she was a poet,
and he was her pen.
in him,
she always found words to write,
songs to sing,
thoughts to think.
he'd smile,
and kiss her softly,
and say,
"write me a poem."
and she would.
she'd put poe,
and whitman,
and shakespeare to shame,
and she'd write a poem that made his eyes water.
she'd compare him
to a rose with no thorns,
a book with no end,
a world with no poverty --
the things we all wish for,
but can never attain.
//
he asked her one day,
"what am i?"
and so she picked up her pen,
and began the usual:
*you are the shining sun after a hurricane,
with rays that open the eyes of the blind.*
but he stopped her after those two lines,
and said that this time,
he didn't want any metaphors,
or similes,
or analogies.
he wanted the truth.
and so on that night,
as he slept,
the poet picked up her pen,
and she wrote.
she wrote,
then thought better of it,
then started over again,
and this cycle continued well into the early hours of the morning,
until suddenly,
she wrote, frantic,
*if i can't love you for what you really are,
have i ever really loved you at all?*
this, too,
she thought better of,
condemning it to the trash.
the next morning the poet was gone,
her final work a mere two words:
i'm sorry.
(a.m.)
Nov 16, 2014
Nov 16, 2014 at 4:59 AM UTC
I wish you understood
What goes through my mind
When I think about you,
Being away all the time
I hate that you're at school
And away from my clutch
I just want to hold you
In my arms like a crutch
Because you are my support
Every time I fall down
Now I have to get up
With no one around
No crutch or no cane
To help keep me sane
When I ramble the thoughts
That bring pain to my brain
It's so ******* hard
To sleep late at night
My arms, they look for you
But you're nowhere in sight
So I reach out to,
The closest thing I can do
Pick up my phone
And say "I really miss you."
Oct 20, 2014
Oct 20, 2014 at 12:17 PM UTC