Her eyes were made of stars,
And yours, a black hole.
Whenever she looks at you
She sees her own death.
Nov 30, 2015
Nov 30, 2015 at 7:49 AM UTC
In or out,
Don't step on the line.
I am not a door with broken hinges.
Throw me out
Or pull me in.
Time is at risk, don't keep me in between.
Black and white,
Like ink and paper.
The obvious things you have yet to discover.
Nov 27, 2015
Nov 27, 2015 at 7:06 AM UTC
I was born with the night sky painted upon me,
Rivers of stars flow across my cheeks.
Your beloved sunlight stings a bit too much;
Even your shadow is a glittering navy blue silk...
I am still scratching out bits of it from my skin.
Nov 4, 2015
Nov 4, 2015 at 2:31 AM UTC
Tear-stained floor,
Ceilings burn from my gaze.
Why can't I make someone stay?
Nov 4, 2015
Nov 4, 2015 at 2:30 AM UTC
May I ask if for just one moment,
Even just an innocent split-second in your life when you were free from all your reasons and all the history you've been carrying with you,
If for just that one moment before you let those things take over most of who you are,
Did you love me?
Nov 2, 2015
Nov 2, 2015 at 9:29 AM UTC
"In vain have oceans been squandered on you, in vain
the sun, wonderfully seen through Whitman’s eyes.
You have used up the years and they have used up you,
and still, and still, you have not written the poem."
- Jorge Luis Borges
I did. All forty-five of it, with one person sneaking in between every line like waves persistently knocking on shores.
These poems will never meet the eyes of the one who guided my hands; the one who sung the melody to which my words danced.
Nov 2, 2015
Nov 2, 2015 at 9:27 AM UTC
You have conquered me.
You set me on fire
And it's the kind of fire I'm almost willing to keep,
Only it stings a bit too much.
Oct 28, 2015
Oct 28, 2015 at 4:02 PM UTC
"Do you save what's left or what you are afraid to lose?"
...maybe I should just throw it back to the ocean where it belongs.
"'Cowardice is the most terrible of vices.' Bulgakov wrote that. You should know."
…everybody's scared of something.
Oct 28, 2015
Oct 28, 2015 at 3:55 PM UTC
It feels like what happened and what I've felt for you
Were just a paragraph in a series made of indefinite volumes.
To be honest, I am unsure whether or not what we had is enough to be considered an epic,
Worthy to be idealized and remembered throughout the rest of what will become my history.
Yet, what I know is that for a certain time,
Though infinitesimal compared to the rest of my life,
I was willing to ignore every danger, hopelessness and fear just so I could give in to your light,
If that would mean I would be able to make you stay.
It wasn't that much but I guess it was enough to call it real.
Oct 20, 2015
Oct 20, 2015 at 9:16 AM UTC
It was strange not to feel anything at all
When all was said and done and every point has been proven wrong.
What once had been a matter of heaven and hell
has now turned into a mere speck of dust
Floating in front of her eyes.
She let it blur in her vision,
And then she shrugged and turned away,
forgetting it even before it was gone.
Oct 20, 2015
Oct 20, 2015 at 9:09 AM UTC