Twisted sheets, mind on stutter
Unable to sort through this midnight clutter
Put it away for tomorrow
But what to do with my gnawing sorrow?
I circle soft blue on color book pages
Hoping the repetition eventually assuages
The raw edged reality of lonely dark hours
Filling the void with Crayola flowers
i stand as close as humanly possible
to the fire for my a c h i n g b o n e s
but no one will be warm enough
not for the lava you made creep down
my cheeks and they
course through my body like wildfire
and i, a decaying forest.
i try my best to be as useful to the soil as physically possible for dead matter.
I'm not a Poet
Just a wannabe.
Write poetry about your hair?" He said
"But I don't really care..." He said
you know, the sun
died and you look
silver in the
m o o n l i g h t
I'm grateful for
Your sweet kisses I find in the dark
For the consistency of your inhale
I yearn for
The future and what it holds with you
For the idea of eternal consistency
About the sky and the stars and how two beings such as You and I were lucky enough to stumble upon the other.
My safe house, the sea, and the unknown.
That every phrase that I think of for you is the classic cliche
Are nothing of normal and for that
I am grateful.