever shall be the primary keeper of our memories
One’s you’ve forgotten with such ease, i wear them like accessories
Nothing ever really leaves me, whether or not you agree.
Remember our promises by the sea?
Should have known there was no guarantee.
Im still trying to calm the aching. Is this entertaining?
There is a wound i cant stop picking.
I know i’m not heather. But i have written too many letters.
And it’s bad weather. The pressure is beyond measure.
From me, life has taken more than its share, throwing me in eternal despair.
