Poems

Words I’d like to call art.

No.

saying no makes me nauseous

i really shouldn’t have listened to you

because you clearly didn’t know what was best for me if your call was to leave

in a way i thought igniting your diesel of directions would bring you back into my direction

knowing a part of me knows all its gonna do is left me into ashes as it light me as a forest fire

i lay awake at night in silence but not the same silence we casted

words fill my head, raining into my already drowning self

my own will isn’t strong enough to fight the longing of you

this’ve marked my hundredth art i’ve pour into your name

once people acknowledge will soon come fame

which you wont witness with your eyes and your soul

solely because you choose the path you took and we’re too much alike for you to change your mind

but god, what you did to me was foul

i’ve rooted to believe that i have love to share but yours to keep

now i am left to wonder

why are you so hostile about those who built you?

why do you find peace in the things you told me?

why did you leave?

it’d be my last breath till i beg for closure

but if it’s for sure then let it be

i wish i had practiced what you preached earlier in our old ways

i would slam the door you were about to leave through and told you, no

I don’t like calling my art poems though much might say so, I never think that my silly little writings are ever good enough to be called “art” I always thought that, that would make actual poets felt invalidated. But if art is whatever the artist thinks is, then I’d like to think that this is art.

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