i am empty

empty

not blank

not poem-less sheet of notebook paper empty

not missing

not one missing sock from an eight year old's favourite striped pair empty

i am empty

like the space in the glass box where an exhibition in the museum of broken hearts used to be


so

empty

beware when you fall in love
with an artist
be it a painter, a singer, or poet

for the artist will
paint you
with strokes and hues
in shapes of every kind

sing about you
with heartbreak lyrics
and feelings which rhyme

write about you
with the simplest words
and a secret message she wants to say

beware of the artist,
and her love
one wrong move
and you're an artwork in her display

There's something Beauty does to me.
It holds my heart and makes me cry.

The sun adorns the pale blue cheek,
The clouds blossom on either side,
Falling slowly.
           Breathing deeply.
And somewhere out there,
I am lost in the sky.

I swim in verdancy on my back; let the greyness wash my face
Atop the top of the toppest valley

Only half of me is here; I am only half here
Inhale, Exhale

I Take in the masterpiece above me; branches intertwining
People could learn from the trees

On my left I have Nothing; Nothing sticks around
Until he grew restless and took the path on my right

As my lids fall in tire; the Earth embraces me in sweet arms
Lying in my bed of worries

The wind so tender, so dear, kneels down to meet my cheek
And the leaves mutter in joy

When Nothing goes right; I find solace in trees
Let myself drown in the shade of natural love.

And patiently I wait for the sun to wake up
to illuminate the masterpiece

Don't ever fall in love with a poet
because they will indeed admire and watch your every move
they will write about how the pen marks on the side of your palm when you write
don't ever because they will trace
every single freckle you have on your face and
write about the color of each and every one of them and
describe how they smile so brightly under the sunlight
they will want you to want to know every little thing about them
even if it's just what hand they write with and want you
to be wondering why they write with that specific hand when in
reality it doesn't even matter

the poet will watch the way you dig
your eyes onto that book and your small quick remarks onto the 26 letters all crumpled together and will know that everyday at 5:28 p.m. you smile

they will look deeply into your eyes
to see if they can at least take a little
peak of your soul and they will write
about you like if you were the only
thing they see good in this world

they will want to know what you think
about when you look at them and
see if you also count each and
every freckle and hope and write  
that you do but they will
love you endlessly and they will
show you that they love you and only you

but don't date a poet if you aren't
capable to watch them and
admire their imperfections
when they sleep late at night
beside you.

j.f

The unpredictable hour of ebony arrives.
No choice have I but to sustain my absence from my affairs
Till the vastly capricious moment of inconvenience fades.

you were a beautiful symphony played by a million heartbreaks