Blckstr Jul 21
Love is not a piece of writing
that comes from a heart;
It is not a flowerful verse;
It is a flowerless vase
that holds no decoration,
no rhythmical motion,
no verbose potion;
Love is not a poem.
It does not bear a stanza
full of melodic metaphors
that attract the cores
of one’s eyes and ears,
because love has no rhymes
that make two heartbeats
sound as one.
It is an offbeat
kind of sound
like two metals
clanking with a hard,
earsplitting clang.
Love is not a poem.
It bears no hyperbolic
kind of feelings.
It is a catastrophic
kind of rain.
It bears no onomatopoeia
like a thump-thump–
beat of a heart.
It is just a thunder
with a destructive art.
Love is a storm.
Love is not a poem.
It has no alliteration
in a tiny tinkling tone.
It is not a poetic notion
in a simile or an oxymoron.
It is not a set of written words
which provide a colorful world.
Love is not a poem.
These were the things
I used to say before…
But then, you happened…
Love became a poem.
It turned into a free verse –
no patterned rhyme
no regular rhythm.
It just flowed
through a beautiful heartbeat
with an ineffable heartbeat.
Love turned to be the skeleton
of my poetry.
Love became the pedestal
of my words,
creating a series
of lines and stanzas
with touch
of fragrant language.
Love became a poem
because my poetry
turned to be you…
You are
my poem –
my love…
Blckstr Jul 14
One night, as I gazed
The stars above,
I met a girl
And she looks like you, my love.
She talks like you.
She laughs like you.
She smiles like you.
Her eyes glitter like yours.
She has this kind of force
That makes my time stop -
That makes me fall
The way I fell for you.

I met a girl, my love
And because of her,
I remembered everything -
Everything about us
In the past.
I remembered
How you held my hand -
How I kissed you -
How we watched the sun
Like we did -
'Like I did'

I met someone like you,
My love.
Her words are also filled
With flowers' fields -
With butterflies -
With stars in the night.
Her words are as colorful
As yours.
They're beautiful
To hear.
She's beautiful
Like you, my dear.

I met someone like you,
My love.
She dances like you.
She goes with the music
Of the mellifluous wind.
She sings and speaks
The way your lips
And voice create
A honey-flavored trip
In my tickled ears -
Iniside my head -
Inside my heart -
A romantic art.

I met someone like you,
My dear.
I found someone like you.
I met her.
I found her
While my heart
Was crying,
And losing
A billion beats
Because of the memories
You left with me.

I met someone like you.
She looks like you.
She smiles like you.
She talks like you.
And even though
She never hurts me
The way you did,
My heart still beats
And beats
And beats for you.
And it still hurts me.
You still break me.
Though you've already left me.

