Ezzie-bubblemaster

Pretty damn beautiful in an ugly sort of way. Greased back, black hair, slicked and smoothed into that no nonsense style. No flare, no imagination. Parted at the side, perfect, precise. Once was Roman straight nose, broken in an drunken, angry brawl. That sits just one size too big for the angular jaw, and the high sharp cheekbones, pretty delicate and perfect. Full lips that when stretched out just the right way, just slightly crooked to the left make the most dazzling impersonation of a smile. A face all in all so imperfect, it could have been sculpted by the hands of a god, who himself was, imperfect.

I stood before you, and you undressed me with your words, traced my lips with similes like silk, and my spine with  hands made of metaphors, and left kisses on my throat like dramatic ellipsis. You hid me within your verse, and strung me in lines,   across your blank page. Left me feeling like ink stains on a pristine page. Dashed through my carefully constructed sentences, and rearranged them, carelessly and crassly, redefining and changing the meaning, and twisting them into something beautiful. You re-built my façade with words like water, but cut as deep as ice, sharp, cold and unrelenting. With every piec

Broken Little Poets. Lonely little writers spilling their souls to a lined page ordering thoughts, processing and obsessing. Poets with a pen jotting and dotting themselves. Resigning themselves to the limited immortality of a page, that doesn't, and will never care. Pouring and drawing rewriting, reinventing. Begging to be told that their trashy nonsensical work is beautiful and touched someone else, deep. Like they meant it. Damaged little artists, doubting and troubled. Falling apart and desperately resigning their fate to one of; stanzas, dramatic pauses, ellipses with a hidden meanings and sentenc

"We could take a long walk through the cemetery, you could hold my hand and be indignant about the state of the headstones. We could drink English tea from your skull adorned flask and lie on my oldest, softest, most loved blanket as we bask in the glorious fire of autumn. We could eat buttered bread and you could read me poetry written long long ago. You could do stupid impressions of long dead military men and pretend that you're a lover heading off to war. I remember how that was always your favourite role. The lover. Of course. And when it starts to get dark, and the magnificent tombs and statues start to loom and grow and the sky stained

Dearest, I have galaxies unfolding in my mind, littered with stardust and limitless possibilities, inside my endless dreaming. I have so much to write down, I am practically bursting with energy. You glimpsed that, didn't you? But it was a long time ago. When we were both dreamers, like red panic flares in the night sky causing mayhem, loud and unruly. It was beautiful, but it was insane, like being strapped to a rocket in someone else's mind, you helped me grow, thank you. You've changed now, and I feel like Peter Pan returning to Wendy when she's all grown up, it feels devastating, heartbreaking. You, you live in a different universe, in

You son of a bitch with beautiful eyes, you keep coming back, but I don't need you, I don't want you, not any more. I could need other people, I could learn to depend on other people, but not on you, I refuse to depend on you, you stupid prince. My Prince, so wrapped up in your power in your superficial superiority, wound so tightly in royalty's vicious circle that you use everybody, like they're pawns in your losing chess game, you even used me, and you promised that you wouldn't. Perhaps I should have learned that people like you don't understand the meaning of promises, don't understand the meaning of emotion or at least affection. Princ