I wish I could write like I used to

I wish I could write like I used to.

I wish I could write like I used to.

I wish I could write like I used to.

I wish I could write like I used to.

I’m so sick of comparing brown eyes to drugs.

I’m so sick of transparent poems about a boy who has already forgotten my laugh.

I’m only latching on to the pain to try and create something, any thing, any stanza.

I suppose that’s the problem. It’s not all about pain. It’s not all about lust. It’s not always tragedy.

Maybe it’s about the silence between the world and my bedroom door. Or how beautiful the sunset looks from my window.

I suppose I should try to write about the way summers in LA are always the same, yet every summer I have this dream that I can capture the world just by existing.

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