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with you gone, I sit here,

and write for you.

with you gone,

and me here, alone, 

in this house of silent noises, i sit here alone. and wish that youd come back.

and think,

that something,

needs to give.

because im too scared. Im scared of my job, and im scared of my life, and im scared of my degree, and im scared of myself and this codependency youve created where i cant even go to sleep without you, and I need to be in your arms, and have my fingers run through your hair and say baby baby baby how many times you love me baby, and I need you to say find your friend, and I need to say oh baby baby baby baby.

instead  i sit here, in this house of silent noises and dirty dishes i dont want to clean,and a paper i dont want to write and a job I dont want to go to and a life im already tired of.

please come back.

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Oh little angry bird,

theres nothing left of you.

I am dying inside

پدر

یعنی‌

عشق

ترس

گناه

آزادی بدون آزادی

پدر

یعنی‌

عشق

کار

تلاش

هیچوقت کافی‌ نبودن

گناه

کار

پدر

یعنی‌ از خود گذاشتن

به هیچ نپیوستن

تنهایی‌

کار

گناه

پدر

یعنی‌

احساس

گناه

محض

برای خواستن

پدر یعنی‌ مرا ببخش‌های هرشب 

قلبم دارد میپاشد از هم،

پدر

مرا ببخش

امشب

women

it is an eternal curse,

this

Having to choose,

between one’s father, 

and one’s lover.

new day

the smell,

of home,

is still, here

inside me.

and all I want, is a red fish, floating in a plastic bag

and my dad at the door.

working

true disappointment comes, only with true knowledge of the other. and true disappointment comes, only with a thorough sense of vulnerabilities masked as strengths masked as ideals masked as positive contributions to the relationship.

I cannot give you the kind of love you want to receive. I do not know it.

my kind of love, is the quiet kind of love, the serious non-babying kind of love.

you give me too much, only to ask for too much in return, which you see as enough because were working quid pro quo here apparently.

I read today on the blog  of a writer whose words are better than mine, that poetry sometimes comes as a necessary adage to the pretty picture on top of it.

and my mind said poetry is the sincerest form of vanity

I write because I cannot say things bearing on my mind

I write this because I cannot say it with words without me feeling self conscious and overbearing.

but I poeticize my feelings on this blog, thinking the one or 2 strangers who stumble upon it might find my prose of deep value.

 maybe its not poetry thats the sincerest form of vanity, but writing itself. writing something down, already assumes that you have something in mind thats worth the paper and the pen and the chemical waste and the dead trees and such and such and such.

writing something down also means you think someone at some point will come along and read this, this thing you thought up, and not find it overtly sentimental and melodramatic.

I think, im sounding melodramatic again, im not one for serious writing.