Biography of Nick Downer
I'm pretty much your average lesbian living in Canada's capital. I love too many things to mention, and obviously writing is one of them. I love to have an outlet to express my thoughts, and I always hope that maybe my words can touch someone in the way that I am touched when I read something that strikes me so close that I swear the words could have come from my own being.
Nick Downer Poems
it feels like glass breaking into a million tiny shards as it hits a brick wall flying at full force it becomes
This Lack Of Trust
this lack of trust, from years of hurt and abuse i try to let it go but it's just no use
Last night I had the weirdest dream I dreamt that I was lying in bed With this girl whose hair was As black as the night and as
Baby, i dont want to play head games with you. my heart's been broken Too many times
Death Of An Illusion
I saw you again not like I had in a long time, you looked the same but now, you are just the empty shell
My Life Is Not A Fairy Tale
My life is not a fairy tale, there are no princesses, no knights in shining amour, coming to sweep me off my feet
Love- Noun, To Be Confused
i think that love is the most complicating thing known to humanity. It is easily defined in a dictionary as 'a profoundly tender, passionate affection for another person, '
you manipulate me and desecrate me turn me against myself like im the enemy take the hurt from your lies and love from your eyes and use my harmful self-infliction to weave a wonderful disguise
I love to explore Every part of her To find all the mysteries She keeps hidden.
Beauty On A Page
Poetry is the lyrics to an enchanting melody, one that was composed for the simple purpose of having beautiful words attached to it. Poetry is chicken noodle soup
I will kiss your lips and touch your neck, lay you back against my bed.
Windows Of The Soul
when they said that eyes are the window to the soul, i think they got it. i could read novels in her eyes.
it's the bright lights; the vibrance and beauty that makes me feel alive. everytime i drive into the city at night,
I took another sip of you today now poison runs through my veins drown my pain by slipping into you further so your lingering taste always remains.
It was tacked to the back
of your bedroom door.
On a piece of snow white paper,
with pale blue lines, scribbled in black ink,
were the words you could never say.
Words always come too late.
The room still feels silent and still
and your smell lingers on the breeze
coming through your open window.