•••
***This heartbreak
Unleashes the poet on me***
•••
Jan 20, 2017
Jan 20, 2017 at 4:48 AM UTC
My love is like a glass jar filled to the brim with entire oceans:
Impossible, irrational, and deeper than you could ever imagine until you see it up close. Wading in it is an impossibility. If you go for a swim in my waters, you're sure to drown. But you won't die.
When a writer loves you, she will spend most of her waking poeting hours trying to capture some essence of you: a touch, a smile, the color of your eyes...She'll wrap them in pretty words, similes, and metaphors and hand them to you like pristine Christmas gifts, sparkling and waiting for you to tear in. She hopes a bit of her own passion will seep into you in doing so.
Likewise, when I love, I am willing to give you my world and everything in it, even if that means that I myself and confined to a single shadow in a small isolated corner of it. When I love, those seas seem to expand inside me until my heart feels swollen and ready to burst. When I love, it can feel overwhelming, difficult to wrap your head around. I tend to gush.
My love is like glass oceans: I am fragile but far too stubborn to ever break.
Jan 20, 2017
Jan 20, 2017 at 4:26 AM UTC
***Many people see
stars on the night sky.
But I see only a
graveyard whose candles
are still lit on the graves,
even though they are
long exstinguished by the angels***
Sep 9, 2016
Sep 9, 2016 at 9:25 PM UTC
*Yellow with white butterflies
Fluttering over the flowers
Big bee comes flirting with a buzz
Amidst my conversation with
Rose, the flower queen
Giggling of her friends being a response
Red whiskered bulbul sings vociferously
Please to meet you in our kingdom
Never beautiful but humble the black crow
Bringing some fruits honouring her guest
Wishing me hi from aloft the Sun
A pleasant morning with nature
Made my day a beautiful creation*
Sep 9, 2016
Sep 9, 2016 at 9:23 PM UTC
Often the ones who hate themselves the most,
Are the very same people who are the most loving.
They give out their love like giving bread to birds,
They throw it all away and forget to keep any for themselves.
That is why it is up to us to give them some of our bread,
no matter how stale,
To those amazing people who have nothing left to eat.
Sep 9, 2016
Sep 9, 2016 at 9:23 PM UTC
Marble statues seem so solemn
And comparatively less still than us
As in the calm 11 o'clock evening
We are half adrift
Sleeping drunken off each others' presence
What is love if it is not being
Curled into the curve of your arm
And just being?
I can hardly remember the dark days from this view
I can hardly remember not having you
The heartbreak, when
Feeling lost never felt so good as feeling found.
I belong here
In the warmth of a summer night tucked into you
More than I've ever belonged in a place or time
Or ever will
Jul 20, 2016
Jul 20, 2016 at 3:13 AM UTC
she
is hot pink lipstick
she is white lace, long wavy brown hair
she is pretending not to know me
as well as her hands and eyes do
is pretending
she is allowed to be a mother this mothers day
allowed to have children after taking the child out of me
allowed to sit in the pews of this church
without the angels descending
and spontaneously combusting her body.
she is...smiling.
the serial killer in me would like to rip her jaws apart
to break that smile in half and make a necklace from her teeth
I am only reclaiming my bones and bits of me from her mouth
it's more pleasant this way
i don't belong to her anymore
i belong to me
Jul 20, 2016
Jul 20, 2016 at 2:05 AM UTC
I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.
I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.
I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way
than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.
May 21, 2015
May 21, 2015 at 12:37 PM UTC