I wrote this poem all day on Tuesday... I attempted to make it on the weekend... but I didn't have any... inspiration... so I wrote this and I'm actually pretty happy with it. Please tell me if you think its good enough to win a competition... it would be much appreciated.

Habit

You’ve got this habit
Of pulling at your lip
When you’re nervous
Or trying to speak,

And I’ve been trying
Hard not to notice,
But my eyes keep falling
Back to yours.

I can’t help if you
Keep dragging me down
When all I want is to
Walk away from this

And though it’s not
What you want,
I can’t deal with you
Any longer than I have to.

You’ve been telling me
That I need to sleep
When you know I have insomnia
And headaches that won’t stop.

Today you said that
I needed to go home and rest.
I refused, politely,
What else was I to do?

You don’t rule me anymore
I’m breaking free of the tentacles
That keep pulling me away
From the rest of my life,

And you were screaming
Your goodbye’s in my ear
And I was trying to focus my mind
On the song that was playing on repeat

It just happens that song
Was one of your favorites,
Which you had me listen to
Almost every day that I was there,

And in some odd way
The lyrics grew on me too.
Even though I didn’t
Particularly like the song at first,

And you knew that
Yet still you made me listen to it,
It just happened that I liked the song
When you sang it under your breath,

While we sat on your bed
And played with each other’s hands,
Even though we could have been doing
So many better things than that.

You never agreed with me on that.
It was always us first,
And even though we never had the same
Thoughts about what was more important

We always were closer
Than anyone else we were friends with.
It was an odd friendship,
But it was our most important thus far.

Sometimes I wish that we
Had never become friends,
And to you that has never been a great thought.
Yet another contradiction to our relationship.

But really what did you ever expect from me?
A hearty hello on a rainy day?
Or an immediate welcome when you got back from L.A.
And came knocking on my door?

I had half a mind to do it…
I almost wanted to let you sit on my bed
And play with my hand
While listening to that same song on repeat.

But it wouldn’t have been the same,
And I think I saw that.
In your eyes, a twinkle
Of complete and utter joy to see me.

Yet a sense of difference.
A difference that, to me,
Made all the difference
In deciding our future.

So I closed the door in my mind,
But I left it open slightly
So that a sliver of light filtered outside
Indicating that I wasn’t ready, but I wasn’t done.

You always make attempts
To fix us for good.
But truly, I don’t think that
We can be fixed.

That sort of thing happens
When you leave without warning
Except for calling at 10 p.m.
Before your flight leaves.

I’ve forgiven you.
I couldn’t stay mad at you.
Who truly could?
With your eyes? No one.

Your eyes could win over anyone.
I think you knew that,
But you never expected that of me,
Or did you?

But I gave up
On trying to get back to you
Quite a long while ago.
I think you realized that.

Yet though I gave up,
I still remember you perfectly
The way you would wring
Your hands out when frustrated.

And you’ve got this habit
Of pulling at your lip
When you’re nervous
Or trying to speak to me.

The narrative of it was compelling...and the end strangely unsatisfying...but not bad by any means...and it still fits the rest of the work(and life)...in my opinion the best part.

Good job!

Oops... sorry Cutie... I kinda forgot that I posted this. Oh well, thanks...
Your favorite part was the last stanza? Hmm... My favorite part (of my own poem Lol) Is the "Screaming your goodbyes in my ears" to "So many better things..." Lol... Its just something... that is very personal to me. I suppose. But yes this poem is completely truth and actually happened.

