Tag: depression

Not a Romantic

Leaving little Post-Its’ like
I Love You” and “Smile for me
just didn’t do it.
Perhaps your mind was elsewhere,
I guess I’m not a romantic.

With the little change I had,
I’d buy flowers or a stuffed animal.
I loved watching how you reacted!
Now they just wither away or gather dust.
I guess I’m not a romantic.

Planning a special dinner or a night in,
you never noticed the effort and love put in it.
I wish I had the nerve to not stay silent.
Caring for you was all that mattered.
I guess I’m not a romantic.

It’s been 6 years, 2 months, and 18 days
since we went our own way.
It’s funny, I still remember our argument.
You never put in any effort!”
Sadly, you never saw I was your romantic.

Just Not Ready

I take pen to paper and say the words I didn’t.
Even while editing my mistakes, I can’t show any commitment.
Instead, I stare at what I have—
like watching grains fall from an hourglass.

I’m not ready,
I’m just not ready—
ready for another love story.

Outline after outline,
I am not yet satisfied with it being just “All right.
Like a writer’s block I can’t dispel,
the words are there! But I can’t tell…

I’m not ready
I’m just not ready—
ready for another love story.

Flawed are the characters with little subplots.
Focusing on mine, I never gave yours any thought.
We were supposed to fill these pages
but somewhere, my character never adapted to the situations. 

I’m not ready
I’m just not ready—
ready for another love story.

Writing with no muse, I guess I’ll just call it a day
rehearsing the words I never did say,
May the moon and stars watch over you.
Find the love you deserve. It’s what your character would do.

I’m not ready.
Sorry,
I’m just not ready—
ready for another love story.

Synthetically-laced Puppet

Toy wind up sound effect by: https://freesound.org/people/lmbubec
Dreamy Kid’s Show Melody by: https://freesound.org/people/SoundsExciting/

I’m a marionette,
Just a synthetically-laced puppet.
Always telling myself,
“I’m not a real boy yet.”

With four strings to manipulate,
It’s pretty hard to distinguish real from fake.
My actions–bending at its mercy.
Once it wears off—I have myself to blame.

I sit there,
grasping for air.
Waiting to perform,
‘till then, I sit and stare

It’s my normal,
Nothing new—it’s rather cordial.
I’m numb to everything around me,
Making my restrictions more hospitable.

I’m a marionette,
Just a synthetically-laced puppet.
Always telling myself,
“I’m not a real boy yet.”