How I'm feeling doesn't really matter; you know I'll be fine, I guess.
When the cops come knocking, wear that white floral dress
from the night we met, and let that smile grow unevenly.
One eye is open wider than the rest to plea for innocence,
love letters handwritten in ransom text for insanity -
I don't really what it is you want, I just know it's what you'll get.

If you remain brown-eyed and nostalgic any longer,
the longer I'll believe it when you say, "I miss you."
All you do is reminisce though - orally fixating on dancefloor whispers
in foreign cities; kissing where kings were killed
and times were more civil; late, late nights in Gothic quarters.
The other eye is closed to all that grows before us,
the road paving itself for our getaway car to hold us.
The police sirens approach, slightly apologetic, full of promises;
blue and green lights flicker in the window, you swear "it's not my fault"
and that would truly mean something if I could tell between
your promises and mine, the empty bullet chambers in your nine
and just pure, old emptiness.

Don't just hint at the sweet taste of guilt, Lauren, and let me be
vulnerable to the point of wearing vices on my sleeve-
confessions scribed in steamy mirrors, messages at the bottoms of wine bottles;
curtains and the bodies of missing persons strewn across the hotel floor.
If you'd robbed me of my honesty, is that such a crime?
or if you say you don't love me anymore, is that such a crime?
I guess so, or I guess not; how I'm feeling doesn't ever matter-
in time, I know you two will be fine, so take care
here, My Dear, here it is
Last edited by SubwayToVenus at Nov 27, 2011,
i really loved the first part, as well as the first two lines of the next section. not to say i didn't like the others, it's just preference.

however, there are two things i'd change (and by that i mean excise completely, because their presence does not enhance anything; rather, they detract): one being motherfcker - not because of its vulgarity - i mean jesus christ have you read the shit i write? - but because the emotion i get from it is all wrong. it's really something you call someone else, either seriously or not. i've never referred to myself or heard anyone refer to himself as a mother****er - unless BAD is in front of it, and chances are that it's in jest. the second thing, the last three words. there's an inconsistent music in this, with all the staggered rhymes everywhere.
i get the point without "so take care" - it seems like it's there to accentuate your sarcasm, or even your resignation - in either case, the emotion is there without it.

i'm seeing someone who is brown eyed and might be nostalgic tomorrow, and i know i'll believe her when she says she's missed me, even if she's lying. so. i getchu.
the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones that never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn

my only real issue with this is the prosaic nature of the verse. there's not really much ambition to get behind the poetry - little of the devices that really improve the read, sound and feel of a poem. it should always be a game between write and reader, and this was all a little bit robbed of a fizz and plop for me. you engaged me in your topic, and you, and your imagery was fair (though not overly compelling) - but you did nothing for my tongue, and as the tongue is ultimately what reads the poem, there felt very little energy in it.
^yeah, i know what you mean. i wrote this when i was a little tipsy so i think that's why it came out more as a diary entry than a fleshed-out poem. i made some edits to it and tried to changed some things around.

thanks for reading, guys.
here, My Dear, here it is