Ehhhh, I’m not sure I really like this one but it’s halfway decent I think… (Ooh, also, I added audio recordings to some of my decent songs, [Trophies, Snake bite kiss, The last hurrah, Dreams] so go ahead and check those out. It gives a bit of context to the random words and chords.)

I remember reading something about how the human body completely replaces itself every seven years. That’s comforting somehow. I like the idea that seven years from now, I’ll be a completely new person, someone you don’t know at all. My hand will stop tingling from when you held it for the first time, and my shoulders will stop feeling the ghost of where you laid your arm, because in seven years, there won’t be a single inch of me that you’ll have touched. I won’t be the same me you knew, and so in seven years, we can pass each other on the streets as strangers, and I won’t have to pretend I don’t know the secrets we whispered in the dark, because they won’t be our secrets anymore. I’m 2,557 days away from being completely free of you. Let us end.

Okay so I wrote this a few days ago, and I kind of love it and kind of don’t at the same time, but I’m a little proud of it, so here it is!

Because poets bleed out their emotions and watch as people applaud the mess they’ve made of themselves. They all applaud the pain, neatly packaged into a pretty little paragraph, written with carefully chosen words that convey the hurt but not too much, just enough so it sounds like an organized mess.

You were never really one for poetry. You never really liked the colourful ink stains I left around the apartment. You complained about the messes I left, and I apologized, and later I’d write about the boy who didn’t appreciate the pools of heartache I left, pulling strings of pretty words from their depths. Then I’d hold up the remains for reading, and watch people who don’t really understand, who never really did, examine the tapestry I’d made and sew their own meanings in.

That night I’d be working on something new, and you’d lean over me and remind me to clean up after myself. You never really were one for poetry. I guess it’s too bad that I was born a poet.

So someone told me to write something happy for once, and I don’t know if I succeeded or not, but I think it’s okay… I don’t love this one, but hate isn’t a word I’d use to describe it either. It’s mediocre, but it’s meant to give you that warm, fuzzy feeling inside. Anyways, enjoy.

What if we lived lives of flurries of falling snow, drifting towards a blanket of white, glowing in the darkness and sparkling in the sun? What if we lived our lives like the song of a bird, alerting others of our pure, unfiltered happiness, flying with the wind? What if we lived like the hush in a forest, acres of land breathing as one, like the trees will keep any secret you tell them? What if we lived lives of stargazing, our backs firmly against the grass, looking up at the infinity of the universe? What if we lived filled with happiness, watching the world move with us, watching the faces of those who love us through the crackling fire, roasting marshmallows in the dark, faces lit up by the flames? What if we find a home where we belong? What if we live?

I have a sudden obsession with colours, but I actually really love this one. It’s pretty good, and I just wrote it a few minutes ago, so it’s still fresh. Don’t worry, I’ll end up hating it in a bit.

I once told him that I remembered in colours, swirling in the air in front of me. I told him any moment with him was purple and green, colours I loved so much, dancing in the sky. Well, I wasn’t wrong. The air still turns green and purple these days, but now I see the angry purple of a fresh bruise, aching and throbbing, a sharp yet dull pounding. Ugly purple words colour the skies, the colour of rotting plums in the sun. Then the greens appear, a deep jealousy that replaces the stars, covering them all like a heavy blanket in August. The colour of being replaced, of betrayal, of broken midnight promises. Yes, I remember him in colours, terrible, awful colours that I wish to never see again. I need some new favourite colours.