I've not held a pen in many months,
for fear of seeing your face
in the belly of my words.
I know how thick
the effect of you is,
how you pervade every work of mine
with a foul, haughty stench;
you always told me
I'd be the one to never forget you.
And how could I,
when you've made me so weak?
My mind is your residence,
and you've proclaimed it your own;
hovering over each stanza
with involuntary tremors
and disheartening convulsions,
begging me to notice you,
begging me to come inside.
But with every turn of phrase
I'm reminded of your nature
one that's malignant,
unyielding—
for you are just as much my muse
as you are
my cancer.
v.g.
Dec 28, 2017
Dec 28, 2017 at 12:34 PM UTC
'I love you, you know that?'
I say as I
brush his hair
behind his ear,
tear my gaze
from his own,
take two steps back,
don't look back,
and finally let him go
v.g.
Dec 26, 2017
Dec 26, 2017 at 3:31 PM UTC
my heart beats
heavily,
in my frame
whilst melancholy
tingles,
at my brain
the memories of a younger life
seize me
and take me far
away,
where innocence was
becoming,
and I was not
to blame
v.g.
Nov 9, 2017
Nov 9, 2017 at 8:58 PM UTC
When he came around
I thought perhaps he would
Fill in
my sunken spots,
the hallow parts
of my being
that had kept me
from standing
Upright
But he was no builder
And our love was no
plaster
And so I resolved
to crumple
Like ash upon his frame,
until it was just him
standing there
with memories that
remain
v.g.
Oct 26, 2017
Oct 26, 2017 at 9:52 PM UTC
God blessed the world when He made Man,
and I feel I know both of them
when I hold onto this one's hand
He sleeps like a child upon my chest
soft breath sending shivers
up and down my neck,
and I marvel,
and marvel,
and
marvel
at a creature such as this.
He fits me, he suites me, he truly does—
in an instant, with just a glance at him,
I come a bit more undone.
His skin a sheen beneath moonlight
where I can truly see veins,
a blue network beneath his forearm,
holding me gently to his frame;
I would have never even considered
how it could fit with mine
or how we could even begin to claim
such a space between us.
And yet, here we are—
and yet, here I am
tiny and misshapen,
cuddling a man
who has taken my heart to a place,
where I know love resides.
The futon creaks, the fan swivels on,
and the icon candle burns brightly
in the corner.
... and here I am with a Man
who holds me so delicately in his sleep
that he would actually have you believe
that I'm the precious one.
v.g.
Mar 21, 2017
Mar 21, 2017 at 11:23 AM UTC
There are words, swimming in her head
an aquarium of emotion
some words are nice, but others fight,
cause a stir within the ocean
There are words, soaring through her head
headed north now and then
They escape dark skies, and flee her mind,
and hope to make it home again
v.g.
Oct 26, 2016
Oct 26, 2016 at 8:06 PM UTC
Sometimes I'll read great literature and think:
that perhaps, poetry is a theatrical
(but necessary) byproduct
of our excess emotion—
created by broken people
who simply feel too much,
in too little of a space.
From the largest and grandest of stanzas
to the petite one-liners,
we pour our feelings into words
and our words into emotion,
and give them the context
to take on a brand new meaning.
We adorn our anguish in sweet, silken lines,
our passion in soft, breathy rhymes;
our anger shows in scribbles
and taut similes,
our joy in the personification
of the very things we wish
could come alive.
From all corners of all nations we grow
knowing, quite profoundly,
that our feelings are meant to mean something:
Poetry is not tissue in our lives
to be used and tossed away;
rather, poems mark the seasons of ourselves
that are to be remembered and enjoyed.
Written on notepads and parchment,
from wide open spaces to
that dingy apartment,
our words lie in wait for us
so that at our lowest point,
our words may help us rediscover
how to be human.
v.g.
Aug 17, 2016
Aug 17, 2016 at 1:04 PM UTC
I can make you love me
this is something I can swear
all I need is a moment here
to run my fingers through your hair
I can laugh
at all your cheesy
jokes
the ones a little ******
the ones a little
old
I can lean against your shoulder,
take turns as we blow
smoke
up, up above our heads
and past the giant
oaks
I can be charming
and kiss you before I
leave—
kiss you until your weak
and shaken in the
knees
I may not be beautiful
but I've got a trick
up my
sleeve;
a trick that involves assuming
love is quite naive
and in that case,
so are you.
v.g.
Aug 3, 2016
Aug 3, 2016 at 6:19 PM UTC
Separation does weird things to the body.
It causes a continental divide
between the mind, and the heart.
This divide– it causes doubt,
distorting three truths,
for three lies.
It shifts a millimeter
each moment,
till one day, there's been an earthquake
fantasy, and reality, are indistinguishable.
and you no longer can tell them apart
due to the irrevocable damage.
You realize
the memories
aren't really memories–
they are perceptions of events
gone wrong,
this cataclysm of love allows it.
You see, the sweetness of words once whispered
now have an underlining
bitterness
now have a certain
edge
enough to question their legitimacy.
And now you notice
far too early
the warmth from their embrace
just... leaves,
too quickly.
they just don't hold on like they used to.
Its ever so subtle, but ever so notable,
and its enough to make you worry
You'll worry about the things you see.
You'll worry about what you don't.
And finally, you'll both believe...
.... that separation
does weird things to the body.
It causes a continental divide
between the mind and the heart
and the realization that there's no healing
when you're miles and miles apart.
Jul 31, 2016
Jul 31, 2016 at 3:04 PM UTC
propped up against my windowsill
with a slice of cold pizza
watching the cars below
play
green
light
go
and wishing my thoughts
would stop playing too
Jul 13, 2016
Jul 13, 2016 at 2:45 AM UTC