And she does, oh, she does.
Who doesn’t want to be loved?
Who doesn’t want to feel love?
Love, that’s the final destination, right?
Or maybe happiness?
And she’ll write, but she doesn’t get the kind of attention and affection she craves.
Our hearts do crazy shit to feel something,
The world is a wet painting –
as writers, we’re sponges.
We soak everything in.
The way the wind blows.
The new age romantics lost to the society.
We lost a light so pure –
we went mad to find it again.
I write every day to find it.
So you become a metaphor.
Lost as we are while chasing the stars –
hit the bar to find love that isn’t yours,
hit the blunt to feel your highs kiss your lows,
take a happy little pill to kill time and emotion,
your body doesn’t think twice –
everything nice, sweet and innocent,
we will die with our sins.
Some day we’ll ask about the broken,
when did we lose ourselves?
This skin doesn’t feel like home,
and maybe that’s why we hate ourselves.
We search for answers inside of poetry –
we know that we’ll never find it,
but still we write.
Destroy yourself next to a star,
ask yourself about the same fresh wounds –
was it me or you?
As open-ended poets,
we’re constantly trying to fill the void while defining it.
So you’re a pretty crimson rose that lost her way.
So you’re a starry night burning in museums.
Let me ask you something,
do you love yourself?
In a way,
you’re just like me.
You just want to feel something.
That’s why you picked up poetry.
That’s why you write.
That’s why you look for love in all the wrong places.
You should never have to look for it.
You say that you’re bitter –
only because you’ve forgotten about
the bitter sweet.