And the person who loves me
Also really hates me

Rolling over with desire
Lay neath the fuchsia petals

Morning sun sets ablaze
Your cinnamon hair let down

He wonders how ? that ,
That perfect porcelain face caged  him ?
When he has painted it

The fragrance he can't sense
Becomes his captor .

He stroked those almond eyes
With the dark of the night

She lay in his picture , his muse
Like aphrodite herself came alive on his canvas

Wishing he could just lay there
He curses saying ....
He's just an artist and he'll find another muse !

I sit within these walls,
Darkness swallowing us whole
The night invading the room
Making this world feel microscopic

Moonlight trickles in through the curtains
The ceiling fan spinning on high
And memories are flooding my brain
Fleeting moments I can't deny existed

A pain breaking it's way back into my mind
A sadness that brings me down sinking me under
The unfortunate second that I become aware
Of every broken piece of you and me

Left inside of this outer shell of a human body
Yet the only thing I know is....
This is a night for poetry

I love the number three
In all its numerology.
The universe,
Yes, every atom
Builds paragons,
With protons and
ons and ons...
Three illustrates our progression
As the sum of all before.
Our music finds accord
When three notes
Blend to chord.
Love and all we deem
Of worth,
Is here,
Third planet,
Earth,
Where life gives birth
To you and I and us,
Dependant on
Animal, ore and vegetation
To ensure regeneration.
We grew, grow and nurture
In past, present and future.
Our words, thoughts and deeds
Are civilization's seeds
For a wholesome, safe and peaceful life
With Faith, Hope and Charity.
My favourite three priorities:
Andrea, Maggie and Kathleen.
Now,
With the birth of Aine,
I'm in love with four.

Come and gone, the calm
but the storm is far from over
it lingers in the what-ifs, and taunts
us from the fringes of maybe

This storm, will eventually pass
and the memories of love gone
reborn as odes and psalms
birthing life, from their flowering decay

The poet's capacity to love, rivalled only
by their ability to suffer, but
what a beautiful misery it is! as it lies in wait
for the moment it will flood from pen to page

Laughter and sonnets, will perch on sated lips
after sadness has run its course
and for awhile, all will be well again  
leaving poets to ponder love's mysteries

How ironic it is!
the way lovers leave, repelled
by their hatred of the very thing
that once drew them near

You see, poets are like paintings
beautiful from afar, we are
but flawed strokes on cracked canvas
the closer you come

Yet still, there is beauty in our flawed and fragile array

We are the words within our poetry, but
we are so much more than sweetened syllables
we are everything you wanted once, and you
**never even made it past our cover

So many strange coincidences
So frequently
That I almost believe
They are not coincidences
At all.

To find true strength
One feels they must look everywhere
But don't look in other people
This will not work, I swear
Look in your own soul
And tell me what you've found
You've found the strength you really need
There is no need to look around

The strength within is the greatest out there
It can lift a hurting person
And heal a broken heart
Lead someone to a new decision
Unite the pieces of a person falling apart

This strength is not found on the outside
But on the inside, where it counts
In the heart and in the mind
It can help you find peace
If it is what you wish to find

We search for this thing,
Beautiful and true,
Who knows if you'll find it,
It may not belong to you,
If you're lucky to have it,
Keep it close to your heart,
And pray to God life won't tear you apart.
This thing is called true love,
But does it exist?
Is it real?
It could be a myth.
We fantasize about this thing,
But maybe it only belongs in dreams

I've sat down to write so many times
This poem in hand with blacked out lines

Not quite knowing what to say
I change my mind and then erase

I desire to tell you how I feel
Not knowing how it is you'll deal

With what's welling deep inside of me
And how rhyming it out I feel the need

As I sit alone and contemplate
What I don't black out and can't erase

I pour my heart without a care
This poem you hold that's soaked in tears

Perhaps this poem you'll never read
If I do not post for you to see

But if I do please believe
All in all it's you I need

Yesterday I wrote a note
On a tiny piece of white paper
It read this: ‘I love you’
Then I went outside
And pinned it with a clothespin
On the clothesline
© SilentCry