Tag: rhyming

Hold on, Henry.

Hold on, Henry.

Remember, when it was once upon a time, Henry?

From dusk until dawn, Henry?

Is that fair, Henry?

Do you not even care, Henry?

Is this the end of the line, Henry?

Were you ever even mine, Henry?

Were we just passing time, Henry?

Hold on, Henry.

–S.

Choose me, Charlie.

It’ll all be easy,

if you choose me, Charlie.

I guarantee,

you’ll see, Charlie.

I’ll fulfill your needs,

do nothing, but agree,

if you pick me, Charlie.

What do you mean,

you’re feeling inbetween,

couldn’t it just be me, Charlie?

–S.

Not Enough.

Was I too much or not enough?

Scared of vulnerability, did I act too tough?

Emotional, did I deliver it all too rough?

Walking ultimatum, did I call my own bluff?

Love like quicksand, did I make you feel stuck?

Loads of insecurities, did they make you not give a fuck?

Was I just not built of all the right stuff?

Well, was I too much or not enough?

–S.

Onliest.

I’m the loneliest,

the onliest,

girl in the world.

I know you only just,

left.

I’m the loneliest,

the onliest,

girl in the world.

I know we’re only just,

friends.

I’m the loneliest,

the onliest,

girl in the world.

I know you’ll only just,

forget.

–S.

Salt.

It’s the salt,

in the air,

your memory,

everywhere.

It’s on my tongue,

in my hair,

your memory,

everywhere.

It’s in my cells,

a part of every smell,

your memory,

everywhere.

It runs in my blood,

coats my lungs,

your memory,

everywhere.

–S.

Little.

Sigh a little,

cry a little,

die a little,

without you.

I lie a little,

to survive the middle,

without you.

I try a little,

to survive the middle,

without you.

I get high a little,

to survive the middle,

without you.

I sigh a little,

cry a little,

die a little,

without you.

–S.

Mad is easier.

I’m mad that you’re right.

I’m mad that I’m wrong.

I’m mad that I’m sad.

I’m mad that you ruined my favorite song.

I’m mad that it’s all taking so long.

I’m mad that I zigged when I should’ve zagged.

I’m mad that I bobbed when I should’ve weaved.

I’m mad that I still believe.

I’m mad at her,

and at him,

and the moles all over my skin.

I’m mad at mother nature,

and father time.

I’m mad that none of it is mine.

–S.