I thought I could stop writing about her, I thought I could
I was mistaken and now my work is starting to become parallel
I know I need to forget about her, I know I should
I shouldn't believe these underdog stories, or these fairy tales
They don't apply to me which is annoying me obviously
Maybe if I had the knowledge of Socrates I could understand the female anatomy
I'm so stuck on complaining that my hope has become imaginary
I want her! I want her!
Why should anyone have the right to silence the love for her that I've conjured?
Yeah, she's bothered, but I believe I'm the best man that this world has to offer for her
I was harder until she was created to make me softer
It's not a coincidence
Why does she conflict with my essence?
How can I implement?
How can she love me when she doesn't care about my feelings that give me happiness?
I don't want to move on
It doesn't make any sense
I met a lot of prettier women, but this one is my weakness?
It has to be something that God has planned for me
She has to be "that someone" that can make me feel happy
it's sappy and it's not my way to go
I'd rather write about how some political laws try to step on our toes
I'd rather write about the warmth I feel when It's cold
That's not true because I only feel warmth when dealing with her
And my only talent is to make these words soo beautiful
And I would trade it for a date or to make my feelings mutual
You hurt me so bad
And I feel like a loser for letting this make me so sad
I want her! I want her!
God are you listening?
It's not an obsession
I just want to be that guy that brings her breakfast from the kitchen
Maybe I'm too nice?
My questions can never be answered
Labeled as a sociopath because of my awkward manners
But, I would trade my gift of writing for that one kiss from her lips
And it's sick
I hate her with every ounce in my body
But if someone ever hurted her, I have to hurt somebody
I hate making poems
I hate being alone
I hate the short conversations that me and her spend on the phone
I hate a lot of things
But I thought God was suppose to make her my bird that sings
I thought God was suppose to make her my nurse that can diagnose me
I thought God was suppose to make her my cure that stops the stings
I'm crazy, that's something that I can easily explain
Because when I'm hurting I talk to myself about the pain
And people don't understand the crap that my whack poems display
And I'm still trying to find answers of "why I am this way"
I listen to rappers like atmosphere to pray that the pain goes away
But it won't and I can't accept that
I can't accept that fact that my mother struggles
And african american fathers find happiness through a drug called "wet"
I want this poem to be over
I hate the words I put together
And I hate the other words that I apply in my love letters
Why can't I trade this talent for us being happy forever and after?
Why am I stuck in my own ridicule?
What will it take for me to grab her?
Angela never even made me feel this bad?
I cried a little, but then I woke up and began to laugh
The name "Alanna" throws me into an Insane asylum with the psychopaths
And every saturday gives me reasons to wanna "slit my wrist"
It's a figure of speech I don't really wanna do it
But this "Alanna" makes me spill out all my fluids
I'm crazy and my stupid poems is all therapy
And this girl makes me want to say "murder me"
I wish I never met her, so she couldn't be disturbing me