Most days missing her is my only choice between death and dying.
ODD KENSomedays depression is tender, as though hurting is just an art; and that maybe she didn’t break me more than enough!
More Odd Ken Quotes
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What if love has always been the quench and the fire? or perhaps all we need to lose to find all we need to have?
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I can sing love; only I’m afraid the lyrics might get shattered again.
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This ‘missing you’ It begs for water; it cries your name.
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Respect pain. Every heartfelt word is first born from sadness.
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I guess you’re the bee and the stings all at once; By which I mean you’re the reason I wrap these tired bones around every aching thing.
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Often times the language is different; by which I mean, I love her, and it’s the only stammer I’ve ever known.
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Love is a job doer and a man slayer. Both equally efficient, until the taste of it is most felt on the cold side of the ribs.
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It is my dying wish to travel around the world; to feel this hurt in a slightly different way!
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I swear I love her so much that somedays I can’t quite tell if I’m just a good liar.
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Perhaps I mistook the pain with work in progress.
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Like her name, some people are best left scrouged on the skin.
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After healing I’ll run back to her – of course this poem demands a brutal ending!
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Sometimes even in pain we smile to the world until we think we’re dying.
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I forget how our story started; but these days I’m finding the missing pieces behind every exhale, where I left the words standing with sore feet.
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I guess we all understand the love language fine; but maybe truth is we’re just too fluent in goodbyes.
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Breathe in the pain and bring out the wounds. It’s only a process and you’ll learn to survive the rest.
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I knew you would leave someday; And from there a poet will be born from the ashes.
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To heal is to be constantly reminded that once you learn to punch, you die with blood on your wrist.
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The broken worlds we hide inside; that’s how we start to die!
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Today I can see the cracks on the wall they’re visible; but I can tell they are finding their way to soil, And so am I.
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I held my breath underwater and felt surrender in my lungs; maybe this too counts as love.
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There’s not much I know about forgetting. By which I mean I can hear her name from a distance; and it still breathes cold in my chest.
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You’re gone. And I think I’m only trying to mean a lot to myself too.
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Please the night’s cold, not her name again!
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In the end not every bleeding thing dies; at least, not like a paper plays in fire.
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Like a fractured bone in the ribs, the heart can be painfully heavy sometimes.
ODD KEN