Where to start
with this project of mine
been too long
since I refined
line after line
on a page
at this stage I want reengage with myself
disengage with all else
and write pages of elegant rhymes
but sometimes it's like my work lacks conviction
my words lack distinction
my mind's fraught with friction
this confliction between
my head and my pen
must end
I have no time for writer's block
Jan 9, 2015
Jan 9, 2015 at 9:49 AM UTC
When I opened the door to our flat
the home you'd built
and I'd burned
it was the first time I'd returned
since that wet Monday
when the scent that greeted me wasn't you
I could still make out Dior perfume
orange candles and
cranberry shampoo
but that sweat
that sweat wasn't sweet enough to be yours
Jan 9, 2015
Jan 9, 2015 at 9:43 AM UTC
I could spend
every penny I've accrued in my life
to
live one night
within the pattern
of your iris
I'd let eros
seize my mind 'til I was inspired
to play you like a violin
and by this I mean I need only pluck my own strings to make you sing
you see when
two violins are placed in the same room
one will assume the other one's tune
so let your music move over to the minor key
I want to
wade through the depths
of your symphony
Jan 8, 2015
Jan 8, 2015 at 9:57 PM UTC
There are universes lurking behind my eyes
worlds perched
on a framework
of my design
I
wove the cosmos
from my nervous system
stole back my word from God before he sold it off as his own wisdom
my mechanisms
set a rhythm
of atomic precision
any schism eviscerated with unabated ambition
my mission?
to imprison
the infinity of time and space
within a calcium box
atop a carbon base
Jan 8, 2015
Jan 8, 2015 at 7:23 PM UTC
I refuse to write you a poem.
For I know I don't own the talent to do you justice.
I could never butcher you in ink
or crudely sculpt your image in words,
no,
you
deserve verses
carved in the ilk of Sappho
or Neruda,
you deserve a love poem.
But I am no love poet.
I never could distill beauty,
mine is a far too brutal art.
Love poetry is work for the surgeon and I carry only swords
my cuts are rough
I lack the subtle touch required
to sew a tapestry from your veins
so,
no.
I refuse to write you a poem.
But I need you to know
you were the earth that nurtured the roots of all my growth
the coal that stoked the furnace in my rib cage
a book of unturned pages
revelations
at every flick of my fingertip.
And I'm sorry
I finished reading you
before the end.
Jan 7, 2015
Jan 7, 2015 at 7:28 PM UTC