breakup poems are weird as fuck


they are super corny, then they are super dark then they are super light, then they are … super, super, super-suicidal.

and i wrote so many of them, i’m looking at a whole pack of them. they’re sitting on my living room table. a sad bunch.
I’ve had some poetry courses and i was told i should analyze poems i’ve written. So this is what i’ll do now. I have a bottle of wine. The heater is on and Dylan is shouting something mercurial on the record player.
All gloves are off. Let’s get rough like dark poets should.



it was quick
when you smoothed
my palm with your finger
looking for a lifeline
that you said was
“too short”
it was a quick, quiet fall
light onto meaning
shadows listened
and held their breath
all I hear
are slow, slow, slow heartbeats
drums in the deep
recovering blood
inch by inch


I don’ think there’s a way for me to be more brooding than this poem unless i invest heavily in some goth make up.
It’s a nice little poem, but it’s also too simple.
I used to have long hair and write poems like this about girls I liked in history class. Good to know nothing has changed in 9 years.

i’d cut the middle, but then there’s not much left… although I like “shadows listened and held their breath,” but the fact that i like it, probably means i stole it from someone else.

good start.

Old letters
I remember the Eiffel Tower
It swayed gently when there was wind
I was young
But still found the streets of Montmartre
Like a romantic future
A smile when playing the piano
The fingers caressing the keys
As I walked down that street
It was all there
All of what I would become
The people I would meet
The jumps I would take
Fast-forwarded when I closed my eyes

I used to write letters to you
Ripped up spirits
Reflected on the walls
What was there before I met you?
Dimensions between mirrors
Barely distinguished
And old
Past memories confused
But the present a constant
It exists somewhere
Dressed in the sounds of rainfall
Like you were
When we met

I remember the Eiffel Tower
Jumping in the wind
Left out of the world
I remember feeling the
Cold, bronze fence
On my fingers
I remember feeling people
Warm news
Filled with spy-games and poetry
Spaces between all of them
Some are closer
Nothing will pull me apart
From that tower
Or the rainfall I saw on the streets of London
There are moments that will stick with you
Reality is where we all live
And I will treasure you
From once to forever

This one is all over the place, isn’t it? Why is the eiffel tower such an important image I’d repeat it twice? there are little pieces of gold here though, but they are so buried in junk. this is two poems violently mashed into one.
“I used to write letters,” I like how hopeful i was. I wrote letters to that girl after that too and then regretted it immediately every time! I think it was the romantic image of a poet with a lost love that made me do it. You kind of want to sit by the window and love this void that emerges when somebody leaves you. Poets love an empty chair. Poets love throwing letters at an empty chair and asking why it doesn’t love them.


Breakups make you do odd things and then you can’t apologize. it’s like getting blackout drunk and then watching yourself later on video scream “I’ve always hated you,” to every family member you have. Especially to the grandma, who’s now on a train to Siberia and will die with those words ringing in her ears.
“Dressed in the sounds of rainfall” is a sentence i thought of, fell in love with, and then went on to use in absolutely everything. Now it’s a chain smoking opera singer that can barely cough.

The Little Girl

When the time comes
and happiness has stretched
as far as it can
when the time comes
to kill
to cut
to wound
to maim
I will do my best
not to blame you
while you hack away
at the last
strand of hope
to you
is frightening

I will remember
the morning light
the soft sigh
of your sleep
I will remember
how the doubt
the whispers
in my heart
went quiet
and still
I had found
the missing beat

You can
kill that

Me trying to be Bukowski, I think. The stuff from “I will remember,” is pretty good. The soft sigh of your sleep in particular stands out as a worthy line.
Other than that, meh.

Schisms is a funny word
isn’t it?
schism divides people
doesn’t it?
death is a schism between the dead and the living
schism between my ex and me
she’s gone
forgotten into a schism
soon enough the other side dies away
and the schism remains
so it becomes
my ex is the schism
between me and..


schisms is a scary word
is my window a schism?
what’s the world behind it?
if yes
what’s the mirror on my bedroom wall?
what does it divide?
you can only ever see yourself
in a schism

blink blink

This poem walks into the room, staggers, looks at you long enough for you to understand he’s drunk, and then walks out.

