darrenx1
I fell in love with words and thought maybe you could too, but in the end words were never enough. / / Tumblr- the-things-we-wrote.tumblr.com / Email- [email protected]
In April poems tend to pile
in counter-action to snow melting.
They grow like leafs
in ever direction.
What shame it would be
to hide spring gems
so submit your poems
to our magazine.
submit: [email protected]
Apr 5, 2017
Apr 5, 2017 at 10:04 PM UTC
Let free your muses
from iron shackles
and submit your poems
to feed the jackals.
It is noble,
It is just,
to release your words
into the cosmic dust.
And who knows
perhaps you will be famous
for sending your poem,
and reach once more to greatness
[email protected]
Apr 4, 2017
Apr 4, 2017 at 9:19 PM UTC
I wonder If Summer knew what Autumn did
would she soon forgive?
For greens will quickly turn to gold
not one will weep for lost.
The sun may shine the brighter,
But I think, not as hot.
And nights will grow the longer,
And moons will bring the frost.
And soon we will forget of Summer’s love,
Soon will forget of all she was
And If Summer knew what Autumn did
would she soon forgive?
Sep 22, 2016
Sep 22, 2016 at 7:16 PM UTC
Lately every poem I try to pen
comes with only two or three broken stanzas,
the kind that taste oddly familiar like daily morning coffee,
the first stanza, of course, is a complex and twisted metaphor.
I write about new England summers
or late spring snow,
or a red moon I am still trying to forget,
but really, I am writing about learning to let things go.
The second stanza talks about the empty,
which is to say nothing,
which is to say everything,
which is to say her while she was still here.
And if there is a third stanza, it is of course her,
as if she did not leave more scars than not,
as if she did not remember how I tried to stop the bleeding,
as if any of it matters anyways.
Now I am not trying to be spiteful,
but I just don’t know how to be happy anymore,
I don’t even know how to be anymore,
though God knows I am trying.
So yesterday I wrote a poem with five stanzas
about a crow perched on a ray of broken sunlight,
though I suppose this too is a metaphor,
it at least does not look like her.
Sep 20, 2016
Sep 20, 2016 at 6:27 PM UTC
To say that I hate her
would be to suggest that
there is a version of this story
where I can still sleep with the lights off,
there is something strangely familiar
about the glow of fluorescent lights at 2 in the morning.
It is also to say that her letters no longer
gather dust in the boxes underneath my bed.
That there isn’t a picture of her still between the tired
pages of the old family bible I no longer read.
I have never been good at forgetting
the walls after dusk still remember her name.
Maybe it is because I once loved her,
Or maybe it is because I still do
Like the way Daedalus still
loved the warmth of the sun
even after it took away his everything;
I too still sometimes smile at the bringer of death.
Though this is not to say I still don’t
try to fill what the gods have named unfillable.
It is not to say I no longer believe in magic,
it is just to say that I am tired
of trying to summon what is not coming back,
I am tired of hating me more than her.
Aug 26, 2016
Aug 26, 2016 at 9:22 PM UTC
It is funny how sometimes
blood is just blood.
There is nothing poetic
about crimson on bedsheets
at three in the morning.
Hands unsteady like
elm trees before a summer storm
grasp for that which is no longer there.
How quickly than do bottles turn to hands
when recovery can only be found in forgetting.
I have learnt there is no glory
in trying to resurrect the very
thing which I, myself killed.
Maybe sorrow is something
some of us have to carry.
Though lately it has become harder
to carry that which is mine to carry.
So now I wonder if I were to let it go,
would they notice?
Would it matter?
Jul 18, 2016
Jul 18, 2016 at 3:13 PM UTC
You wait for her name to flash on your screen
like it is enough to save you.
But the truth is she is gone now,
and you no longer want to be saved.
Jul 13, 2016
Jul 13, 2016 at 8:36 PM UTC
They say to love
you must first love yourself
for without that you
have no foundation to build.
Which is to say my love is sacrilegious
for the hollow within me
has always remained hollow
but I have not stopped loving.
I have loved the misty rivers
on the cool mornings before the sun.
I have loved the turning of pages
and things laying upon them.
And for what is worth I loved her
even if it was only for a moment,
even if it was a mistake,
don’t you dare call it phantom.
My love is a blanket even if
I have not yet learned
how to fold myself in it
It is still real.
I still bathe it in the river
I still call it mine even though
I do not consume its fruits,
its flesh is not plastic.
One day I may fill what is mine to fill,
but til then I will not stop
with what you call “unholy loving”
because it is all I know how to do.
Jul 13, 2016
Jul 13, 2016 at 7:36 PM UTC
As the sun sets tonight
I can not help but envy it,
envy that it does not have to witness the dark,
envy that it does not have to hold the knife,
envy that once it passes below the horizon it will bleed no more.
My God, how I wish I was the sun,
to know that tomorrow I will rise again.
My God, how I wish I knew I had tomorrow
or at least a tomorrow where the scars will no longer be there
to remind me how I built this house myself.
But still, I am sitting here,
watching the sun die wishing I could too.
I do not have noble words for this,
I do not have a ready solution.
So I sit here praying to see tomorrow’s sun.
Jul 7, 2016
Jul 7, 2016 at 9:10 PM UTC
This time, unlike the other times
you are not sure you can
drag this tired body back to the shore,
you're not even sure it is worth the trouble.
After the long calm the storms return
with the wrath of the gods behind it;
how can a mortal man withstand
such a hopeless battle?
Yet in the midst of moonless night
she came and gave life to my barren lungs
how could I not think she would stay
even when storms raged on.
Now she is gone like the others
but this time I do not know if
I can survive on my own
like the times before last.
God forgive me for loving
her while she was here
and God forgive me for
hating her now she is gone.
Jun 24, 2016
Jun 24, 2016 at 8:17 PM UTC