All my paths are serpentines
That lead around in circles.
My destination is so far
I cannot see it in the haze
That eddies in my vision.

I planted hollyhocks and marigolds
In the garden of my dreams.
I had no way to water them;
They withered in the Summer sun.

I haven’t any more to lose.
I’ve given everything I have.
There’s nothing left but hopelessness
And waiting for the final end.
ljm

Have you ever always been surrounded but felt alone,
Have you ever had a heart that just felt like stone,
When you get up in the morning it ways you down,
Every color in your life fades to grey, black, or brown,
No matter how many people try to help the hope is lost,
The world feels cold like my heart is covered in frost,
But my face melts as the tears roll down thinking about you,
But our 1 + 1 will never again make 2.

I thought only of blue,
filling you,
percolating through all the tiny capillaries
of your lungs and settling in your chest cavity.
Then a rush of orange,
red,
and just the smallest intonation of indigo.
My fingers pursued the skin behind your ears,
virginal as it is,
and with it, the melody of your texture.
Your nails,
not yet the soft pads of your hands,
inquire,
simultaneously,
the fabric of my skirt.
Mutual occupation of space unearthed necessarily
And then parting.
Necessarily.

My form no longer belongs beneath your sheets, for the dark-haired girl with loud eyes and a quiet aptitude sleeps in my somnolent indentation.
Speak to me, Fair dreamer of immolation and dust, tell me the perils of your personhood, the power of your relentless humanity.
Speak to me, Quiet consumer of gasoline and smoke, teach me the solitude of obsession and the anger of precious feeling.
For while she sleeps, contemplating rapacious consumption of your splanchnic soul, you feel nothing but love,
as love lasts.

Sometimes, I feel
that the modern world
has traded love, for clarity...

has traded flowery gardens,
for deserts.
has traded stars,
for a picture of stars.
has traded dance and songs,
for analysis.
has traded ecstasy,
for mere control.
has traded heart,
for mind.

has traded life,
for death...

© Manan sheel.

What a waste it is—
to be human
and be contained.

Thats the thing about poetry,
you think im talking about a
broken heart,
when really,
Im talking about a broken
world.