An angry young boy,
when pressed with the task
of describing Macbeth's tragic flaw,
simply asked,
*well, wasn't it loving his wife?

unrequited love is the most painful thing I've ever felt

It's touching a hot hand to a block of ice

It's the deficit between a snow peak of a mountain and the unforgiving sea

It's waking up at 8 am and staying in bed until dinner

It's bags under eyes and shaky hands

It's the only thing that he's ever given to me that has stayed with me this long

[A] People, who willingly
sacrifice progress for comfort,
are deserving of neither.

How awful it is to lay numb on your bed late at night & think about someone who isn't thinking about you.
How awful it is to dream about someone but wake up alone.
How awful it is to remember everything about someone who doesn't even remember your name.
How awful it is to write about someone who never wrote about you.
Awful, that's how it feels.
Wasted time, wasted years.
How awful it is to sit here and type your name but hitting the backspace button because typing your name gets me nowhere.
This poem is getting me nowhere, and that's an awful feeling.
But it is not as awful as thinking about you.