You never asked to read the poem
I wrote about you.

And part of me knew—
what we had was too good to be true.

But was it ever really good at all?
Or just limerence,
mistaken in the fall?

Here I am again, writing—
under the willows, I weep.

Here I am again, mourning—
what I was never to keep.

We all wanted a love like in the movies—
pouring, fateful rain,
a drenched dress,
a hungry and sloppy
long awaited kiss,
a passionately late love confession,
desperate hands grasping
at each others faces.

The slow burning flame
that is called limerence—
a spring fling,
a "puppy love",
fleeting emotions—
heaven-struck in lust.

Borrowed time
and stolen dances,
whispered promises in
entrancing glances—
we called it forever,
only to call it in ignorance,
what once felt infinite
was smothered in an instance.

I rhyme to pass time;
for no particular reason,
just my own personal pleasing.

You one time told me that
I only exist because you let me.

That sentence—
It felt like bullets grazing past my skin.
I wasn't shocked, yet—
it still chips at my peace of mind.

If we're speaking in terms of technicality,
that is true—
I only exist because
you,
let me.

I can see your resemblance in the
mountains and valleys
of the pores on my face,
but,

I do not exist completely.

I am faltered.
I am stagnant.
I have been a-strayed,
from my body.

I am atom against atom,
pummeling in the world.

The altar rests in ruin—
no longer refined in worship.

Knees painted blue,  
sweat reeks of sin,
calloused hands reign regret,
prayers sang in vain.

Guilt masked as pride,
envy veiled as praise,
lust whispered as love,
as purity slips in sage.

But the altar remains forgiving—
of all those who are misled,
for they weep at the stone steps,
of a temple once embedded.

The altar rests in ruin—
no longer refined in worship,
still exuding grace—
accepting all those,
lost, and seeking blind faith.

Worship me—
soothe me tenderly,
fall to your knees,
to feast on me reverently.

Unsheathe and release,
while my divine fruit
drips fertility,
oh,
so heavenly.

Like nectar—
liquid silk spills,
legs twisted together,
and hushed playful yells.

Unveil me—
feel my energy,
open your eyes to see,
grace my purity,
and nurture—
but don't flee.

I am not just a body—
but a memory,
the sweetest plea,
a spell of ecstasy,
fall into my sea,
worship me—
and I will gift thee.

I would trade every pound of silver and gold,
if it meant I could relish in you,
even just an ounce of your love,
for I have no greater jewel than your touch.

I would give up every muse in my art,
if it meant I could paint one last memory,
every word frothing at my mouth,
for I have no ink left in this quill.

I would barter every bone in my body,
if it meant I could kneel at your door,
unable to keep myself up,
for I am a shell emptied of all foundation.

I would walk away from the Garden of Eden,
just to spend my mornings under your gaze,
daring to bite the apple from the tree,
for there is no greater loss,
than never having taken the risk at all.

I say I don't care,
and I continue my days.
I say I don't care—
but I still search for your gaze.

I say "I don't care!"
and smile for my friends,
but the moment I turn—
my heart quietly descends.

I say I don't care,
and try to feel whole,
I say I don't care—
but I remain hopeful.

I say I don't care,
and that it doesn't matter,
I say I don't care—
yet I still set my heart on the platter.

I say I don't care,
but I urge to give you my all,
I say I don't care—
while I helplessly fall.

It starts like a low tide—
subtle,
pretty, even.

But inch by inch,
the dark creeps in
til' suddenly—
dusk hits.

The tide becomes a tidal wave,
and all at once,
the darkness slams you into a haze.

You have no choice but to succumb,
the voices tell you there's no other option,
while staring down the barrel of a gun—
that this is all you have left.
So you drown in your sorrow
leaving behind all regret.

I think a lot about the man
who drove off the Virginia pier
last year.

He sped through the gates—
a very public space,
he followed his fear,
and created his own fate.

Yet at the very edge,
he still hit the brakes.

All the rage
of his pain,
as his regret
seeped in,
he had realized
he met his end.

I feel for him,
I wept watching the news,
I feel for him,
part of me wished,
I was in his shoes.

