Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Mose Nov 2020
I try not to define myself.
Spoken in a way that my story hasn’t already been written.
The hope that my story is not in existence before me.
That there’s still time to catch the beginning between two crisp pages.
Fresh ink that still smears off the edges.
Tearing out the pages until I get it right.
A story re-written so many times I am unsure of how it ends.
Mose Nov 2020
If my body could speak…
It would say love me.
Love me like the frivolous men you chase endlessly.
Love my curves as you do the backroads winding.
Love me like a song you put on repeat.  
Love my scars as you do thunder chasing lightning.
Love me like the willow trees you hide beneath.
Love my crooked teeth as you do kintsugi.
Love me like the silent streets painted in moonlight.
Love my eyes like the ocean you are weightless in.
Love me like a silent disco that ends with sunrise.
Love my lips as etches of the sky tracing the clouds.
Love me like tomorrow was to never arrive.
Love my impermeant nature like a shooting star.
Love me…
Love my…
Love me…
My body would say love.
Mose Nov 2020
I see the cracks between you & I.
The struggles of power.
A taste of control.
Dreams of a better life seeping through.
Bleeding colors of red and blue.
A rainbow painted in only two colors.
Mose Nov 2020
My streets lay paved of broken dreams.
The corn fields they whisper, “Please, come back home.”
The city lights have swallowed all my stars.
A belly of hopes buried in the night sky.
Cemetery of secrets naked to the eye.
Mose Oct 2020
Always a but hanging off the sentence like a cliffs edge.
Here we are standing.
Eyes wide open.
Palms out to the sky.
Ready to fall into the end as if it was beginning.
Mose Oct 2020
I ask you what is left to pour besides sand from the everlasting cup?
Desert cracks to remind you of what life use to thrive.
The pieces of you and me.
All that remains is the dust that accumulates.
The ashes of who we use to be.
Mose Oct 2020
It should have felt like utter ecstasy that final feeling of relief.
My soul being quenched after lifetimes of reincarnation.
Seemingly though never quite reaching Moksha.
Just as a desert always kisses the mirage of water but never tastes it.
The solace of peace that I craved.
My finger still lingers over the send button.
Call it trigger happy, but this is sadness with a nose.
Running after people trying to prove something.
Trying to confirm that I was something worth missing.
Someone worth loving.
Bending backwards like a contortionist.
Doing whatever appeases to be loved even if it was me being sacrificed.
The gods were no crueler than I was to myself.
I was a lamb in a lion’s den.
Crawling under the feet of those who never served me.
A wanderer lost in the desolate space between her mind and heart.
Logic doesn’t speak love into the life that is absent.
I see a hand reaching back the feeling of utter relief.
My soul being quenched after lifetimes of reincarnation.
Seemingly though never quite reaching moksha.
Next page