I wonder if my thoughts leak into what I say to you and do around you
I wonder how much of myself I give away
I hope it doesn’t
It would be horribly inconvenient
Mar 8, 2014
Mar 8, 2014 at 5:04 PM UTC
at about one am
i woke
and erased the poetry I had written
in the margins of my biology textbook
some original
some bukowski and yeats and mcdaniel
bukowski and yeats and
bukowski and yeats
bukowski and
bukowski
it vanished from view in the same manner
i think
as i vanished from your thoughts
i thought that We was an absolute
that We would never not exist
yet
i wrote it in pencil
in the first place
Mar 6, 2014
Mar 6, 2014 at 1:48 PM UTC
I have yet to make sense
of the muddled inks
that create your irises
A sort of a
composition
in chocolate
and oaky warmth
- not brown.
When searching
for a metaphor to describe you
the idea that circles back
and which I can not
nor will ever
be able to disregard
is that of an ice sculpture:
something for which you spend hours,
building up
only to watch it melt
helplessly
paralysed
I watched you
with her
helplessly
paralysed
I watched your temperature rise
and that husk around your heart
begin to thaw
like the way it did for me
And when I couldn't watch you anymore
when the pain became too great
that I had to deny myself
that pleasure of looking at you
with your chocolate composition
I turned away
and imagined you
imagining me
You are an ellipsis because you are possibility
You are plums stolen from the ice box
You are the forest, so lovely, dark and deep
You are the paragon of art
You, you talk like winter rain
You are like firm red grapes
like stretching
like that sunshine on winter mornings
but also like moonlight
in all its grace and purity and
love
you make me want to be a poet
if for reasons no more than wanting to impress you
They say that there is a place
on one's chest
that, when struck, stops the heart from beating
Feb 20, 2014
Feb 20, 2014 at 4:38 PM UTC
my love for him
is as delicious
as the burn
of your stubble
against my lower
lip
Jan 30, 2014
Jan 30, 2014 at 6:40 AM UTC
on the caller ID
my friend sitting next to me
told me to ignore it
to ignore you
like you ignored me
before you got bored
and crawled back
still managing to have
some sort of an upper hand
but my left thumb
seemed magically drawn
to that little blinking green phone
that was the symbol
of how irresitable I still find you
and when I answered the phone
you greeted me
with a soft murmur of my name
I have never enjoyed hearing my name more
Jan 13, 2014
Jan 13, 2014 at 2:08 AM UTC
my darling
I want you to know that
had you offered me any kisses
no matter how tentative
I would have accepted them
in an instant
and cradled them
in my shaky palms
Jan 6, 2014
Jan 6, 2014 at 11:20 AM UTC
last year
was simultaneously
the best and the worst
year of my life.
I'm only seventeen -
unneccessarily dramatic statements
fit the profile but
understand this:
last year
I met you.
last year
for a while
I was happier than I thought
I was capable of being
last year I discovered
the magic of poetry
and how it is able
to capture such
limitless bliss.
but
last year
you broke me in two
and I had more sadness in me
than the human heart should be able to stand
and
last year
I scrawled poetry
in the margins of my textbooks
because
I couldn't describe what agony I was enduring
but I had to try
over and over
and over again.
last year
I felt stupid
for being so in love with you.
This year
I can't seem to be able to teach myself
how to stop being in love with you.
But I'm going to try.
Jan 6, 2014
Jan 6, 2014 at 11:15 AM UTC
I have forgotten
the exact colour
of your irises
you have to forgive me
it's been a while
and I doubt
you can remember
the exact colour
of mine
I doubt
you can remember
much
of me
at all
but
what I do remember
more than I want to
much more than I want to
is
the way
my heartbeat sped up
when I felt your eyes on me
Jan 6, 2014
Jan 6, 2014 at 10:50 AM UTC