She doesn't want people around.
But she let you in.
Is that not enough?
Nov 2, 2024
Nov 2, 2024 at 9:50 PM UTC
It is not because I cannot have you,
that I still want you.
But rather, it is because I still want you,
but cannot have you,
that causes me such pain.
Jun 29, 2022
Jun 29, 2022 at 9:44 PM UTC
If I consider each day, as a moment in time,
and each moment part of a continuum,
then the fear of time and its passing,
has no hold on me.
For it becomes akin to my breath.
each second flows on from the one,
the many, the countless,
that came before this one.
I am swept up in how gentle
a passing life can be.
So long as I do not try,
to hold onto time
too tightly.
Apr 5, 2021
Apr 5, 2021 at 8:39 PM UTC
there is forgiveness in the mornings,
before the day breaks,
before the grey shadows
are but kissed awake.
there is forgiveness in the mornings,
in the heart and the mind,
still drifting from sleep,
with thoughts undefined.
there is forgiveness in the mornings,
in the still before light,
for those who’d been restless,
and wearied by night.
Jan 5, 2021
Jan 5, 2021 at 9:43 AM UTC
I strike a match
so I may adore the untamed fierceness
of the flame‘s brief life.
I do this each day
to remind myself of what once burned within me.
I do this each day
to remind myself that even a spark
can be a fire hazard.
Oct 9, 2020
Oct 9, 2020 at 7:56 AM UTC
I have seen the night and know it to be a dark masterpiece,
of the otherwise vivid picture of day.
I have seen the night and know it to be a tapestry of our entwined bodies,
which the day casts into stark realism.
I have heard the night and know it to be an echo, a drifting rendition,
of the songs the day will bellow.
I have heard the night and know it to be a whispering waltz,
which the stumbling cacophony of day interrupts.
I have breathed the night and know it to be an elixir, a potion, a perfume,
of the otherwise sharp bouquet of day .
I have breathed the night and know it to be the air between the stars,
that in the day, so abruptly dissipates.
I have tasted the night and know it to be bittersweet and tempting,
where the day is astringent and crackling.
I have tasted the night and know it to be an earthly delight,
which the day renders weightless and clean.
I have dreamt of the night and know it to be a carousel of wonder, a pirouette of fear,
that the day stamps out with its drumbeat of hours.
I have dreamt of the night, and know it to be a mirage, to the divine reality,
of waking in the day,
next to you.
Oct 11, 2019
Oct 11, 2019 at 12:53 AM UTC
as the trees are burning,
so too are the memories
i made as a child.
each are now embers,
glowing and fragile.
but i cannot hold them,
and so i only watch,
until they are but ash.
Sep 10, 2019
Sep 10, 2019 at 8:40 AM UTC
Moonlight on pale skin
Soft lips part in desire
Lovers in the night
Jun 25, 2019
Jun 25, 2019 at 12:39 AM UTC
her soul
never at peace
in the city where noise
does not cease
Jun 18, 2019
Jun 18, 2019 at 1:32 AM UTC
within a dark wood, no sound could be heard,
no rustle or leaf, nor chorus of bird.
though through thickets of thorn, and tangle of vine,
a traveller long lost, settled down by a pine.
it was then that the trees, and brambles beneath,
twisted their branches and made him his wreath.
a crown of late thorns, to place on his head,
by the exact moment, in which he was dead.
the traveller had wandered, for days through this grove,
mistook it for where there'd been buried a trove.
many had done so, the young and the old,
naïve in their search, for fairy-tale gold.
asleep on the fallen, both leaves and past men,
our traveller breathed once, then no more than ten.
his lungs filled with scarlet, his blood running thick,
from poisons and toxins of berries he'd picked.
as night came to banish, the warmth of the sun,
his corpse slowly stiffened, decay then begun.
what of his soul, his spirit, you wonder?
encased by his bones, shall never float yonder.
no other remembers, this story I've told,
long lost in myth and legends of old.
his death was not pleasant, nor lacking in strife,
it felt oh so sweet, to steal that man's life.
for I was the wood, that he'd set eyes upon,
to plunder and pillage, and lay his hands on.
but blind from desire, for coffers of gold,
the man did not witness, his follies unfold.
my treasure's not buried, but strewn all around,
if only one glances, to see nature abound.
the man had such fortune, in the palm of his hand,
but thought nothing of it, of cherished wood-land.
although he still lies here, enveloped in moss,
his death is not tragic, don't mourn for this loss.
a traveller he was, perhaps you are too,
but his soul was crook'd, his values askew.
oh yes he was selfish, and now he is mine,
his body 's held tight, for my roots to enshrine.
the lesson dear reader, I ask you to heed,
is that misfortune awaits, all men filled with greed.
May 3, 2018
May 3, 2018 at 9:12 AM UTC