I had given birth to a lot of poems
but none of them knew my bashful name
I wrapped them in metaphors
to be left in front of some people's doors
I can never be their home
their meanings belong to someone else;
To be the tokens of their existence
I had given birth to a lot of poems
and none of them knew my bashful name
but they all knew what I had once felt
For this one,
The memories of their breath,
forever in my chest.
May 8, 2020
May 8, 2020 at 11:45 AM UTC
I'm going through some low point right now
and I just don't know what to say
I don't even know how to ask for help
But that's okay
I'm a champ I can do this
I just need to hug myself and sleep
May 6, 2020
May 6, 2020 at 12:01 PM UTC
Six planets away from your orbit,
You manage to capture my moonless surroundings,
You outshine these planets in your smallest dimension,
And gravitate me with your adrift but brave disposition.
We whisper our love to these fierce little comets,
though sometimes mine wound you with their sharp helmets
Yet you grow and transform with every scar you receive.
You are so ethereal that even Aphrodite has agreed.
-Venus
Apr 30, 2020
Apr 30, 2020 at 2:07 PM UTC
How many heart strings do I still have?
How many of them have grown thin?
I strum, a melancholic sound touches the wind,
How many heart strings do I still have?
Apr 24, 2020
Apr 24, 2020 at 4:55 PM UTC
Death is a bridge between living and loving.
A fragile bridge that is meant to collapse without a warning.
Yet love is the real opposite of death,
In a world where living could synonymous with dying.
Apr 18, 2020
Apr 18, 2020 at 4:38 PM UTC
Love is the breath of a poem
Or the death of a dream
A taste of heaven
Or a pinch of hell
Love is a magical tale
Or the worst nightmare
A pair of wings
Or an empty cell
Love is the hellos that stay
Or the pain that lasts
A glass of champagne
Or the shots of *****
Love is the smile on your lips
Or the tears on your cheeks
The 3 am message
Or the unsent letters
Love is a word of definitions,
A word that draws your every emotion
'Till my heart tells me its one definition
Love is... you
Feb 6, 2020
Feb 6, 2020 at 9:30 PM UTC
Had our tale been adequate?
Whereas life's unjustness clung onto our tails?
We reckoned life as a good hitcher on our side,
Howbeit betrayed us when we're too far gone to halt.
We danced among the sparks, amid the magic of desires.
A perfect illusion, we seemed like the fairest match;
'Thou were my honey bees as I was thy flowers.'
Yet weren't wings and petals distinct to each other?
I bled nectars and you weren't born with veins,
Though that was a matter I couldn't care less.
Yet you have queens to please,
albeit it must be for my lack of wings.
Still how long shall a heart suffer and understand things?
As truth woke us from our flawless fantasies.
I started to wither; too ugly to merit your visit,
So one day, you found no flowers nor vase on the terrace.
And not a single farewell slipped to rinse the dirtied surface.
Resent me It's alright, I would take the blame.
I now understood the imprudence of my deed,
For which I thought a favor I bestowed upon thee.
I by no means wished to be pardoned very soon,
For I was still the flower which roots kept it from flying.
Shall we abhor this boulder upon our shoulders?
Or beckon reality to befriend our sullen hearts?
Be that as it may, we shall see the hidden art:
Pollination arose after the piercing was done.
A bitter process beyond doubt, wasn't it?
Yet don't we have the sweetest honey out of it?
As someday at some land where my roots have never been,
Some flowers of mine will carelessly blossom and bloom splendidly.
So had our tale been adequate? Perhaps at some point, it had--
Perhaps if fate let us win, our paths might cross again,
And if it does, might the wind guide us onto a lovely mountain,
Where we could make our tale beyond adequate.
Jan 26, 2020
Jan 26, 2020 at 9:23 AM UTC