I met someone like you.
I have a choice to fall for her
But my heart still chooses
To fall for you.
Blckstr Jul 14
If I were to die tonight,
Burn the poems I gave you,
Throw my letters away,
And think of my love as a game
You don't ever want to play.
If I were to die tonight,
Let the flowers
In my poetry wither
And never bloom again
Like my dead forgotten name.
If I were to die tonight,
Leave the metaphors
I carved on my papers -
The shallow containers
Of my submerging words.
Never read again
The personification
Of my syllabication
That dances
As nuisances.
If I were to die tonight,
Forget the words I said
Delete the messages I sent
And let your smile erase
All the memories we've made
If I were to die tonight,
Forget that you've met a writer
Who loved you who you were
In his dying poetry.
If I were to die tonight,
Please... just please don't cry;
Don't let a tear fall from your eyes;
Instead, sleep so tight.
So if I would die tonight,
Please try and try to smile
And forget about me
'Cause I know it would make you lonely.
Before I die tonight,
Forget about me,
'Cause I don't want
You to cry and cry
Because of our memories.
Blckstr Jul 14
I'm still breaking,
I'm still crying,
Every single night.
My heart's burning
And I'm still writing;
But this time,
My words are not
Written for you.
This poem is not about
How I fell in love with you,
How the butterflies fly in my stomach,
How the amorous views
In the sky of black
Invade our hearts in the night
While you're holding me so tight.
This poem is not about
How my heart shattered
When you left me,
How I faltered
When you handed me misery,
And how my hands bled
When I started
Writing poems about you,
Writing poems about us.
This poem is written
Not because I'm still waiting
For you to come back.
This poem is written
Not because I'm still trying
To reverse the flow of clock.
This poem is not written for you!
Yes, I'm still breaking,
I'm still crying
Every single night.
My heart's still burning,
But this time,
I'm not writing for you.
This poem is not written for you
This poem is written for myself.
This is written to convince myself
That you will never love me... again.
This time, I'm not writing poems for you;
I'm writing for myself!
Blckstr Jul 14
Mom, I’m sorry.
I would never be the son
You wanted me to be.
I could not give you the medals,
And the certificates
Which smell like petals
Plucked from the gardens
Of books and pens.
I’m sorry, because
I became a lost man
In the ocean
Of liquors
For a voyage to nowhere.
I drank the soul
Of depression
Because, I’m sorry,
It was the only one
Who was there for me
When you and everyone
Were gone.
Mom, I’m sorry.
When I was alone,
I used drugs
Just to have visionary
People around me.
Mom, I’m sorry,
I did not feel your presence
For me,
Because every time
You talked to me,
You used to say…
I was a useless,
Dumb, and stupid child,
So my agony got so wild.
Mom, I’m sorry
Your presence
Made me feel
That I was so alone
In this world.
Mom, I’m sorry.
You were not beside me
When I was losing myself…
On the night I hanged myself,
I felt so delighted.
My dark days ended.
Nights for tears were terminated.
On the night I lost my life,
I wished… you would be
Happy and proud of me.
I wished for you to smile
Because I’ve never seen you
Do it even just for a while.
Mom, I’m sorry.
I never expected you to cry
In front of my coffin.
Mom, please wipe
Those tears from your eyes.
Mom, I’m sorry.
Mom, you were right.
I’m a useless, dumb, and stupid child.
I’m sorry.
I never thought…
You would still love your child.
Mom, I’m sorry…
Blckstr Jul 14
I love you,
And when I tell it to you,
It means my ink
Has once gain
Filled a paper
With your name –
Repeatedly written
On every line,
On every sign,
And every space
Of the thousands words
Inscribed in my poems.
I love you,
And when I tell it to you,
It means the
Flowers of my letters
Are waiting for your hand
To pluck and bear
Until the hands
Of the clock
Lack a pack
Of time and force for us
To separate at last.
I love you,
And when I tell it to you,
It means the metaphors
Of my phrases
Are waiting for your
Hugs and kisses
To embrace my life
That has been
Written with might,
Printed with the spin
Of a syllabicated sight.
I love you,
And when I tell it to you,
It means I’m already ready
To kneel in front of you
To ask you for marriage
While articulating
Scented words as carriage
Of my fast beating
I love you,
And when I tell it to you,
It means my hands
Are already ready
To write a million words,
Dancing with the beat
Of my art.
I love you,
And when I tell it to you,
It means
I’m going to write
poems about you
Until the end of my life.
Blckstr Jul 14
I envy the moon above;
He doesn’t live in this world
And experience
How spiteful words
Make a heart
Die in silence.
I envy the moon so much,
For he doesn’t cry at night
While looking at the sky
And losing a trace of light.
He’s just lying up above,
But he catches a rain of love.
He captures people’s eyes
Despite of the thousand stars
Shining so bright
In the night.
I envy the moon above,
Because the cloud
Embraces him
And serves as his shroud
When cold tears
Pour like beers.
The sun supports
Him to shine,
Regardless of his dark spots
And keen, murky signs.
I envy the moon at night;
Though sometimes he may be wry,
He can still defy the dark sky;.
He can withstand the doughty dusk
And roll like a gleaming husk.
I envy the moon so much,
But sometimes, I wonder…
“Does the moon envy me, too,
Because no matter
How plenty the stars are,
In the sky, next to him,
He still seems to be alone –
A misfit and an odd stone?”
Next page