The first afternoon I can recall,
you grabbed my hand
and took me outside.
You surprised me, I said.
Because that noon
is the first time
I saw that lake.
The second afternoon I can recall,
you called me by name
and we went outside.
I brought you lunch, and
we drank some
mind-boggling liquid
which you stole from that old man
living beside that lake.
We lied on the grass, and
if that was not a dream, I hope not,
I felt your breath with mine, and your lips
on mine.
The third afternoon I can recall,
you went to my bed
and shook me awake.
I was mesmerized to see you again,
but you’ve changed.
The colour in your eyelids, your cheeks,
and your lips was artificial.
If you haven’t spoken, I
wouldn’t be able to recognize you.
Sitting at the edge of my bed,
you’ve said the name of that lake,
and I knew it was you still.
The fourth afternoon I can recall,
you were 18 and still cried on my shoulder
not because you were hurt, but
because you were happy getting married.
Flowers, chairs, and a priest
waited for you beside that lake.
I was about to cry at that moment, knowing
it wasn’t me you were marrying.
The fifth afternoon I can recall,
you yelled at me,
“I can’t live this way!”
I asked you why, but
you didn’t tell me, you showed me.
That kiss beside that lake was wrong.
In all of the reasons why it was wrong,
I found one which is right.
You loved me the way I loved you.
The sixth afternoon I can recall,
you left me
alone beside that lake.
Yes, you loved me, but
as you have said you need to love yourself more.
I can’t hold you any blame for leaving,
I understood, and I lived with the promise
that you’ll come back to me –
in one piece or even in ashes.
The seventh afternoon I can recall,
you were barely alive.
You looked old, with dark circles around your eyes.
You hid them with glittery make-up.
“This lake haven’t changed.” you said.
I looked at that lake,
its beauty and all its glory
looked nothing
next to you.
The eighth afternoon I can recall
was the worst of them all.
You didn’t call, you didn’t leave,
you didn’t cry, you didn’t go to my bed.
And you weren’t barely alive.
Someone wrote me a letter, not you,
to take you where you and bring you back home.
You didn’t find yourself, you’ve lost it
To yhe hero
in your veins, who ate you in your sleep.
This afternoon,
I carry you, with all but my shattered heart,
inside a jar.
My tears are one with that lake,
but I’ll bury you beside it.
I know you’re happy.
Your soul one with that lake.
Jun 3, 2014
Jun 3, 2014 at 9:33 AM UTC
In a matter of seconds
minutes or so
I inhale you
deeply
Killing every inch
Of what's left
of me
slowly
I don't regret this
Because in a matter
Of years, and if i be lucky
Of decades
We all live
To face death
I'm just enjoying the
Little sins
That would ****
my existence
Jun 3, 2014
Jun 3, 2014 at 9:29 AM UTC
the car oozes its rusty roars
as we make our way
out of this town, fleeing.
we held each other's hands,
you keep your eyes on the road
while i keep crying like an idiot.
to be perfectly honest, i didn't know
the real reason why there are tears,
it is because i am happy with you? or scared of this decision?
all i know is that i love you,
all i know is that i am scared,
all i know is that this is wrong.
but i continue, trying to prove
myself wrong. and for the past two years
i have never been so wrong in my life.
we were not brave souls, the ones you said.
we are young, hormonal, and
purely stupid.
our plans, my life, and yours
are wounded intricately
together.
you move, i move.
you breathe, i breathe.
you touch me, i touch you.
you stay, this time
I go.
it is impossible for you to understand
that we got scared of what's beyond.
but sometimes the people worth fighting for
aren't worth loving anymore.
Jun 3, 2014
Jun 3, 2014 at 9:28 AM UTC
Running naked through the ruins of Detroit,
deep embrace against a graffitied wall.
The clink of spent bottles chime with passion's song,
and echoed down a forgotten hall.
Bombed out, Nagasakieque, sur-reality,
a strange and desolate aphrodisiac.
Ghosts watch our post-apocalyptic tryst,
through every wrecking ball crack.
With patchouli scented hair of reddish brown,
she's taken me to the forgotten side of town.
Paradise, hidden among the rubble.
But only for the discerning eye.
Her pen painted poetic justice here,
and tried to reveal the reasons why.
Street coney's and cold bottles of Stroh's
could not be scuttled in the wake.
Its someone's hometown, no matter what,
though it looks like hell for heaven's sake.
With patchouli scented hair of reddish brown
she's taken me to the forgotten side of town.
Like some lost and lonely stray, she takes it in,
dusts it off, and holds it to her heart.
Sees promise in every burnt out factory,
and hope in every unattended park.
Empty crack houses sleep down the darkened alleyways,
like effigies awaiting to be burned.
The clock tower is stuck on borrowed time,
with hands waiting to be turned.
With patchouli scented hair of reddish brown
she's taken me to the forgotten side of town.
And on our cardboard mattress
and the last few sips of wine,
the stars never looked so good to me,
her body never so fine.
Perfection amid controlled chaos,
eloquent profanities.
She dances naked in the moonlight,
and quelled our insanities.
With patchouli scented hair of reddish brown
she's taken me to the forgotten side of town.
Inspired by "Ghost Gardens" a poem by Rebecca Askew
Jun 3, 2014
Jun 3, 2014 at 9:20 AM UTC