here's to your flower language,
blooming magic.

you spoke into existence
a session of radiance
and erasure of a monochrome season,
a darling serenade of stars
and gave life a reason.

but forgive me,
for the words of your flower language
do not rest on my tongue as
they lay on yours.

you spoke commas,
when I prepared a full stop.

I am sorry.

someone will learn
your flower language,
blooming magic.

Theres no cure for heartache
but there is always *****
and poor judgement
and my stupidity has no boundaries

so let me drink until tomorrow
is nothing but sorrow and regret
and love ain’t nothin
but a poorly written poem
on the napkin I wrote a fake number
for the girl whose name
I can’t remember
but can still smell
on the sheets we stained
as I was trying to forget
who your are

I should have known
I wouldn’t find anything
but the hangover of disappointment
from this kind of love
the kind that only burns in the heart
but never touched by the hand

theres no cure for heartache
and its always going to burn
it won’t matter how many names
I can’t remember
or how ***** the sheets get
when I can’t forget
who you are

It's just a short hop to the bus stop
and so I'm taking my time to make
up a rhyme,
mine is the long drop which is fine
if you have a head for heights,
watching lights flash before my eyes,

I must cash in on the sunrise
catch a few rays
make the most of what's left of
what's left of the ghost
of my
days.

bringing me back to the short hop
the be all and end all at
the last stop,
somewhere
around
every corner.

As I lie here
With eyes closed softly
I think deeply of you
And I inhale stars
The scent of twinkling light
So fresh and alive
Sparkling gentle inside me
And I want to write this feeling
So tentatively
As it must be
Like writing words on bubbles
Delicate and precious
Begging them not to disappear
Like dreams in the morning

                                        By Phil Roberts

This is not a love poem
this is an I love you do you love me like
I love you poem
do you know me like
you think you do poem
this is a would you be disappointed
if you did poem
an I have been feeling the chilling of the air
and I cant tell if it is just the fault of the season
or if you, too, are cooling
whatever heat you had for me
browning and falling and
crumbling between my fingers
like the leaves of these oak trees
in november poem
a what would I need to do to keep us warm poem
and this is also
an I may be completely mistaken poem
an it was seventy degrees today poem
this is a show me I am completely mistaken poem

our phones draw these strange lines late at night
connecting adjacent moons
stringing us together
across cities, towns, lakes, hills
and we tie the bows with our lips
weave the ends in our tongues
taste every city
we can remember

you feel so kindred
so close to me
that when i hang up
i half look for you
in the room
before i catch myself

my feelings are fledgling.
(or i like to say they are)
the truth is, they are very much there
but i'm unsure of their exact nature
concerned that i am unable to experience love anymore
personally
it's like a flavor
i've run out of
and some sort of bad tasting, weak trickle
pours from my lips
to yours
clinging
to these strange lines

i hope
it is not
true

I was told not to look for healing on the bottom of ***** bottles. That I am too young to be broken. Because I am too young to drink. No one ever said don't swallow the pills, no one ever told me that I won't find healing at the bottom of the orange bottle. No one said don't take the pain killers. Because no one's ever too young to be in pain. And I'm just trying to **** the pain. But it's hard when you realize the pain is part of you, so to end the pain you have to end yourself.