Wasted nights

I’m drunk on stupidity.

A drunken man falling over himself because he couldn’t keep control is no different in alcohol than any other vice, simply less graceful.

Sabotage, gluttony, self-pity and the constant distraction from the unknown, they each hold their price and conspire together to trip me up.  I fall for it every time too.

I’ve spent precious moments banging my head against the wall rather than coloring in the cracks to make it less obscene.  Now I’m trying to save face by being pretentious and this is all garbage.

I can write.  I know damn well I can write.

She made me love her.  I didn’t want to, but I ended up doing it out of stubbornness.  She tricked me.  She told me she never wanted someone, she wanted everyone.  My ego caused me to take the challenge to be all of it for her.  And I was, for a short while.  I was until I wasn’t, but it stayed deep inside of me.  The time that I was couldn’t be expelled because her magic was too strong and it wrapped itself in the chords of my soul.  I can still feel them being plucked by her fingers.

So fuck it all.  Fuck the night.  Fuck the stupidity.  Fuck the distractions.  Most importantly, fuck myself for letting it all get in the way.

Too may wasted nights are spent banging my head against the wall.  The cracks should be vibrantly colored by now.


I apologize for lusting after you in my private thoughts

although don’t worry, its nothing as lecherous as that may make it sound.

I think you’re pretty

that’s all I’m trying to say.

You look good in blue.

I try not to stare too much,

but when your blonde, curly hair is up in a bun

and you’re wearing bright azure

you look like a dream and its hard not to steal a glance.

I won’t focus on anything specific

but I can’t help and think

how dangerous your curves are.

And of course you have an accent.

French and sweet and soft.

I’ll keep my distance

and I’ll try not to admire you

but I hope you have someone who tells you

how beautiful you are.