Poems

Words I’d like to call art.

It wasn’t anything serious

never once crossed my mind for me to shatter the lights and set ur place in ashes

the lights here stll illuminates the same radiant of colors 

nothing really changed

just you

we’ve planned on new flowers blooming not new feelings shifting

now my hand is frozen solid with no one to hold it

fogs are still as thick 

people are still as confused as our relationship was

ice are still as bad as our commitment was

however i got better at last

not racing through the ice anymore cause thats reckless and dangerous 

i got to move faster

i bolt through every stranger so they’re incapable of hearing my soaring thoughts

i went so fast i almost out skate my longing of you

almost

I’m sure you’ll see right through 

you always do

once believed us like lies

it wasn’t gold, those were just the lights

it wasn’t any shade of blue, that was the ice

it wasn’t burning red, that was my lips

it wasn’t black and white, that was everything but our relationship 

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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