Raw

This one is for every female too poetic to be honest I’m speaking on behalf of someone Who doesn’t let me into his dreams at night anymore Call it what you want- It’s raw He doesn't care About pumpkin carriage princess endings Or wedding table distant relative seating’s Whether the honey moon would have been in a number 8 motel Or in the back seat of a pick-up truck on a nameless highway I think I would’ve married him Now, I could write this person into mountains Make a landmark worth traveling for, another Wonder of the world but He doesn't care about metaphors For example; I was never a flower he watered There's no such thing as my blooming season- I don't have wings, could never be a butterfly And they have never made a home out of my stomach, excited or not Also, for the record, My tears have absolutely nothing to do with the ocean I've written everything under the sun, Bright and pretty; poems I share Then Everything next to candles, flickering and unforgiving; poems I keep locked up. Literally. Locked. With a key. A key I hide in places I won't remember Especially when I’m looking I've written exactly how How I forgave him, fuck him, forgotten, then back to this I call this part forgiveness When he comes back again, I won't let him read this I’ll say ''I ran out of things to say about you'' Or “I don’t write anymore” Or I’ll say nothing This person, he doesn't give a damn about metaphors Come on, Do hearts really break? How come when I'm standing still, my left hand always reaches for my right like an Innocent Catholic-skirted school girl? Is that symbolic of missing someone, or is it just a habit to Occupy idle body parts? I see him for what he is this time, Without the peaceful poetry in his honor And yeah There's a little bit of bitter smirks left in me, shaking my head at the same time As long as no one is looking, left in me- There's a little bit of ''I wonder who this private number is calling me” wondering If its you, left in me, wondering if, when I call you private Do you know? There's no more memory in my dell computer to save bullshit words, and unfinished stanzas Prompt after prompt but This is the free-est free flow I've had in years and there's crazed eyes in this head I'm not familiar with at 3:30 A.M. At 5, I get a little ugly, my curls undue themselves, my mustache grows darker The elephant brain starts remembering facts, not fantasies Let me say, without a friend consoling me otherwise That the truth is He doesn't give a fuck, Not a fuck Do you know what a fuck is? It’s what you find in actions Fuck, fuck, and more fucking fuck You know, I could collect sand from every beach Turn him into glass mirrors Turn him into something worth gazing into Something people won't break out of superstitious fears but He doesn't Care about these metaphors If he ever did And what is So Sad About that?