Since I don't know if we'll ever meet again-
I guess
that we'll try to stay together
forever.

"I'll tell you someday."
Laughing and sticking your tongue out,
teasing me,
you were the most beautiful then.
But-
When is that someday?
A link in the far distant future;
without any promise
or solidity.

Your back is growing fainter,
more distant,
vaguer,
quieter,
it's almost transparent now.

The fact that no matter how long my fingers were;
How much I grew;
How much I learned;
How much I matured-
The fact
that I could still not reach or touch you
or your standard;
I could do nothing
but slump to the floor,
Admit painful defeat-
And cry.  

The Villain-
was me.
The one who ran away-
was me.
It was no lie,
For I am
the true deceiver.

And
I say to the plaster
peeling wall-
"I'm Sorry."
Uselessly,
Meaninglessly,
inutility,
I just sit there
in a wooden, peeling
chair;
Wondering.

The Characters that I wrote then-
They don't dance for me anymore.
"Is that so?"
The poems that I scribbled-
on a napkin at a fast food restaurant,
Where are they now?
"Who knows?"
My memories and limits-
Are they gone?
"Why don't you figure out yourself?
Isn't the person,
who knows you best-
yourself?"  
--
--
--
I'm sorry-
My light was gone.
I'm Sorry-
My head wasn't thinking straight.
I'm Sorry-
I let go.
What kind of excuses are these?

For being a coward,
For being a shallow person
who didn't see the world-
Sorry doesn't even take up half of it.

The beginning of the end,
tell me,
when does that time come?

The promise that our naïve selves made together
"Forever, Eternally,"
You believed in those words.
For crushing your morals,
For mocking them,
For taking away your innocence until there was nothing but bitterness left-
"Forgive me."

Straight Talking xxx written with love in mind!

Averted a tragic waste of sorrow,
As clash of titans,
Wielding pens in penance,
Wasting gifts,
As spread thin over crumbling cobbles,
Words are wonderful,
Treasure and joy,
So let's not fight,
Let pen kiss paper ,
With super might!
Sometimes disturbing,
Often perturbing,
Created in individual style,
In mind at time,
Just like mine,
All from creation,
Individual minds,
Know what's said,
Great minds think alike while idiot's never differ !
Two great pens must play on!
By ladylivvi1

I. (The Real Poetry).

All these notions but nothing on the page.
Haven't we heard it all before?
Impetus from departed greats
wash ashore in our brains
but when confronted with an void white meadow
our hands go numb,
glued to the roof of a freezer.
This idea of mine is big, challenging,
but so far only a few thousand letters
have made dirty snow angels.
In its place, poetry.
Swifter to write, to read.
No rhymes usually,
just haphazard feelings lurching out my head
like a turquoise waterfall.
Sure I pace round the room
waiting for the next line to evolve
but who doesn't?
I write about real people,
people I speak to, people I know.
Do they know it's them when they skim my work?
Perhaps yes.
Perhaps they don't read them.
Perhaps best for all of us.
The book remains unseen, incomplete
while real poetry rushes into the world
like another superfluous boy band
playing more vapid pop.
Numb them instead.

II. (The Wind).

On a bench
in the garden
I sit with her
as she rests her frizzy Goldilocks
on my shoulder
and says I shouldn't go on Sunday.
A few years younger,
sweet and out of bounds.
Out. Of. Bounds.
So why am I holding her hand?
Doesn't mind from what I can tell.
She likes me.
No she can't.
When does 'the other side' ever like this?
I've told her about the one back home,
how she could be superseded.
I'll disclose, for a while now
I've seen photographs
and wondered what if,
what if the same way too feeling
snaked up the ladders
and throttled me?
What would her sister say?
'He's only been here four days
and look at him, cuddling
the queen of yesteryear.'
Her sister comes out, surprise, joins us.
Say no words, look at stars overhead.
The direction of the wind is altering.
Must be.
I unzip my eyes.

III. (The Sun and the Moon).

Half eight
a year or so in the distance
on a Wednesday morn.
A car.
Neither of us can drive as I write.
One of us is about to though.
London.
Why?
To meet friends.
Another reason?
A show.
A show of sun and moon.
A sporadic delight like a white Christmas.
I say to P it's one of those events
that must be attended.
I'm what, twenty-one?
She's gotta be twenty-four, five?
When will this ever come about again?
Have to acquire this chance.
He says if she'll be aware of the poem,
the one I scrawled down some time ago.
Doubt it, but you never know.
You never know.
Maybe it's true.
A young, beautiful girl
with a hat and a guitar.
There's something you don't see every day.
To the city.
Rejsen begynder.

