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  • dmrlwrites 8w

    The love song currently playing on my radio, with its upbeat tempo and promising lyrics, has me tapping my feet and throwing my hands up into the air. I don’t know whether to be gleefully relieved or utterly terrified.


  • dmrlwrites 9w

    The good news is, I feel better. Through the writing I have been able to let you go.

    The bad news is, it’s a shame. You don’t deserve to live on in the form of art.


  • dmrlwrites 18w

    When will this life bloom into a bed of roses? For it is thorns. Constant, puncturing thorns.


  • dmrlwrites 22w

    I want to know where you hide your wild things. The things that you’re too afraid to address out loud. The things that make your skin crawl with just the thought of them and the sinful ideas you can only ponder at night, alone in the dark. I want to know the anatomy of the house in ruin you use as a body to carry on and the years of pain planted within your chest. I want to know where your hope lives, what technicolor dreams flutter behind your eyes, and how you like your coffee. I want to know the debt you’ve paid for a fist full of happiness. I want you to let me in from the cold. I want dance close with you by the fire and kiss every inch of you that you’ve ever taken in vain.


  • dmrlwrites 29w

    Missing you comes in waves.
    The rhythmic rise and fall
    of who I am upon the surface.
    The rhythmic rise and fall
    of you, who erodes and shapes
    the coastline within these veins.
    Our grasp the moon’s gravitational pull,
    the tides relentless and turning in spite.
    Oh, to drown would be easy,
    so the less I know the better.


  • dmrlwrites 30w

    The world is too quiet without your bark.


  • dmrlwrites 33w

    How long will she hold the past against him?

    As long as it takes to rebuild the woman he demolished into an unmistakable goddess.


  • dmrlwrites 37w

    Fuck off, most ardently.


  • dmrlwrites 39w

    Hey man, it’s cool. I get it.

    We were never on the same wavelength, just idled along an untuned frequency. I’m sorry it’s taken me so long (silly me, forever apologizing) to realize this but you know how I’ve always been one to dissect things and over analyze them, stitching up the incision as neatly as possible.

    See, I tend to fall in love with artists but you were never an artist. You were just a tortured soul with paint all over your hands that I tried hard to dissect and now you’re out there just existing, but me? I’m sitting here, pen in hand, trying to find the perfect words to describe the whites of your eyes.

    I wonder which path is more excruciating.


  • dmrlwrites 41w

    Dark alleyways have more grit and execution than you ever did.