I want something that I cannot have. I cannot have it because I don't truly know what it is. I've seen it polished and propped as if it were on display and I've heard the stories of how much time and effort it took to make it look as such. But I want it. I want love. I want the idea of it at least.
I want the fights brought about by events simpler and less important than the time we wasted to have them. I want to be pained by the sight of her pain and know that the feeling of knives piercing my chest when I see her cry is there because I would literally drive them there myself if only to prevent her tears.
I want our laughs to intertwine over the smallest things and our conversations to stretch our minds over the biggest. I want to see you sleep at night and I'll smile because I know that you're finally at peace. And I want you to smile when you wake up because you know that I'm fighting to make your reality better than your dreams.
I want love. I want romantic love, I want crazy love. I want passion. I want to pick you up in my arms and in that brief present get lost in your presence. I want to be in you when I am in you and have you wish that I would stay forever. I want to be in your heart and mind, and I want our love to be torturous and blind.
I just want love. I want the idea of it at least.
Feb 4, 2016
Feb 4, 2016 at 5:04 PM UTC
You made a poet fall in love with you
And expected her not to write sonnets about your eyes
Expected the fire in her heart not to inspire couplets
You made a poet fall in love with you, and when you left
Expected her not to write pages about the ache in her chest
Write a soliloquy dedicated to her tears
Expected her not to feel every gut wrenching moment of the pen hitting paper like your words hit her in the most vulnerable places of her mind.
You made a poet fall in love with you, and you expected her to be silent.
That is no fault of hers.
Feb 4, 2016
Feb 4, 2016 at 4:59 PM UTC
I'm tired no, not that kind of tired
Where it can simply cured by sleep
I'm tired of all the things
That put me through and through
I'm tired of all the times
Where I've almost shed a tear
I'm tired of all the friends
That used me like my feelings never existed
I'm tired of all the life
That makes me suffer days and nights
Feb 4, 2016
Feb 4, 2016 at 4:58 PM UTC
Every shout a drop of blood squirting from the twisted veins
the destiny’s road opens to another quite unknown corner
Every shout stifled by heartbeat of silence holds a desire to cut
the uneaten loaf of heart their ears are deaf, a head of stone
a body of wood, fingers of clay that have forgotten how to clasp a flower
or rise a hand in protest, music that has become air settles down at the navel of midnight
it’s an angel singing to closed windows and doors only the leaves and grasses of
the earth responds with daybreak the lips the nose, the hands the limbs the eyes
awakened the air lost its music the angel is only a love disowned
by both the lover and the beloved
Feb 4, 2016
Feb 4, 2016 at 4:54 PM UTC
She wanders guided by her lost soul.
She spills arts coming from her pure heart;
She writes words no one can understand,
yet she speaks it like it was kept in her mind
for so long, just waiting for someone to find it.
She is a masterpiece of her own,
but she has a heart of stone.
Feb 4, 2016
Feb 4, 2016 at 4:53 PM UTC
I appreciate simplicity, the mediocrity
of being absorbed in my thoughts.
It's who I am, it's all I know.
Do not deem me ill because you have never sat down and
explored the dynamics and complexities
of your being because we are clearly not on the same mental or spiritual calibre.
Feb 4, 2016
Feb 4, 2016 at 4:51 PM UTC
I want my words to be beautiful. Beautiful like yours.
I want to see ordinary things, Find the magic in them,
and put the magic on a page, for everyone to understand.
I want to have a way with words. I want every poem of mine
to become a masterpiece. Just like yours.
I am not broken. But you are. You see the world through pain,
And pain makes the colours brighter. It makes the value of feelings climb higher.
Sometimes I wonder if I should be broken like you
If I want my words to resonate like yours.
Sometimes I wonder, if it will be truly worth it in the end.
I wonder what it will be like, to cut myself up to pour out the beauty inside me.
Just like you I imagine that you raise the blade slice your feelings open
and write your masterpiece in red.
Feb 4, 2016
Feb 4, 2016 at 4:48 PM UTC
A fragile hope we may really speak
has just been shattered into pieces
A fragile hope you will stop my bleed
is still alive and somehow increases
God, how did I fell and why so hard?
Why your voice is now my favorite song
Why when you're near I act like a ******
Why all I want is to accompany along
I know what you think and how you feel
So why the fragile false hope still exists
I know that "us" remains a dream unreal
But the hope still fills my head with mist
And nobody knows how much it hurts
To watch never happening wonderful plots
And it tortures you slowly or even worse
It dig holes in you like the one from shots
So my only salvation is getting it killed
I'm so tired of it so help me to stop it
Destroy the illusory castles I have build
because I'm unable to destroy it
Feb 4, 2016
Feb 4, 2016 at 4:47 PM UTC
It's hard to write a poem
When there's nothing going on
It's hard to think of what to say
When you've given most of it away
As poets we never scratch the surface
We delve within, disclose our deepest sin
We crave our pain, declare it's for our art
Yet more often than not have no idea where to start
But start we do and start we must
A deep desire in all of us
To spill out on the written page
What little bit we have tried to save
Ink now is the poets blood
Fragments of self pour from within
Silence is our safety net
To stop us from bleeding out
Although it's hard to write a poem
With nothing going on
We still find words to form a verse
From deep within our marrow bone
Feb 4, 2016
Feb 4, 2016 at 4:44 PM UTC
You are the sweetest of my torments.
You're the tangible torture of citrus
The bite followed by the ****
Fresh and unbearable in the same instance
You're the lemon zest scent;
You're the juice in the cut
As the knife cuts my thumb;
The sweetness meeting the wild coppery tang
of blood in my mouth.
You're in the twist in my chest
that exists somewhere between my heart and my stomach
both organs being wrenched apart...
When I see you and remember that we haven't spoken in months.
Feb 4, 2016
Feb 4, 2016 at 4:34 PM UTC