Her eyes glistened like granules of sugar under bright light
Her hair flowed softly like warm chocolate might
Her skin was like toffee, though when I dared take a bite
It was for times much sweeter than she.
Her heart shined like gold foil I hadn't yet unwrapped
Her touch lulled like syrup and I soon became trapped
Her words first candy-coated but those quickly were scrapped
It was for times much sweeter than she.
Her cares became much sourer than I wanted to taste
Her sweetness grew moldy and she tossed it with haste
Her love frosted over and she lay it to waste
It was for times much sweeter than she.
Jan 20, 2016
Jan 20, 2016 at 3:34 PM UTC
I hope your kisses taste of sunshine
and pelt my skin like rain
I hope your embrace feels of summertime
and scorches winter's pain
I hope your spirit looks of firelight
and tosses on the wind
I hope your love envelops me
and that it chases 'til the end.
Jul 2, 2015
Jul 2, 2015 at 6:43 PM UTC
stifling a yawn, hair in curled knots
my mouth tastes of ocean with a little less salt
each pin dropped like a shout
with curtains drawn I'm blind
extended limbs, muscles ache
any movement causes comfort to break
still there's ruckus about
yet silence I aught to find
eyes blurred, words slurred
brain full of cotton feeling it's about to burst
but nothing would come out
because nothing is on my mind.
May 1, 2014
May 1, 2014 at 4:17 AM UTC
love
to sufferers of
scarcity
consider it
embodied in
a soul-mate
one for
one
whole split
yet aggregate
two
halves per
simplistic
two-dimensional
singular
somehow minded
to be
complete?
stretch out
blinded horizons
for everything
to see
is actually
a
part of
an infinitely
dimensional
infinite
part of
me
Jan 24, 2014
Jan 24, 2014 at 11:24 PM UTC
Let me show you to that burrowed house
up on the hill, it's ages old!
Come, let us shuffle through its memories
and see what is to unfold.
Faded are the shingles
with windows yellowed and stale,
through overexposure to the sun
all of the paint is flecked and pale.
Tattered is the rosy wallpaper
stained are the wooden floors,
and all of the hardened, crusty carpets
are discolored with ancient molds.
Winds howl through the hallways
yet are too damp in the midst of heat,
not to mention winters' frigidness seeping in
not one table can stand, their legs too weak.
Grass has sprung up through the floorboards
pipes are rusted and they leak.
Every bulb is dead, the curtains are shreds;
both groupings are now just clouded and meek.
But glance upon these remains once more,
see what they have to hide-
for not until you know there's gold
would you look for a treasured chest to peek inside.
All lights and curtains are worn down with fingerprints;
these rooms must have been quite used.
Not often such delicacy can be found, seeing
floors and pipes both falling to nature's muse.
Tables' legs are old and tired of standing,
why not let them sit a while?
Yet no matter what weather it shall be exposed to
this home, to its fate, has reconciled.
Carpets all were once soft and
scrunched between our children's toes,
how beatiful these floors and wallpaper must've been.
How beautiful? Only us aged would know.
The paint was once pungently new
it gleamed in softened sunlight,
while the windows acted as doors to dream's ways
and the shingles kept out the night.
Let me show you to that burrowed house
what memories it holds of ours, my dear
Come, lay here with me in this bed we shared
for now, in looking back, we hold no fear.
Dec 25, 2013
Dec 25, 2013 at 3:15 PM UTC
numbing silence blankets the senses;
cotton muffles the sound of the
bleached duvet coating the sight of the
dampened clouds melting on tongues to taste the
crisp of the breeze carrying the scent of the
dulled pines weighed down with flakes that caress the
spirit that echoes the sound of the
flickering moon that brings into view the
candle in the window and the taste of the
leftover sweetened sunset from the touch of the
lips of my lover
to mine
Dec 19, 2013
Dec 19, 2013 at 11:43 PM UTC
why are most popular and modern poems so serious
life is not always serious
so why must literature be
there are still children's books
and still children's poems
and we still all like childish things
like balloons and cookies and snowmen and Disney movies and bouncy houses
I mean c'mon if you said you've never wanted to watch a Disney movie or jump in a bouncy house
over the age of 12
you're lying and you know it
not all poems are works of art
so why do we treat them like they should be
to be honest, reading about life and death and love can get pretty boring at times
we could all use a break from the usual
so here's a poem
about absolutely nothing at all.
Dec 14, 2013
Dec 14, 2013 at 8:26 PM UTC
if in this moment I could form speech
not of religion nor politics would I preach
all whispers of death or life left behind
I would not mention once, I would not feel inclined
to bring up common opinions to debate
nor any tragedies glaring from newspapers' front page
see, if in this moment I had the ability to speak
here's exactly what I would do,
what I'd say
I would wrap my breath around my promise to keep
with the phrase
*"I'll love you,
forever and always."*
Dec 13, 2013
Dec 13, 2013 at 4:10 PM UTC
sleep is a date with death.
it's a time when your body is present but your conscious is not.
but are you really alive without being conscious?
in sleep your consciousness goes on a journey
taking Death by the hand
and accompanying him to the most majestic of ballrooms
and into the eyes of terrifying storms,
to the highest of mountains
and the deepest of the oceans' chasms,
to the most distant of memories
and the depths of what you had forgotten,
to your most prideful of accomplishments
and the greatest of all of your fears,
to the brightest of hopes and aspirations
and the most vacant corners of darkness.
he shows you what this world has to offer
anything and everything
each journey to be an experience your body may not have the chance to live.
yet every time you arouse from sleep
you awaken with nothing but haze
blurred images being all that your body can comprehend
in comparison to what journeys your mind can traverse.
as you age, your body becomes rickety and wrinkled
barely able to hold back such a bursting mind.
this is the time when your mind does not want to confine itself to a body any longer
it wants to experience more than what this world has to offer,
for in the hours awake within the body
combined with every date with Death
every memory has been made
every child has been born
every tear has been shed
every moment as a human, in body and mind, has been experienced.
your mind is not weak nor weary, rather, it thrives
within a clear container
and all that Death has yet to show you visible in the distance.
once your body can hold you back no longer, it sets you free,
sets your mind free.
that is when Death greets you
just as a peaceful lover would come dawn
and just as affectionately
he would accompany your mind
to everything else there is beyond
being human,
being conscious.
Dec 12, 2013
Dec 12, 2013 at 8:27 PM UTC
the world doesn't need any more sour tears
especially not ones as precious as yours;
the only ones you should allow yourself to shed
should taste like laughter and sunshine and summer rain.
Dec 12, 2013
Dec 12, 2013 at 1:15 AM UTC