followingmyglitterway asked:

I swear I'm not a stalker. (Sorry I feel like I've messaged up too often even though it's okay been a couple times..) anywho.. When did you start writing poetry and why? (Sorry if this has been asked too much)

Surprisingly, this has never been asked. 

I initially started writing when I was maybe eleven or twelve. And when I mean writing, I mean I was writing the worst stuff and calling it poetry. I eventually stopped, and I didn’t write again for a few years. 

I think it was probably around March or April of 2014 that I started really writing again. I picked up a pen and the words spilled out like they had just spent the last four years buried inside of me, waiting to escape. I started writing because there was so much inside of me that I needed to get out, and I didn’t know of any other way to do it, so I wrote. I told my story through words that I scribbled down at 2am and I never stopped. 

We sat outside the 7-Eleven
smoking cigarettes until we
couldn’t breathe in anything
but each other. We were not
in love. You held my hand the
whole walk home. We were
not in love. We sat by the lake
and drank beer we hated the
taste of. We were not in love.
We sat in the backseat of your
beat up car and kissed until
two in the morning. We were
not in love. We drank vodka
until our throats burned and
we fell asleep next to each
other until the sun shone
through your apartment
window. We were not in love.
We spent the May nights
pulling off our clothes and
breathing each other in.
You kissed me like I was yours.
I told you that I should be.
We were not in love.
We were not in love.
We were not in love.
I Have To Keep Reminding Myself // heartofthebitter-mindofapoet
I know I blocked your number
and deleted our texts
but I also know that you’ve been
meeting girls that are making
you forget about me.
I know that we haven’t been in love
since March, before I tore
myself apart and tried to close
the wounds with his touch.
I know that you hated how
I always tasted of liquor
and pressed cigarettes against
my lips more often than you.
Fuck, I’m sorry. I’m sorry
that I never laughed at your jokes
and I’m sorry that some days
the world was too dark for me
to see what was right in front of me.
I’m sorry I pushed you away
and then begged you to stay.
I’m sorry that I never meant
to be this way.
How Many More Apologies Do I Have To Write Before You Come Back? // heartofthebitter-mindofapoet
I stumble over poems
and photographs that
remind me of you, and
I think of how I would
send them to you if I knew
they wouldn’t be ignored.
I think of how I’d say, “This
is so cute, it reminded me of
you,” and I picture you maybe
glancing at it, replying, “Yeah cool,”
and carrying on with whatever
was more important than me.
I remind myself of all those nights
I drank too much and insisted
on reciting my favorite poems
to you over the phone,
and I swear I could feel you
rolling your eyes from 527 miles away
and I could hear the annoyance
in your voice when you impatiently
asked, “Are you done?”
When I finally gained the courage
to ask you to read my poetry,
you scanned the page,
handed it back to me and
simply said, “This shit is
too sad to read.”
I think I should’ve known you
weren’t the one.
I should’ve known you’d
decide the words I spill
are more dangerous than
blood and then leave me with
a pen and notebook
with years of I love
you’s torn out.
I should’ve known that even
then, you’d be all I was
writing about.
I Loved Poetry More Than You // heartofthebitter-mindofapoet
O’Keeffe painting flowers,
wondering if he ever loved her.
Van Gogh swallowing yellow paint
the way I swallow pills.
Warhol painting soup cans
for the homeless.
Suffering the way only artists can.
Did you ever get an answer, Georgia?
Or are you still painting petals
from six feet below?
They say you’re crazy, Van Gogh.
“How could he cut off his ear
and offer it to a whore? What
an odd man.”
They forget that they’re the same.
They forget that we’re all tearing our own selves apart
and offering our bodies to those
less than worthy,
suffering the way only artists
can.

The Way Only Artists Can // heartofthebitter-mindofapoet

Inspired by Bukowski’s “beasts bounding though time.”

The night you left
I felt two years
worth of “forevers”
fall on top of my
chest. I smoked
until four in the morning.
I needed to choke on
something other than
“Please stay,”
and ash filled my chest
almost as well as you did.
When you
told me about her,
I swear you could’ve
heard my heart crack
from these New York
City skylines all the
way to Virginia.
You said you
didn’t hear a thing,
but I know you could
feel my body shaking
from the other end
of the telephone.
That night I drank
until I couldn’t see straight,
but when they found me
they say I was still
whispering
your name.
I’m Tired Of Having To Convince You To Love Me, But Please Come Back. // heartofthebitter-mindofapoet
Tomorrow I will wake up alone.
Sunday I will sit in an empty pew,
tasting of wine that is
anything but sacramental.
I shouldn’t have to
kneel in front of you
and ask for your forgiveness.
You are not a confessional
where my sins come to die.
The cross around your neck
does not make you a saint
and the noose around mine
does not make me a sinner.
I would’ve burned
a long time ago.
I Don’t Need Your Forgiveness // heartofthebitter-mindofapoet