John Lennon to Max Lennon transformation, Max was based on John, so it worked out. Just messing around with tf more often.
Love: A Monologue of My Own Love was never meant to be easy. You'd think it was, the way it's portrayed. In the movies, the boy and the girl always fall in love in the end. They just can't help it. I've always wanted a love like that. I'm sure I'm not the only one, either. We all saw the boy-meets-girl scene, the joy of falling for someone, and the way the characters lived out their dreams. Knowing full well that they were just actors, filling the roles they were given, reading from a page that was written by some starry-eyed writer. But we wanted it too.
I once starred in romance, the most movie-like romance you could get. It was so cleche. But I loved every moment of it, thinking, "This is just like a movie. This will be perfect. We will finally have our 'happily ever after'" But they had never showed in the movie, the part where the boy and girl fall out of love. The part when the boy f
TsunamiThis is my confession:
I dreamt you took my hand and put it to your lips, kissing each fingertip
my only sigh was, 'Oh love me'
your eyes washed over me like a tsunami
he will never replace you
and I know the day is quickly approaching
remember we always said when we were older
and now here I am.
and though you said I was bad at painting
you called me beautiful and that was enough
Another, worse, confession:
today I picked up my phone
and decided I would send you a message
I would tell you everything in a 60-lettered
but I know that it would be wrong
to face a fear
and I only hope when you look at me
you still see the girl you fell in love with
because, I conf
I think about writing about stars
and empty soda bottles
and anything unrelated to you
but then you and your whirlpool eyes...
my pretty stars are space junk
and my empty soda bottles are trash.
i pointed out orion in the sky.
you took my hand and
asked me why it mattered
over the clinking sound of breaking china
or cheap metal maybe,
something as insignificant as my heart.
my fingers curled into fists,
as i realized you had no clue how you bruised me
I love every bit of you
your eyes, your hair, the shape of your jaw
and your nose and ears
the things people notice when they first see you
your fingers, your natural rhythm,
the way you pick up little things
and turn them over in your hands.
the things nobody notices but me
love makes everything precious treasure.
makes trivial objects, sounds, and memories
how you squint when you smile,
almost hiding those eyes i love
and your lips twist up like they used to
right before you kissed me.
if i were to co
i wrote this for you.
i wanted you to know
that i am always
i burned my mouth on my coffee
and remembered the scorch of your lips
burning, stinging, lingering.
and i finally lost those ten pounds
that you told me i didn't need to lose
but i felt the need to be underweight
and at night, i curled my little self up in a ball
and thought of every part of me that
you could never love.
i guess a part of me always wanted
to be fragile.
you will never know how many times i saw you
in the backs of other men,
and i ran to them, calling your name
and they'd turn, confused.
they'd say, "Can I help you, miss?"
and i looked into their unfamiliar eyes
and wished with everything in me
that i could say yes.
"could you promise a certain boy
will see me again? because i seem to have
and I'd walk away disappointed
because that was the day I'd decided I would tell you:
you are the sunlight
streaming through my window in the morning.
i spend h
I write prose sometimes.
Prose doesn't have to rhyme.
It doesn't need rhythm.
Just thoughts on a page.
Stumbling on my own meaning.
I forget that I am bleeding.
But it can't hide like poetry can.
it means i can drink my coffee even in the summer.
it means i can climb the tallest tree, despite how they've warned me. promising as i go that I'll come back down someday after i have been all scraped up and learned my lesson.
i don't know even my own intentions.
i am without wings.
i once dared to close my eyes
to step out the door blind.
i could have sworn you were there to catch me
but the bruises on my knees are proof:
this world was meant for people who can see clearly.
pen and paper are the only weapons
i could ever use against you.
and even then, i couldn't bear to hurt you.
instead i write about juvenile things you don't understand
my romantic notions of fingertips and rainstorms and coffee
and i pray you could be impressed with it,
if nothing t
Twenty-SixOn the 26th, I carried 26 cents in my pocket and thought of 26 reasons why I love you.
When I turned 16, I asked you to kiss me 16 times, one for each year.
The last two had to be the best because the past two years with you had been the best out of all my sixteen.
On the ninth, I only allowed myself to cry nine tears and think of nine reasons that you should still be mine, nine reasons that we belonged together.
I couldn't find the nine breaths of air to say it.
Thirteen people told me it was all going to be okay.
Thirteen people lied.
Five months later I wrote you five letters telling you how much you meant to me and only got five words in return
"Things are better this way."
The 26th came around again and I had no change in my pockets and only half of my 26 reasons to love you. I held twenty pills in my hand and shook countless shivers because it all felt so wrong and the numbers weren't matching up.
The phone rang four times but yours was the one voice I wanted to hear.
It was the