Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 Mar 13 NAN
A Dead Poet
I stopped into a church
I prayed for him to go away
Everyday the sky is gray . . .
I cried , he looked at me & I died. . .
      "Please go away"
             "leave me alone"
                   "stop staring"
unanswered pleas down on my knees
                        I 𝕑𝕣𝕒π•ͺ
               but he never goes away
 Mar 4 NAN
A Dead Poet
Yes, I dream, I live, I wander afield
Β Β Β Β lost under starry sky's, interweaved in stormy sea
Lost in fascinations of a declining mind.

Yes, I dream- lost to past thoughts
Β Β Β Β I hold the stars, conquer the waves of my own mental damnation. . .  
& yet - from past memories there is no escape. . . past touch, past scents I FALL APART for, you set off this dream in me,
Β Β Β Β Β Β  but its a dream, that is all it will be
Β Β Β Β Β Β Β Β Β Β Β Β Β Β Β Β Β Β Β Β Β Β Β Β Β Β  -A Dream
 Feb 22 NAN
A Dead Poet
I can spend thousands of dollars and hours,
  only to look in the mirror,
    & notice everything I am not.
        - Ιͺ κœ°α΄€ΚŸΚŸ α΄€α΄˜α΄€Κ€α΄›
 Feb 22 NAN
A Dead Poet
"you can be anything"-mama said
       But I couldn't, I wanted to be his
            Death took him from me
                 -πšŒπš›πšžπšŽπš• πš’πš›πš˜πš—πš’
She was the anguish of nights spent
as sleep was to be desired only second
once dawn kissed their bare brazen skin
 Feb 21 NAN
A Dead Poet
Red, White , Blue and even purple too!
    The most sensational being,
                 on warm summer day.
                    Frigid, Cool and collected,
                         Beautiful until you melt
                  your insides show, molt and transform into a monstrosity
 Feb 21 NAN
A Dead Poet
Interweave my dreams in the wind,
       blind stars in my eyes,
             endless sensations on my soul,
                  enamored and enraptured in your sea
                      which beats upon my door
                           your sea which leaps into my frigid heart,
                                waves of unwanted passion,
                                     fear and pain play in the air,
                                         Emotions long lost,
                                               awakened once more,
                                                      you whisper "let me in"
                                                           my silence speaks volumes
                                                                    "free me"
 Feb 21 NAN
A Dead Poet
β€œwords don’t hurt.”
    They only build bridges to the most hidden isles of our being,
Bridges which illuminate our most hidden, self-hate, doubt and pain.
               & as our very being walks the hidden bridge,
                    They enrapture, take us down, into the dark abyss.
                         Pleading, begging, hurtful, angry words,
                              Pull us down, down, down, until we are submerged.
                                      Pointless words that entangle and drown you.
                                                   So, no they do not hurt,
                                                            They slowly α΄‹Ιͺʟʟ
 Feb 21 NAN
A Dead Poet
Give me your hand, give me your love.
Give me your hand, while we dance in purgatory.
An insignificant event, a moment in time.
Maybe five minutes, that is all we will be.

Qualm my steady heart in this dance together,
a simple reminder of each second that passes muffled by heartbeat,
While β€œour” song plays, β€œour” insignificant song.
Maybe three minutes long, that is all we are.

You gaze into my eyes, and I peer in your soul.
Our names become lost; they no longer matter.
For our love, song and dance are lost in time,
For that is all we were, two lovers, insignificant, lost to πŸ†ƒπŸ…ΈπŸ…ΌπŸ…΄
 Feb 21 NAN
A Dead Poet
His face obscure,
  but not hidden from your embrace,
     sweet unyielding radiant moon,
         I gaze upon your grace with jealousy,
               for I know upon your mirror,
                  he gazes in sweet reverie,
                       and the reflection he longs for,
                                is not me,
                                      but α•ΌIα—°
Next page