Is it insensitive of me
to say
I wish I could
trade?

The small indicators of life;

hidden in the mist,
benevolence—
as seen in the
messy
fingerprints.

Giggles unveiled,
in a momentary glance—
as the glass is fogged,
a smile,
is caught by chance.

A small indicator of life;
minuscule,
if you will,
but even still—
love is found,
in corner-seat windowsills!

They say that when you die
Your life flashes before your eyes
I think parts of me die every few days

The suffocating agony
of my childlike innocence
The oblivion and sincerity
of little white lies I told as a child

It all flashes before my eyes every few days

Blurred monochrome memories
Screaming and crying, laughter and joy
Scraping my knees with muddied hands

Siblings watching in silence
for they knew to not speak
As I climbed the ladder of our bunk bed
Trying to escape the unrelenting lashes

Begging God to be let go
Seeking blind faith

It all flashes before my eyes every few days

Love derived from pain:

I can't help but stare—
my doe eyes
adoring the hunger
in your gaze.

Power so paralyzing,
like predator to prey,
a crave for the chase,
teasing ritualistic dance,
this doe—
stood no chance.

Lips hot as fire;
lust inevitably sparks—
aching, burning,
desire.

Your hands grace my hips,
as you feast on savory seed,
salvation relieved in sin—
a seraphic altar,
of temptation and greed.

Branded in black and blue—
kisses bloomed to bites,
a noose of love is lassoed,
as red stained all,
that was white.

Whispers of prayer,
echoed by pleas,
screams of vain,
harmonized in matrimony.

Love derived from pain;

Like predator to prey,
holiness unravels
a stifled amen,
forever faithful—
kneeled to praise,
as love is derived from pain.

Tears of joy:

Saying goodmorning to two strangers.
On a path you followed—
when you didn't know where else to go.

A path you pondered
your inevitable end.

Profoundly finding love in the breeze,
and purpose in the birds songs.

Seeing grief in the trees,
and loss in the empty benches

Hope calling in the bare winter branches,
and slivers of life—
screaming,
in the slow ponds.

Sighs of relief,
laughter that feels like home.

A pep, in your step!

Saying goodmorning to two strangers;
With truth—
And tears, that felt like joy.

A poet who has lost her reason to rhyme
forgets: there is no truth another can define.
And time is tried—
yet chains on the soul are never refined,
for they are fortified in the minds eye;
the songs of the soul cannot be confined.

A lie—
to unwind and untie,
to simply pass by—
to try and retry
to reign high
and ascend to the sky
leaving behind
what has already died.

The delicacy,
that is a woman.

Soft as silk,
sweet like red wine,
tastes of fruitful fertility—
a dish so rare.

She was always the poet,
but never the poem—
left aching to be unveiled,
forever waiting in the unknown.

She yearns to be a muse,
the subject of every scribe,
inked into love letters,
inspiring a guitar's stride.

But they touched her like plastic
on golden chocolate—
cast her off like *******,
forgotten and discarded.

He is a fragile man,
who staggers,
lost in lackluster,
he bears a child's dignity—
still stuck in sonder.

He dares to whisper
intimate—
white lies,
to beautiful girls,
with loving,
doe-eyes.

He carries a sad love,
deep,
and chaste,
his curious
pale eyes,
reaped of faith—
as color fades away,
raining regret,
still he wonders why—

"do I lose
every love I've met?"

Let me soothe you,
you gentle—
carnage,
of a shell.

Cocoon you,
and coddle you,
never bid you farewell.

I will wrap silk around your sorrows,
nurturing prosperity,
I will sing you my lullabies
of maternal eternity,
bear you my fertility,
my youth seeping in
scarcity and purity,
all lovingly,
in divine femininity.

I would rip out all my roots
and replant and re-bloom
just to be deflowered
if it meant I would be picked by you

The marks and
linings on my skin—
like bark
on a tree.

The roots are dry,
and the branches sigh in the wind—
the tree is tired

But there's still spikes of green,
decorating the withered branches,
and freckles of pink
begging to blossom.

And if I knew how you loved me so,
I'd let you carve our initials.

