Like many loveless nights,
muted cries and once-lit candles.
Luckless wishes of handheld romance.
Echoed memories shift
my tardy pen on ****** pages.
Trysts between hand and heart.
How night terrors (or night letters, rather)
hold the sun beneath my bed
and sketch nightmares in my head
"Oh, the hurt when one
feels alone.
Oh, the pain when one
feels, alone."
I once self whispered a vow of silence,
to keep my penned, ethereal thoughths
to myself
However, beauty
such as this is
such as you are
such as I am
merits lovely words.
So i'll write free this beautiful disappointment,
and never satisfied love.
Mar 31, 2018
Mar 31, 2018 at 9:51 AM UTC
Let not ebony clouds shade the sun from your smile
Nor somber nights tuck the wonder-filled stars in your eyes
Grip tight these waiting pages
Hold close your scribe
Find yourself lost and enveloped in this tryst with infinity
Mar 23, 2018
Mar 23, 2018 at 3:30 AM UTC
There's something about rainy days that bring me such joy;
My dear, it reminds me of you.
And coffee makes it that much more comfortable.
The warmth of each taste reminds me of your lips.
Oh, the way the soft mist from the rain reaches my somber face.
Every evanescent touch you'd caress me with.
I'll pull my cup close, if only to keep it safe.
How your hands, like a cage, kept me.
There's something about a cup of coffee and the rain.
My dear, it's the most bittersweet memories I cherish.
Feb 20, 2018
Feb 20, 2018 at 4:19 PM UTC
I'm not a poet.
But if I were, i'd probably be a nocturnal one and i'd write about how on most nights my tongue is a tombstone, my throat a grave filled with regret,
and my voice is each grunt and whine I give my timed reflection as I avoid every mirror because I can't stand looking at myself...i'd tell...
I'd tell people that my depression is an ocean. Within it's waves, high and low...slowly but surely blanketing over me...dragging any broken
and lost pieces of my happiness back into itself, resetting the sand that is my skin so tomorrow you can't see the holes that were there.
Yeah.
I'm not a poet.
But maybe if I were, i'd write a song about her. It would tell a story about how on days when the sun blinks and everything around me is grey; and the
world is stained with my fears...she. is. the honey-warm scent after a summer rain, an evening primose before the tempest, and the quiet cerulean air in an earthquake...
she's...every hue of a pacific sunset.
I'd sing about how she was the moments between each tide that kept me warm; how she was the sun that fed the daisies in my throat reminding me
that life is possible.
I'm no poet.
But if I were then this paper would be the towel I dried my heart with, the words would be all the unspoken dreams of my insomnia, and the pen was the
blade used to cut this heart so I could bleed my everything to you...I swear. If I were a poet, i'd whisper every vowel i've been given that completes me
into stardust. Sprinkled into the cosmos to someday create a world where the ocean never raged. A world where there were just enough clouds and no
earthquakes...then again...where's the poetry in that?
Feb 4, 2018
Feb 4, 2018 at 6:25 PM UTC