You're mysterious in the way that makes me want to open you up like a book and read your pages from start to finish but I can't because you are so high up on the shelf that I cannot reach you.
You sit up on the shelf collecting dust trying to protect yourself from the people who will rip out your pages or bend your cover.
Oh, how I wish I could climb up the shelf and take you down and have you tell me your story.
Maybe one day I'll finally be able to climb and reach out to you, but for now, you're just the book I have yet to read and you're on my list.
I want to make a apple tree,
I want to have different colors and shapes like a rainbow,
I want to disappear like i have no family while being homeless on the streets with so much talent gone to waste,
Even if we have talents who gonna bother with it?
We ignored, but we perfect in our own ways.
As the days pass, it's just memories, but we want to have peace.
I have given this a lot of thought,
and soon I will tell the truth,
the girl you see before you,
isn't the girl you thought you knew.
She is shattered like the mirror glass,
and lying open on the floor,
the girl you once loved,
has ceased and is no more.
She is replaced by another Spirit,
that was created after years of hurt and pain,
she was broken and came undone,
has nothing in this life to gain.
Mysteries are things we sometimes
never figure out.
Why do some say the keys to the world
are only love, hate and doubt.
Why are things off limits to some of us
and totally free to so many others.
How can a man love himself only to
end up hating his brothers.
What is the answer to a question that
has never been asked.
How can anybody have a future without
having a past.
Why are so many people out searching
for a tomorrow of change.
When the tidal waves of the human race
are so easy to rearrange.
What are the mysteries of a day that can
only be seen at night.
Why does wrong seem to override the
things that are suppose to be right.
When I read your poems
I want nothing more than to be close to you.
Intimately, not Romantically.
I want to sit next to you
and take your hands
I want to look at the scars and wonder.
Wonder why you do those things to yourself
why it's so hard to talk to you
Wonder why you chose to be my friend.
I want to take your hands in mine
and kiss your palms
and look into your eyes with a reassuring smile
that tells you everything's going to be okay.
But I can't.
I can't because you terrify me.
You terrify us all.
You're handsome and unknown.
You terrify us because we know nothing about you
accept for the scars.
I want to kiss and hold those scars.
I want to not be afraid anymore.
We share our intimate verbiage
Tearful, tortured souls are bared
Ripples of poetry reverberate
Through myths and muse and fears
Who are these mysterious poets
With whom we write and laugh
Some could be different than they claim
A dark catfish in a poet’s guise
Worse, others playing nefarious games
Shall mysterious friends be trusted
We don’t even know genuine names
Yet, I declare, my mysterious friends
Names, ages, and past do not hinder me
We can hide our facts and our faces
Yet poet friends we will truly be
We’ve known people for many years
Spent hours on trivial small talk
We don’t know who they really are
We’ve shared poems in anonymity
Yet we’ve bled more deeply by far
To all mysterious friends, poets one and all
No need to inspect you face to face
To trust you with my naked soul!