I saw all the space
and every corner that would
be haunted by you.
This one goes to the real poets.
To those who decide to carry the world on their own.
To those who carry hell in their head and a graveyard of lost love stories in their heart
To the brave ones who fight darkness with darkness.
Tho those who the only answer they seek from a god is if there's eternal life for their loved ones, because they know there's no space for them in that paradise.
To those who know that suffering is the most humane feeling there is.
To those who loved and hated the wrong person.
This goes to Lorca isolated, hiding in a closet in New York.
To Unamuno craving to believe in something impossible.
To Quiroga drinking the poison of his sorrow at a hospital.
To Becquer and Espino for dying so young.
To Neruda for cheating on himself so many times.
To Machados' lost spirit.
To Marquez and his melancholic ******.
To Poe's tormented soul and his raven.
To Shakespeare and his Juliet.
To Dante and his story of woe.
This goes for the only beings who can live with a hell inside of them, and still manage to write heavenly things for those in need to read.
This one's for us.
I've ran my hands across the bones of teachers
Buried between the bricks of The Great Wall
I heard them whisper grumbles of their true worth
Beneath the crack of the overseer's whip
I've felt the shivers of their shame
As they ground the bones of their colleagues into a paste
And lathered the human mortar among the sections of rock
I spit on the ground before me
When I tasted the words of imperial edicts blasted from uniformed men
I stood upon a guard tower at The Great Wall of China
And saw in all directions the nothing for miles
Felt the hollow loneliness of the soldiers, teachers, slaves
Men thousands of miles from their homes
Bitterly building defenses for a collection of villages
One man called his nation
I ran my hand along the edge of The Wall and got a splinter
Studied the protrusion
Wondered if it was stone, dirt, stick, or bone
A tourist took a picture
A jogger ran by
Father told me they could see this monument from space
I saw a drop of blood on my little finger
Wondered if it was mine or the walls
A collection of poems by me is available on Amazon
Where She Left Me - Michael DeVoe
If what we write are just rambles,
why do these letters mean so much?
The way a child is mesmerized by hanging leaves
reminds me of the simplicity
of putting an arm around each other.
If I worry enough,
will my woes fade into twilight?
glass shatters as the words leave my lips
trembling I lay down one last time
and accept the fate of my actions
If I run fast can I escape
from a past that I wish would kiss my ***?
I'm a different person than that time,
and for each subsequent revelation,
I learn my life is but a line
I've forgotten the way your lips taste,
And the greatest hardship of all
Is waiting for a reminder
That isn't coming.
We are like
apart discrete isolated
and the only thing that we can bring each other back
is to eliminate the spaces in between.