Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
You looked at me like I was the world
And you were just truly seeing it
For the first time.
And after that look I knew
I would spend the rest of my life
Searching for someone who could
Make me feel that way again.
The biggest mistake you can make is thinking romantic love is the only type that hurts. Because a friend's judgmental looks can feel like a stab in the gut, a parent's disapproval could make you feel worthless, and a siblings backhanded compliment can feel like a smack in the face. No matter what kind of love it is, you open yourself up to that person. And as with any kind of love, it is those people who can hurt you the most. Loving people is exhausting. And loosing friends you once loved can hurt more than anything else in the world.
Elyse Lee Nov 2014
What is Love? Love is October, yes the season fall is what defines Love.. I miss you. I really miss the fall with you, and oh how I miss how your nose turns red when it gets chilly out and how your face turns so pale and you can see all the aspects of your eyes, how your lips get chapped at the end of the year, and how when you hold my hand in the cold, I miss how your hand fits right into mine and how your numb fingertips lingered around my hand so softly.. i miss you pulling me close to stay warm, oh how I miss sitting on the front porch in your rocking chairs, and taking you under that one big tree at your old house on Halloween Night and kissing you softly.. I miss the smell of your hair when you haven't washed it, the way you bite your fingernails. Everything good happens in the fall, i guess that why i latched onto you in September of 2008, because you're my one and only soul mate.
  Nov 2014 Elyse Lee
unwritten
she was a poet,
and he was her pen.
in him,
she always found words to write,
songs to sing,
thoughts to think.

he'd smile,
and kiss her softly,
and say,
"write me a poem."

and she would.
she'd put poe,
and whitman,
and shakespeare to shame,
and she'd write a poem that made his eyes water.

she'd compare him
to a rose with no thorns,
a book with no end,
a world with no poverty --
the things we all wish for,
but can never attain.

//

he asked her one day,
"what am i?"
and so she picked up her pen,
and began the usual:
you are the shining sun after a hurricane,
with rays that open the eyes of the blind.

but he stopped her after those two lines,
and said that this time,
he didn't want any metaphors,
or similes,
or analogies.
he wanted the truth.

and so on that night,
as he slept,
the poet picked up her pen,
and she wrote.

she wrote,
then thought better of it,
then started over again,
and this cycle continued well into the early hours of the morning,
until suddenly,
she wrote, frantic,
if i can't love you for what you really are,
have i ever really loved you at all?


this, too,
she thought better of,
condemning it to the trash.

the next morning the poet was gone,
her final work a mere two words:

i'm sorry.

(a.m.)
this is more of a story than a poem but i like how it came out so leave thoughts & comments please

— The End —