We spoke in different languages
when communicating our love—
a forsaken conversation,
for it lacked comprehension.

You could never understand
my monologues of love—
words I choked on for you,
gasping for air,
with hands clasped,
chanting a faithless prayer.

You craved my mesmerizing harmonies,
while gazing at the curves of my lips,
mapping the valleys of my skin,
tracing the path to my fruit,
ripe and lush,
the purity I guarded—
desperate and seldom.

My mortal self—
transcendent,
and ungodly,
all at once.

You wanted my sacred gifts
and I wanted to give you my world.

The existential weight of the world
rests heavy on my shoulders.
I've worn myself down to the bone,
and found peace in grief that smolders.

I eat enough to carve a name from within,
but never enough to keep afloat.
I'm trapped in a cave—
with an opening so thin,
I'd starve myself to death,
just to see the light at the end.

I seek love in the morning sun
and strip myself of joy in the hollow night.
I'm a liar and a hypocrite—
for I tell beautiful lies,
mesmerizing those who seek faith,
while I pray each night,
to meet a peaceful fate.

I walk in sonder,
blowing kisses to babies,
smiling to strangers—
always stopping to smell the daisies.

I almost cry, passing forgotten souls,
many names faded on headstones.
And still I ponder:
if I were to let go,
could I ever atone?

would they all scream my name,
when my soul is laid into a grave—
a name carved in vain,
as the dirt buries a bird—
a bird who no longer sang,
for all the harmonies lost their way;
in a haze,
in a maze,
in a daze,
in a craze,
caged,
de-feathered and of age,
a crave for the wastes,
with clipped wings and covered in sage—
a prayer was sang to weep its wage,
for the bird never was thanked,
despite all its duty and all its grace,
a messenger never asked,
what would you like to say?

Everything you've been doing,
has been done in haste;
and so, you've slowed your pace.

Now everyday feels a waste—
but how can you waste a dream
you've yet to chase?

So clean up your space.
Accept what you cannot change.
Take your foot out of the grave—
your path can still be paved,
look yourself in the face,
make space for external grace,
and trust: all will be okay.

Although I am seen
for beauty and grace—
the soft curve of a smile
and shimmering pearls.

I wonder, do you see my eyes?
How they glisten
at the sight of bare trees—
birds nests strung like ornaments
along winter branches.

Do you read my mind?
Dare to trace the unending delicate threads
of intimate thoughts I spin—
and how I quietly, carefully
weave love.

Can you feel me?  
Do you hear my echos of desire,
pleading to be noticed,
aching to be heard—
my tune yearning to harmonize?

A crow mourns at the stump
of the memorial tree.

A past life—
a spirit reincarnate,
a love tethered,
a body,
caged—
dammed in feathers.

A crow mourns at the stump
of the memorial tree.

Souls tied,
one unearthed,
tears slipping in flight—
a forsaken rebirth.

Hey, Suzy K.
I heard we're in the same math class,
were you ever good?
I was always a hack.

Hey, Suzy K.
Did you do the assignment?
Could I copy some of your answers?
I promise the teacher wouldn't mind it.

Hey, Suzy K.
I really like your hair—
it sits nicely on your fine shoulders,
and it's quite beautifully rare.

Hey, Suzy K.
Would you like to go the dance?
We could make quite the pair,
so would you give me a chance?

Hey, Suzy K.
I'd like to make you mine;
I know we're still young,
but I don't want to waste any time.

Hey, Suzy K.
I'd like to take you out to dine—
I promise it'll be worthwhile,
and I'll have you back no later than 9.

Hey, Suzy K.
That was really quite the kiss,
I'm glad you could be my first,
certainly not a miss.

Hey, Suzy K.
I guess it was a puppy love,
just high-school sweethearts,
never meant to make it past the clubs.

Hey, Suzy K.
I heard you're going away,
to study the marine life.
I'll be here if you need a place to stay.

Hey, Suzy K.
Do you remember our first kiss?
Gosh, all this time has passed,
and still, you're quite the misses.

Hey, Suzy K.
I got married this past spring,
we're expecting by the fall,
I even gave her the ruby ring.

