Stop comparing them to the ocean (a rewrite)

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic

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You're only fifteen and you're naive and you always expect people to come back, just like the waves you saw when you ventured to the beach for the summer bonfire last year, they always come back no matter how far they went. But you have to stop comparing people to the ocean, no matter how blue their eyes are or how many times you feel like you're going to drown just by being near them, because people drift and drift and drift and sometimes you can never get them back and the ocean isn't like that at all. The ocean allows you to miss it just enough that your heart seems to yearn and call for it, but then it's there again and you can't help but wonder if it was ever really gone in the first place. But people, oh, people, can ruin you because they leave with a kiss on your forehead and a whisper of "Babe," against your lips and then they just - they don't return. Because they are NOT the ocean, but you're fifteen and you're naive and you don't know these things just yet.  
 
You're only sixteen and you don't quite understand long division and you think you understand love but you don't - not really. You don't understand that love has no distance and it's only really the depth that matters. You don't understand that love is tragic, or maybe you do and you choose to ignore it. You're sixteen and you are certain you're in love and you're sure that the blonde boy loves you back too. But there's always a voice at the back of your mind, nagging you; "If he loves you, why is he always kissing that other girl?" "If he loves you why doesn't he stop his bully friends calling you nasty names?" "If he loves you, why doesn't he say it back?" "If he loves you-" "IfhelovesyouIfhelovesyouifhelovesyou-You're sixteen and you don't quite understand that sometimes people don't love you back as much as you love them, but you don't think about it when his lips are on yours ("I wonder if the pretty girl knows that her boyfriend is kissing you in the dead of night whilst she's having dreams of him kissing her.") You are sixteen and you don't understand that love is a trick of the light; something that you weren't sure was there anyway. You are sixteen and you understand long division, but you don't understand love - not really. 
 
You're only seventeen and you know what a soliloquy and McCarthyism is, you know that Romeo and Juliet is probably one of your favourite things ever written ad you know that Lolita is your all-time favourite film. You know that your eldest brother hasn't called home in several months and you know that your mum and dad barely talk to one another anymore (although you did overhear your mum tell your dad last week that she wanted a divorce) You are seventeen and you're in love and you know that you shouldn't compare people to the ocean, no matter how many similarities they have to it. You are seventeen and you know these things now. 
 
You're only eighteen and you're lying on your bedlistening to his car pull away from the curb and maybe somewhere deep down inside you, you wish that he will come back (like the ocean) but you are eighteen and you know that most people never do and you think that maybe that's the case with the blonde boy and blue eyes. You are eighteen and you know that humans are made up of 75% water and that they might come back to you like the sun comes back for the sky in the early mornings, but you also know that there's another 25%. You are eighteen and you have stopped comparing people to the ocean, because not all of them come back. 


Submitted: December 25, 2014

© Copyright 2021 faggot. All rights reserved.

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THE POET WINS

Not quite sure if this is poetry but the emotion is there and it IS very powerful so well done 8D

Tue, March 3rd, 2015 10:15am

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