My slight obsession with mirrors is getting evident though.


A suicide looks at me
A little indistinct and quiet
But thick as a fog
I glimpse a flash of regret
Or courage or guilt
Of naïve ideals of death, literature and crumpled bed sheets
Its body is a fixed point
Its mind is a flux
Floating above and beyond, bouncing and catching
Mixing in with the air, painting it with a rhythm
A brain in a hacking rain
A wet spark

It lays down a halo and shouts out a new naked life
A grave of a star
Becomes a furnace of constellations
Sleep now.
Sleep a palpable dream
Cover yourself in bronze or silver
Become livelier than me
Reflect night towards the sky
Like a current of mercury
I will watch
But one day I will leave
And even memories of mercury, bronze or silver
Will fade
Into a diminishing look of love

Oh man! this is an old poem and I still like it. I’m trying to be rational about it and maybe I’m failing? I mean I know that it’s not perfect, but there’s something in it.
Yeah… It was the first one I wrote after the harrowing breakup, so it must be a personal attachment.

ugh, but there’s something. I’ll come back to it in a couple of years.

I can’t write poems to you anymore
The words up and left
Opened the window and the
Slow autumn breeze
Stole them away
Can’t write no more
A slow steady beat
The blood pumps fruitlessly
The pen, the fingers, the
The lights are on
I leave them on and
Sometimes go up the mountain
To watch myself try to pretend
That you’re still home
I feel like I’ve lost a lot
And now I have to pretend
That I haven’t

:/ Had forgotten this one. The image in the end is quite good and evokes the right feelings. Not enough literary merit to be universal though. I still like it though, but I like sad things.

I can predict this poem still having an effect on me, let’s say, 5 years from now.

I sit backstage
and think of your voice
reaching me
no, digging into me
your voice
something deep and pure
an extension of your lips
your eyes
your heart
trembling in my veins

When I hear it
your voice
I hold my breath
and hope
and hope
that when I go out
to catch stars for your gaze
when I go out
trying to tremble
trying to extend
trying for the heart
the eyes
the lips
I hope, but I know
that the love I have
will never reach
something so deep and pure
as you

This was in my last post, but I figured it needed to be here. I wrote this while being deeply, deeply in love. But isn’t the tone quite similar to the breakup poems? That says something about me, doesn’t it?

Let me know what, because I have no idea.

all my clothes are black
I had your white shirt
the one with the buttons and the sleeves
(i can’t describe it, beside it being white and being a shirt)
i had it for a year
I carried it with me by accident
I thought it was mine
but the buttons were on the wrong side for my gender
and it looked quite feminine
now that i think about it

I don’t remember grabbing it
did you? accidentally i mean?
when you moved all my stuff
out of the apartment
and gave to our friend
and never told me
did you give me this shirt?
was this some final, surreal joke?
on how your rage was now
white hot
like a white dress shirt
or that if i’d worn less black
we’d still be together?

this thing about ghosts
that cliche
now i get it
maybe everyone has a white dress shirt
that follows them around
until you notice them
and promptly throw them
into the trash

This is the “I’m getting over it” poem. You start to see the humor in the situation and take it less seriously. This would be fun to perform maybe, but it doesn’t stick with you.

I think this is enough. I’ve got more poems (and prose, and a song, and a short, gdamn’ play) about it but this is close to an overload already. Never fall in love with a poet, he’ll use you for bad poetry until the end of time.

I have no idea what this particular woman has been doing with her life and I doubt that she keeps an eye on me either. I hope one day we can share these things with each other and it can be a good ending to a turbulent chapter in our lives. (I bet we’d get some poems out of that meeting) But knowing her, that will happen only by chance, so…

Someday, somewhere.


I’m going radio silent again. If you’ve never tried not having any social media, it’s pretty great and I recommend it. Instead of skype’ing, we send postcards and letters back and forth with my friends. Or an odd blog post, here and there, like this one.

be good, be cool
read poetry
get a cat
drink tea

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