Darren

Jun 2016

Samantha Wesley

oui

oui* is the most beautiful word-
it reminds me of us.
we are a temple
sacred creatures looking for love.
but is it love we seek?
what about love has such a sweet serenity to it?
the word itself flirts
with danger and pain.
why do we wish for love?
love itself is so complicated.
do we seek to be loved
or to be able to love another?
I have felt this only one time
that has been as powerful as myths.
unknowingly, you have granted this to me,
this unhidden lust for love.
although we remain mostly platonic,
there is a fire underneath, itching to be released.
every touch is a burn,
and the heat rises with a simple hug.
our bodies fit together perfectly,
as if they were made for each other.
teasing, touching, needing, loving;
you are like a drug I just can't quit.
when my honored eyes
are blessed to be cast upon you,
your perfect imperfections
and angelic self,
"two blushing pilgrims ready stand,"
always eager for a kiss.
I wish I had a chance
just one kiss.
I could prove myself to you,
how no one has ever loved somebody the way I love you.
although you are not mine,
at least, not yet
I await the day
I get to look at you and think that I have come
*home

ugh

Darren Jun 2016

Untitled

And the eaves weep like eyes
that have forgotten that behind
all those clouds still sits the sun,
what a burden to bear.

Though how similar are we to eaves:
do we not weep, do we not forget.
I for one have tasted that dish,
served by sorrow, flamed by hate.

How great is the burden to live,
when the sun itself has been forgotten,
what is recovery when the birds no longer
sing of the songs the poets named hope?

And of hope, I no little.
For most days it rains more than not,
but do I dare to name it a crucible?
Has it yet gotten that hot?

I wonder if maybe some things are
better made to be left behind,
if sometimes we are ******
to suffer to save those we love.

Darren May 2016

An account of fleeting love

And maybe I too love the dandelion,
As if it was not a ****,
As if it did not turn quickly to seed.

It may be a fleeting passion,
Like that of spring snow,
Like that of low tide.

And maybe rather, I love the bumblebee,
The one perched on the dandelion
The one trying to make a strong home.

Though this too says little,
For what is love if it cannot last?
For what is love if it cannot stay?

For winter will come and they will die,
Yet I endure with winter,
Yet I endure with memory.

Darren May 2016

Darkness Everlasting Reign

You listen for summer
as if it were a secret salvation
to awaken us from this slumber,
free us from overcoming desperation.

Yet our ******* is too strong,
our words cannot be undone.
We knew we did not belong
there is nothing left to become

Why then, should we not run?
What is left but hopeless pain?
Perhaps our damnation has already begun
Left to darkness everlasting reign.

Darren May 2016

Untitled

I no longer want to fight
against the pulsing dark.
I no longer want to flee
toward the membrance of warmth.

We use to be so happy
in our Sunday clothes.
We use to rejoice in the
pinpoint reflection of sun light.

Now ties become synonymous
to the hangman's noose.
Now sun only reminds us
of the things we left behind.

We weren’t made to be happy
the rose taught me this.
We weren’t made to thrive
you taught me this.

Darren May 2016

On letting things go

Because you are human
and she is beautiful in the same
way the ocean is beautiful when
it gives birth every morning to the sun,
you will want to save her.

Build an altar out of your body,
prepare yourself for sacrifice,
you learnt long ago it is better
to paint with your blood then hers,
this is what it means to love.

Though she will not christen the lamb,
this too will be a miracle, for you
know not how else to love
other than by cutting pieces away from
yourself and handing them over.

Do not mistake this practice for barbaric
It is truly the only way to love,
But know some are not worth the blood,
so bandage the glistening wound,
and let her go like the ocean does to the sun.

Darren May 2016

Ode to the things I left behind

When I was nine years old
The stars were countable,
I kissed each one with the
tip of my finger, not for long,
but just enough to know
they were still there.

By thirteen my cheeks turned
red everytime she held
my hand like it was something
worthy of possessing.
Somedays I still remember
the pain of her letting go.

At sixteen, I found God in the
very same place I left him,
somewhere between the place
I was going, to the place
I already been, maybe that
was enough to save me.

I am now almost twenty years old
and my fingers no longer count stars
and my hands have forgotten
how to hold another and
on the good days, God is still here,
on the bad I listen quietly.

For the most part, though,
I have left those things behind,
not because I no longer want them,
but because right now I am trying
to stay alive and I am afraid
I can no longer do both.