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.)
Jan 12, 2017
Jan 12, 2017 at 3:05 PM UTC
We danced, became the beat, fell and got up, and we couldn't even feel our legs at the end.
Dec 22, 2016
Dec 22, 2016 at 7:22 PM UTC
When the music is so loud it makes you feel like you are the beat. You don't hear it; you feel it in you.
Dec 22, 2016
Dec 22, 2016 at 7:18 PM UTC
Instrumental music, hot chocolate, warm fires and closed off hearts
Dec 22, 2016
Dec 22, 2016 at 7:18 PM UTC
But what if there was a plot twist? What if you fell out of love with me, and then fell again in a few years? Wouldn't that make a better story? I know how you like your coffee, you know how I like mine, but what if you get to learn me all over again? How I take my tea now, instead of coffee. You get to relearn me all over again.
Dec 22, 2016
Dec 22, 2016 at 7:17 PM UTC
Love me or leave me
you'll end up setting me on fire
and ill end up as ashes
either way
Dec 22, 2016
Dec 22, 2016 at 7:02 PM UTC
It's been a while since I've written and now is a really, really bad time to
I'm afraid once ill start writing ill spill over the cusp of who I am
Dec 22, 2016
Dec 22, 2016 at 6:50 PM UTC
I want to set everything alight with fire. It seems to be everything I want to be and am. burn at touch, wild, uncontrollable at times, hazardous to health, destroyer.
Dec 22, 2016
Dec 22, 2016 at 6:49 PM UTC
Is it possible to die of sadness? I have scars, I'm afraid of needles, I have a violent constant urge to bleed or to spill blood, to scream loud enough to shatter, to hear the crack the break the shatter, I ache for my own heart to stutter to a stop. so if it is not possible to die of sadness, please, stop because of the rage, the emptiness.
Dec 22, 2016
Dec 22, 2016 at 6:47 PM UTC
Car lights flashing by, poverty in the streets, bad manners and wrong restaurant menus
Oct 18, 2015
Oct 18, 2015 at 4:07 PM UTC