Heehee. *blush* I actually preferred the other thing that I submitted but everyone says this was better so I posted this one... lol

*sigh* I'll just post it here... this is called "Hopeless":

She would often tell me that I could see. I would have never thought that she meant it so literally, so I ignored it. Then one day she told me, in frustration, “You have soul, you see past the first layer of things. You can see the people inside. You can see beauty that’s hidden from view. You have an artist’s soul, yet you don’t know how to say goodbye.”
She told me this on a cool winter morning as we sat amid the bright, bold flowers that were only just now taking their leave of summer. She would motion to the swirling colors of blue, purple, yellow and green, and I would sit against the trees in the clearing- staring off into the calm wood, thinking. Her footsteps often roused me from this daze and I would turn my head in her direction to assure myself it was her and not one of the other students trying to find a place of peace (which when that did happen they would immediately turn away muttering incoherent curses under their breath). We would sit, talking about trivial things like our classes and what unimportant books we had recently read. Then we would speak of going to different places. Places that were far more exciting than the warm and welcoming small town from which we had come. We would often speak of Spain, with its vibrant colors and Latin “flavor”.
Even when we could no longer go to the meadow, we went to the park at the center of the city. Where its recreational lake and pigeon-teeming walkways welcomed passer-by to come sit under its humanity planted trees and by its banks to discuss current events and hopeless dreams. It seemed almost inspirational to us. That if people would even attempt to create something even slightly beautiful in the middle of a place that screamed “unclean” and “hateful”, then maybe the world wasn’t such a bad place. We would talk about that as well, the way humanity seemed to think that if we planted a few trees, added a lake (that wasn’t even sparkling blue water, just a bunch of murky brown liquid), and put in a few walkways and benches, that we could repair damage that already had been done.
Then on a stormy day, when the sun was completely covered by dark gray clouds and on one of the last days that we could go to the meadow, she told me that she was leaving. I didn’t really register the thought until her tears slipped down her cheeks and she tried to speak, yet only half-formed and sputtered words were voiced. I was shocked speechless, eyes half-closed and lips slightly parted, trying to catch my breath that had undoubtedly been knocked out of my lungs. My mind was unable to focus and I couldn’t grasp a single thought. My reaction made her sob, a torn and mangled sound. The next moment her arms were around my neck and her face was buried into the crook of my shoulder. I rested my hand on her back, unsure of what to do. I truly never was good at goodbyes and I was never keen on change. She had known that since before my parents got divorced and even after she would look in my eyes and see an immense hurt, that she had hoped she could alleviate. Now - now that was just a hopeless dream. She tried so hard to say that through the stuttering. I caught a few phrases of desperate pleading with me, trying to get me to forgive the sudden problem that was taking over my senses and that was out of her control. I bit the inside of my cheek, a habit that I had acquired during the years. She realized I was doing that and slid her hand into mine, squeezing it slightly.
The next moment was a complete blur, a confusing jumble of tears, words, and emotions. I blink and half my life has ended, yet I’m still trying to comprehend the trials of humanity that we so often spoke of. I hook my fingers under her chin and I look into her eyes. Her tears are falling onto my hand and I can feel them sliding into the middle of my palm. I look at the tear-stained cheeks, those watery hazel eyes, and bright red lips. She sniffles, a pathetic sound that makes her sound ten times more helpless than she really is and I would know how helpless she was; having known her since we were children. She was the self proclaimed shy and timid child, and me, the child that she said was fiery and protective. She said I used to try to fight off the other young children’s taunts and mean remarks at her accents, and that as soon as the other kids were gone I would sit by her and tell her that I didn’t like them a bit and that if they ever messed with her, that I would be there. That even if it wasn’t them... if it was just the world going off kilter, that I would always be there, and there I was, holding her, trying to make her feel as though the world wasn’t being tossed into an open flame.
I let go of her and whispered something that was surely inaudible to her, “I’m sorry that you have to go. Maybe someday I’ll believe that I do have an artist’s soul and that I’m not as completely lost as I thought, but I do know that, after this, I’ll be perfectly fine at goodbyes.”
I gave her one last tight squeeze, and I turned on heel, and walked off toward the road. Not sure where I was going but I was certainly going to get there before I saw her again, because I was left completely hopeless that I would ever hear from her for a long while to come.