Hey, Suzy K.
I heard our kids are in math together—
could you believe the coincidence?
Maybe they'll be tighter than ever!

Hey, Suzy K.
I heard about your husband.
I'm sorry for your loss—
let me know if you need a friend.

Hey, Suzy K.
Thanks for the pie;
it's been a hard loss to grieve,
but you make me feel fine.

Hey, Suzy K.
Can you believe all this time?
We've both got gray hair,
and we've been aging like wine.

Hey, Suzy K.
I've got nurses changing bags of *****;
they say my memory is slipping away—
maybe you can stop in before I go to the loony bin.

Hey, Suzy K.
I really miss my wife,
could you stay for a while longer?
It's really been a miserable life.

Hey, Suzy K.
Do you remember our first kiss?
I can't exactly place it,
I just remember it was bliss.

Hey, Suzy.
It's hard to see in this sterile light,
is it just me,
or is that my wife?

He is gentle and he is kind,
a golden boy—
he was like light,
refreshingly coy.

When he smiled,
it was seductively innocent.
He was everything,
for a while.
But—
he was never magnificent.

He never illuminated
like morning rays.
But in misted evenings,
he led you in a haze,
reeled you in at night,
and held you in his grace.
But—
he never,
kept you in one place.

He was cunningly alluring,
like the mystery
of the dawn.
But when the moment
is undone,
you realize—
he was never the sun.

"The sun came out just for you,"
he said.
And all the sweet nothings
of early Spring
heals all the grief
of Winters dread

I'm pretty sure everything I say
is just a quiet cry for help.
I express my joy, a smile on my face—
but if you read between the lines,
you'll see me melt.

I mask my pity in beautiful words,
my word *****—
strung into sonnets,
and called art.

I beg them to read,
to open their eyes and see,

to hear at my pleas—
look at me, and weep.

But I'm a pathetic poet,
I yearn to be understood.
Yet, they only read my work,
and call it good.

Are you at peace?
Is it beautiful where you are?
Can you still see me?
Can you hear me?
Did you read my letters?
Are you reading this one now?
Do you regret it?
Did it hurt?
Did you hear me cry?
Did you see me step on the chair?
Did you tell me to get off?
Did you save my life,
even when I couldn't save yours?

Is it selfish of me
to seek the serenity of eternal sleep?
To ruin you is to soothe me,
to surrender is to find peace.
But to protect you
is to forever digress.
How could we ever agree?

Live to love life
Love to fall in love
And embrace the mundanity
of it all

I feel like a tree
has rooted itself
under the foundation of our love,
and it is pushing away our home.

She found herself running—
and she doesn't know why,
the mirror made it all seem so far away,
as the reflection was inching closer,
she found herself running—
and it was from her own picture.
Early morning reflections,
while staring into my own eyes;
running to no avail,
as your feet can't walk in a straight line;
running for no reason,
as you lose track of time;
running to self-soothe—
as your words effortlessly rhyme;
running,
because you won't delve into your mind;
running,
because you're scared of what will happen
if you left it all behind.

Driving a car,
a car that isn't mine,
taking it afar,
down highway 99,
driving a car,
and I could swerve at anytime,
I wonder what would happen
if I took it off to the side—
parked on a lookout,
considering the view down,
but the car isn't mine,
so I buckled my seatbelt
and continued into town.

It's all getting so dark again,
and I find solace in a dimly lit phone—
a rectangle emitting light in my shadows,
a keyboard where my fingers clash,
as I'm anxious and desperate
to articulate how I feel,
to put it into words for people to read,
wondering if people can see me.

You.
Do you see me?
Do you hear me?
Do you feel me?

Is anyone out there,
who can feel how I feel?
Who sees me—
in all my ruin,
all my grace,
all my love,
It's all so dark again.

And I'm so tired.
And I'm holding onto the hope
that someone,
anyone,
can see me.

We were like two ships;
passing in the night—
except,
we weren't passing each other at all,
we were circling each other,
over,
and over—
swept into a whirlpool,
strung along for a relentless cycle,
until we reached the pit,
and we sank to the bottom,
forgotten,
as if the ships never set sail.