i want my life to be paris and poetry readings
i want it to be coffee shops and forbidden love
i want my life to be travel and writing
i want it be one bedroom apartments and a dog
i want my life to be staying up all night and dancing it away
i want to be laughing at the things people say
i want it to be diffrent in some little way
and sometimes i wonder if i want my life to be lonely
because then maybe i would understand why i wasn’t ok
M.A.P
©
i’ve always wondered if i was happy
if i would still write poetry
would it still be in my DNA
would it still be a part of me
and i’m afraid i know the answer
because looking back through my life
the only times i write poetry
is when i really can’t stand reality
M.A.P
©
Like the stars we live in darkness, yet have our own fire to light the darkness . I think so many things are misunderstood in this world. The blaming before the truth. The power before the trust and the conviction before the pain. It’s all wrong, everything is. And it’s sad I seem to be the only one who notices. Maybe it’s just because I speak with the stars. Or maybe it’s because I listen back. They all live in the night. Darkness doesn’t have to be bad. The world has turned all good into evil. The stars never did anything wrong, yet they die. Just because we live in darkness doesn’t mean we are.
M.A.P
©
(this is part of a fictional book i wrote the first draft of when i was in highschool and i’m very proud of how poetic i made parts of it and wanted to share)
Empty apartment
A key broken in the lock
Stuck in this cycle day to day
An artist to depressed to put on a frock
Knowing if they were the last person on earth they would be ok
Drowning in the haunting of grunge rock
Reading arabic poetry to feel more at home
Plans written in white chalk
The rain mixing with tears washes it away
But too tired to run after them they just walk
The only broken thing they aren’t attracted to is themselves
And their crude mental block
M.A.P
©
Sometimes it’s hard to take only pieces and parts
Of the people who raised you and broke your heart
To take the fire and leave the narcissist
To leave the affair and take the heart of it
To leave the broken vase shattered that was thrown across the room
And gently pick up the flowers in their delicate full bloom
M.A.P
©
It’s never me that writes the poetry
It’s when he’s screaming at me that he writes it all quickly
It’s never me who writes the poetry
It happens when he traces his finger over my body
It’s never me that writes the poetry
It’s them whispering behind my back that echo’s back to me so loudly
It’s never me who writes the poetry
It’s the tears that form the flowing stories
It’s never me who writes the poetry
It happens when she hits the words into me
It’s never me who writes the poetry
It’s the friends that I thought were a guarantee
Or the ones that left to get a degree or went a little too far into mixology
It’s never me who writes the poetry
It’s the words of the two divorce attorneys
It’s never me who writes the poetry
It’s everyone who has ever known me
M.A.P
©
I want my body to turn into poetry
I want his hand to glide across the pages
I want strangers to read me like a book
I want the world to feel raw through the ages
I want my family to understand how beautiful i am
I don’t mind standing out
I want them to know how powerful i am
I don’t mind be talked about
I want my children to trace the stories on my skin and ask me to read it to them
All you see is a tattoo that you wish wasn’t there
I’m turning myself into art sealing the brokenness with gold paint
But all you see is that my brokenness is being accentuated everywhere
M.A.P
©
Art steals everything away from you severly
It strips you down until you are naked completely
It takes your mind and drains it until you are empty
It makes you its only friend so at least you’re not lonely
I don’t think I ever want to be just happy
Just empty
And sadly I think I want that very very badly
M.A.P
©
It eats me up until i choke it out undeserving
And leaves me always starving
It haunts me until i try to make friends with the ghosts
Just to find out that i’m the ghost most
It keeps me quiet and shy
Even though without friends i just want to die
It leaves my head spinning
So that i always feel like i’m falling
Or failing
Or feeling
Poetry shouldnt exist
I would rather be doing anything else
M.A.P
©
In the last days I came to the point that my last hope was that my name would at least be branded next to yours
I didn’t care if it was a shell in the ocean that I had thrown
Or in photo with our names written in the back and still a little charred
Or in a book i tirelessly dedicated to you
Or if it was in stone at a simple little graveyard
M.A.P
Ⓒ
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