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 Nov 2017 SP Blackwell
Lior Gavra
The impatient soul awaits.
As crowds push towards the train.
He rushes to pass, can’t be late.
He looked at others, the insane.

He squeezed against and did shove.
They looked at him, silent grunts.
His angry mood, bared no love.
He was used to his way and wants.

One more push and catapults.
Into the air and did not fall.
He laughs at them, at their faults.
As he flies pass human walls.

Surprised, he got no attention.
He roared at them, till the last door.
His super power, that strengthened.
No longer waiting, he could soar.

Everyone looked to the left.
Train now expected delays.
Some tears were dropped as they wept.
A red end to someone’s day.

He flew back in that direction.
A sudden feeling, temptation.
There caught in the intersection.
His body, the impatient.
 Mar 2014 SP Blackwell
fdg
I have ripped myself apart in front of almost everyone I know
I have wiped my blood on dance floors
and spread it across the stage
and still they believe me when I say
it wasn't me who cut myself
(even with my habit of self-destruction)

it's so easy to look sad on stage
and so easy to act happy
no, but i really am happy. i just have my good nights and my bad nights. like everyone
Never fall in love with a poet
for their words are sometimes lies
on occasions they're a shield
on occasions a disguise

They will take you on a journey
upon which they bare their soul
in a bid to ease your burdens
in a bid to make you whole

But in every word they choose
for the stories that they tell
lies a little piece of heaven
and a little piece of hell

Tormented souls we poets are
sometimes quite broken and despaired
in search of lost expressions
missed by others who once cared

Never fall in love with a poet
unless you're prepared to share their pain
to hold them close on the darkest nights
over and again
Follow me on Twitter @athomashawkins
http://twitter.com/athomashawkins
I like you best when you're wrecked and gorgeous.

When your eyes are bright with excitement and half-lidded from drink.
When you're writing hot checks with all the words you'd never say otherwise.

I like you best when your cheeks are flushed and your bottom lip looks like I've just bitten it.

When the words that fall from it are fantastical and outlandish.
When you ask me things like "Will you be my post-apocalypse bride?!" and tell me with slurred and hurried speech that I have the best taste in music.

I like you best when it looks like touching your skin would burn the prints from my fingers.

When you introduce me to the people you call family with liquid pride and wildly exaggerated tales of my heroic deeds.
When I'm not just a nod of your shaggy locks and a tilt of your glass.

These are the times when I can forget the awful nagging voice in my head,
the one that says "Never, never, never"
Because everything about you is tinged with "It could happen any moment now."
When Mother's on the telephone
she tends to leave us
on our own.
Distractions she will not permit.
Her phone call has no end to it.
You fade...
Like a bruise.

Like the ones your mouth left on my neck and shoulders with its lustful pressure.
Your teeth, which brought moments of bright pain/pleasure,
Are now bared in an artificial, animal smile.

Your lips, which parted to ******* skin like it was salvation,
Barely part now to speak to me.
You whispered my name like a prayer.
You screamed it like a curse.
You sighed it in contentment,
And now you won't even speak it in passing.

Your hands, which half-playfully pulled my hair...
Now won't pause to brush it from my face.

All these parts of you,
None more telling than your eyes.
Those new windows, which once let me pry...
Now have blinds drawn tight behind them,
Leaving only a pretty, shiny reflection-
A passing, glancing imitation-
Of the passion they once held
When they beheld
Me.

No color left to them but the muddy colors of
Boredom,
And possibly mistrust.

You fade...
Like a bruise.
Like the one you left on my mind with your brilliant conversation
And beautiful, rusty prose.
Like the many you left on my tongue...
Which now can speak nothing but trite and meaningless words,
Which now can barely remember the shapes
Of all the shimmering, liquid phrases it spoke to you
That seemed so important at the time.

You fade...
Like a bruise.
Once lover and friend,
Now barely one
And never the other again.
I do not love you in the most common sense of the word.

I do not love you softly with doe eyes and tender kisses.
I do not love you bravely, for there is nothing brave in my actions or words to you.
I do not love you kindly or sweetly, gently or patiently, considerately or reservedly.

I love you like a storm was loosed on my entire being from my first glimpse of you.
I love you like a match loves to be struck, or like a nail loves a hammer.
I love you like a page loves being scarred by the ink of a pen,
and I love you like a pick loves being scraped across old strings over and over again.

I love you violently, and entirely. But, most of all, secretly.

I love you scorchingly and searingly, as if all the pretty words you've ever bestowed upon me were mere kindling.

I love you like an atom must love the universe, a thing by the grace of which it exists, but a thing also which it couldn't possibly ever grasp.

I love you behind my heart and behind my eyes, to shield such a vulnerable thing from the corrosion and harsh grinding of the world.

I love you brokenly, and bitterly, and for always, because I will not admit to loving you at all.

— The End —