Give me something
Something exclusive
Something unique
Something just for me

Give me something
A perk
A benefit
A symbol of who I am to you

I need something
Something special
Something only I can have
Something not often given

I don't need words
I need something sincere

I need to be shown that I'm special to you
And that I'm not treated like everyone else.

there aren't anymore sentences tucked away
in my brain
no more clever metaphors
only raw, grammatically incorrect lines
so i'll keep trying to put together words
in the form of pencil and paper and
try my best not to set them on fire

I tried to write about your eyes, but there weren’t enough cliches
i tried to say you plainly, but there wasn’t enough truth
whoever created this language, never anticipated you.
all i can think about is the way you silently move while sleeping beside me.
and there are no words for that.
i hope you never think about anything as much as i think about waking up beside you at 5 am during a storm.
i could touch the softness of your voice
and feel your skin swallow mine.
your soothing laugh echo’s through my mind.
i just hope that when my time comes to an end, you’ll be beside me.
so i can slowly kiss you one last time like the rain kisses the lonely.
because no one will ever love you half as much as i do.

You're a beautiful mystery clad in gorgeous enigma.
You're poetry that looks good in a skirt.

There's an orchestra on your tongue, playing the sound of your voice like a melody I can't forget,
matching the tempo of the drums in my heart
and the broken strings of my violin compliments.

You are a notebook, a yearbook, a sketchbook, a burn book,
every facet of you written in swirling cursive,
rhymes and famous signatures snaking between cinnamon hair and cleverness.

You are a pen running out of ink,
bleeding dry in Barnes and  Noble Moleskin journals,
but that's okay because I have more ink,
and you can borrow whatever you want from me--
store it in the heart you stole if you're bored enough to hunt my words for the pieces.
You have the key already.

You're the first dream of the boy too scared of nightmares to sleep again.

You are the taste of honey and cigarettes on the lips of the first girl that boy ever kissed,
because she was a rebel and he needed a hero
who wore boots instead of Mary-Janes
and band t-shirts instead of blouses.

You are the rose he drew when he was bored,
an outline with potential,
mysterious, entrancing, incomplete,
not yet ablaze with the red of desire
because he was never good at finishing things.
You are a dictionary. Your picture isn't just under "beautiful."
It's under "dangerous" and "witty" and "myth"
because Medusa bowed at your feet next to James Bond and Edgar Allan Poe,
and you're too good to be true anyways.

You are a poem, a telltale heart beating inside a lesson in vengeance,
temporary only because nothing gold can stay.
You've walked past where the sidewalk ends (certainly the road less traveled by)
and come back far more darling than any buds of May.

(You are the paperback novel he read under the covers,
the flashlight only bright enough to show paragraphs,
and every new page unique in shape and form
while the text remains the same.

You are the raw words read aloud by the daring poet,
standing beneath midnight moon,
the power of the throne,
the breath of a whispered promise falling upon the ear,
the warmth of kisses on the cheek,
the passion of all hope there ever was in trust and truth.

You are the fire in lightning,
the sparkle in the snow and the glitter in the rain,
the fierceness of the wind and the gentle, soothing peace,
the blazing chill of winter and the roar of summer's heat.)

But you're still a mystery.
A beautiful,
beautiful
mystery.

Veins of azure snake between the clouds,
flesh of sky laid bare, her breath hushed breeze.
As the shaking hands of lovers tremble,
from her depths doth truest passion seethe.
Across her lithe form do worlds travel,
shadows weaving across her chest.
Beneath, seas of matching hues doth rage.
Thundering waves scarce leave time for rest.
Perhaps, in doubt, I am truly certain
of the love that fuels mine soul.
It is that which never dies—
a newborn story of old.

In ancient anarchy yet untold,
treasures reek of jewels and gold.
They set men ablaze with greed—
living nightmares from Hades freed.
And yet hope laces poisoned world,
doves among flags of war unfurled.
Hands clasped above the shadow’s hold,
voices speaking words too bold.
It is this that grips you, makes you host—
And never ends, but remains a ghost.