**February 25, 2019**
I'm emphasizing the dates on some of these cuz they're published later and i don't want people being like "oh that's how you feel rn!?!?!"
Some poems use complex words
To convey some simple meaning.
But I rather use simpler words
And convey how I'm really feeling.
Screw this
None of it makes sense anyway.
Sure there's life,
Sure there's love,
Why can't i find
Either of them?
Everyone has a bubble
Their own personal bubble.
Only those who are loved
And love you back
Can invade that bubble
Of yours.
So why is my bubble silent.
That moment
When you're kinda confused.
And you're kinda confused.
"What's wrong, #?"
"Not saying"
Yet once I switch the messaging site I'm using.
Everything that's wrong with her pours out.
She knows I don't use discord much.
I wrote a poem.
I named it dream
It's one of those poems.
No one'll see.
Poems
Poems.
I wrote half of them about her.
(Should I even say her?
Or should I say you?)
This started with you.
These poems.
Not the ones I wrote when I was five
But the ones I write now.
Half of them about you.
A quarter about #.
An eighth titled learn
And an eighth about complex words
That convey some simpler meaning.
Yknow those days
When you're confused
And you don't even know why.
Please
Shut me up
Before I laugh.
Too late.
Who is this addressed to?
Myself?
You?
Her?
Him?
Sometimes I'm confused.
And I wanna ask why.
But no one's really listening.
And I let it all slide by.
I'm so confused.
Shut me up
Shut me up
I'll speak my language
Unless you don't wanna hear.
Should I spend more time being paranoid?
Or cut to the chase?
I'm getting scared-er by the minute.
I really am stealing you, huh?
I need to become less selfish
Let # pop my bubbles.
Let her choose her own people.
At least I still have ##.
crap
I
Freaking
Hate
Paranoia.
Ok.
For a change.
This poem's addressed to #
Now.
I am stealing them.
Go ahead.
Have them.
