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NAN Feb 22
I feel. . .
  The cool autumn breeze.

I hear. . .
  The swaying of thunderous palm tree's.

I smell. . .
  Cheap fields of flowers from your perfume.

I taste. . .
  The bittersweet ocean that mocks me.

I am. . .
   waiting
      -▌│█║▌║▌║ Ⓐ𝕃ⓞ𝔫€ ║▌║▌║█│▌
I am a hungry poet named Nan.
NAN Feb 22
You are a vision of ecstasy, unobtainable divinity.
       Beauty so bright, it mocks the universe.

Cosmic light so blinding, unbelievable sight.
    Beauty so fabricated, I must be asleep.

Held out my hand, love at first sight.
    There is no warmth, only silence.
         -g̶o̶o̶d̶b̶y̶e̶
I am a lonely poet named Nan.
NAN Feb 21
We write about heartbreak, a state of depression.
      each stroke, each page turning.

We write about happiness, a state of delusion
      as if artistry could erase, human desire.

Nonetheless,
  we suffer and lie to mask the words.
           - " I love you"
A poet humbly named Nan
NAN Feb 21
Each poem is a window into your past, present and something more.
    Rays of honey pour from your pen,
       Words of Stars that thrill and enamor sensibility,
          The moon which radiates off your poetic sea,
                 creative, unending and raging,
                       like the words that radiate through every cell,
                           from the sound of your little caged birds.
                                   My sweet poetic friend.
NAN Dec 2020
Writing of Alfonsina Storni in a modern age,
    a reminder of sweet may morning,
           cafe con leche  in the air,
               a tepid wistfulness,
                    such sweet,
whimsical beauty.
NAN Dec 2020
In a perfect evening,
  blossoms sorrow.
    a feeling innate,
        to a soul so broken.
           peering upon your waxy eyelids,
                I squeezed treacherously,
                       a reminder of pain,
                             inflicted on me,
                                  cruel fate,
                                         the
                                     monster
                                          became
                                                me
  Dec 2020 NAN
A Dead Poet
Yellow flowers of 𝐜𝐞𝐦𝐩𝐚𝐬𝐮𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐥,
  we mourn and come upon their pupils,
      under the many colors of papal picado,
        endless rainbow of sweet emotion,
                a distant reminder of what past,
                         what is gone,
                               & what is eternal
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