I'm feeling so unmotivated,­ maybe because the only poetry that I ever understand are love songs.
And these words that I'm writing do not remind me of home.
My pen is full of acid and I'm stealing thought from little kids.
My creativity is miles away, basking in the sun with my pride.
I'm scared that if I use big words then things might get too complicated,­ just like us.
Us.
I love that word, it implies so much and so little.
A You and a Me, together.
Don't you just love that?
Well, I didn't sleep well last night so maybe that's why I'm a bit neurotic today.
But this is all your fault anyway.
And now I can't write because of You.
You, and the things You say that go right over my head.
And you never listen to me, never.
I would ask you to put yourself in my shoes, but they would fit too tight.
(That was a metaphor I wrote for you, I hope you caught it.)
I'm writing you into my poetry, when all you ever did was write me our of your life.
And don't you look at me with those sleepy, puppy dog eyes because you can't see past yourself.
I know that I'm just a clanging cymbol, but you're just a fading memory.
And soon you'll be so jaded and faded right out of my mind and life.