Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Tongue twisted,
in your galaxy.
Mouth roaming throughout your
fertile,
flourishing,
beautiful,
planet.
Fingers gliding across the milky way,
seeking the silky folds of your
world.
Stars shoot through the sky with your cries,
of epic,
tantric,
cozmic,
Super Nova.
When he runs his hands together
It sounds like sandpaper
Waiting to shape raw wood
They're rough because life isn't always easy
But hard work makes it worth it

Because cost and value don't measure success
If he had nothing to own, he wouldn't be worth any less

On Saturdays, we watched the History Channel and ate donuts with forks
Sometimes my grandfather would tell me his tales

I learned about cooking
Always season it well and prepare a bit more
Because there's no telling who'll show up at your door

I learned about fire
Like life, it's relentless, but you always fight back

I learned about chivalry
It may be asleep, but it'll never die
Because opening doors, compliments, and hand-written notes can keep love alive

And I owe me to him
I am a man because he led my way
He brought me out of darkness
Without ever knowing he was the light

We built model airplanes from Balsa wood
And classic cars from plastic;
Our dreams are simply disassembled pieces
There's no rules or instruction
We can build whatever we want
The Clock Whispers to
the air, as if Secrets were
friends, soon to be Lovers
they discover a relationship
Just happened for me while I was writing.  I'm taking a class on another site the Basics Of Grammar.
Here we lay between the mountains and the sky
Wishing that the moon would move us as it does the tides
And our dreams line up likewise
Thinking that the rotation
Of these celestial creations
Could somehow mimic the movements
Of our minuscule lives
Men want to be god's
So we place ourselves at the center of these astronomic mechanisms
Thinking that somehow we can find meaning in them
Yet instead we build hollow beings
Shells meant to intimidate and support our screaming
Our theories on life and the philosophies on this inherent meaning
Or at least our perception thereof being biased
Towards our personal leanings
I mean
How can one think
That he has a part to play in the motion of the stars
The universe is an infinite play
And we are not the actors, or even on the stage
We are the audience left in awe
Awaiting the right moment to applause
What I am assured is going to be a monumental display
How long is too long to be silent
I've been counting the quiet
And only now am I questioning
Why it's there
Perhaps it's the colour of your hair
Or the way you move your fingers through empty air
Playing a symphony on a piano that's not there
Or maybe I'm just being weird
Which is just as likely, if not more so, than the former
Yet you don't seem to notice either
After all, silence depends on the lack of input from all parties involved
Perhaps my actions are likewise stilling your words
Maybe you're as lost as I am
In this conversation of actions
Teaching us the thoughts of one another
In a way beyond syntax and inflection
By the way your fingers move, I bet you're a musician
And I'm sure you've deduced my obsession
With writing by the way my eyes
From time to time
Stare off to the side
With me following the life
Of a character that materialized in my mind
But of course that is all merely wishful thinking
In fact
I almost begin to gather my books into my worn rucksack
Signaling my surrender
When you offer a quiet smile
And I become content, once again
In our unspoken conversation
I don't know
How quickly
This distance is closing
Between you and me
Sometimes I imagine myself
Following a line of string
Through a forest of densely knit trees
Weaving slowly 'neath the bending eaves
And hoping that I will soon come into a clearing
Where you are all I see
Holding the end of this bright red string
And that it would be that easy
But sadly it's not
I'm afraid I'm merely lost
Finding signs where there are none
Maybe you'll just grow tired and come find me
Sitting under a tree writing piles of romantic poetry
Just twiddling my thumbs
Which is just as likely.
I have to start somewhere
So I thought it should be at the top of a page
I know this isn't poetic
I rarely am myself
But I have to speak
Don't ask me why
I just must
It is who I am
I don't know how to shut up
I know that isn't eloquent
But does it really matter
As I said
I'm rarely a poet and this isn't a poem
I'm trying to show restraint
I truly am
It's not really my way
But I look around and see
I'm a few steps ahead of reality
My mind has run away with me
Making the present seem rather bland
I haven't learned the weight of a moment
Yet I know the hope that stands
On the other side of today or tomorrow
Or on the other hand
I know how to long for things I don't have
And have forgotten to care for the land
My current place in time and space
Has begun to collapse
I am lost in tomorrow
While today is slowly slipping away
I don't know where this started
But it seems I can see the end
What at first seemed to merely happen
Has become too much of an effort to mend
The weight of unresolved pain is slowly ripping us apart
And only now do I know how the way I handle hate
Isn't conducive to caring for a heart
You gave me yours
And I did likewise
In a misguided effort to draw a line
Connecting me and you
But now those lines divide
And our hearts are no longer tied
And I feel like I've lost a piece of you
maybe I have
I've tried to find
The heart you freely gave
But it seems it has been misplaced
Or as I am afraid, you might have taken it away
So this must be the end, there seems to be no more
So please just leave my heart on the end table
On your way out the door
 May 2015 Elena Thelou
niamh
If I was a
Mathematical genius
I'm sure I would
See
Perfect patterns
In the way you move.

Like a perfect circle,
People would try
To recreate
Your essential spark.

Pi would
Look upon you
Jealously.

I'm no mathematician,
But this
Equation
Works for me.
Next page