Love is a verb-
abandon your adjectives;
It is to melt.
To hold and be held,
To treasure, to linger, to smother-
And oh, God, to ache.
I write poems for no one to read,
and that’s how I know they’re true.
Here’s sadness for no one’s benefit
a determination to continue that
does not ring hollow in these empty halls.
Genuineness is the bedfellow of solitude.
I don’t know that
there’s any poetry left in me
I think I’ve bled out everything by now,
all my sadness washed away
by a monsoon of tears.
Yes, there’s only emptiness left,
keep knocking but
my hair falls out stupidly and thickly
even at your kind touch.
My veins show underneath my skin now
and I can’t remember not counting my ribs
My mother says I’m fading away
But it’s just a shell belatedly
following a soul already dead.
this is a poem, is it not?
And Hope still lingered in that Pandora’s box
Perhaps even corpses can still love
Beautiful, will you be my salvation?
Your golden hair
makes me believe in resurrection.
I've been cheated
out of my youthful infinity;
that precious folly of belief
one will never grow old,
a chance to think
that I know everything.
To be on top of the world
before I have to realize it doesn't
revolve around me.
I'm hyper-aware of
the beautiful arrogance I lack;
I can only be jealous
of your sweet haughtiness.
Meet me on the corner
of wisdom and resignation
when you lose it too.
No such thing as
too pure for this world;
there's nothing we can't taint
with our salty sticky sins.
Milk-white stones from heaven,
now charred remembrants
of the divine.
I am a universe beyond the observable
and even with my stretches
of terrifying emptiness
there is magnificence in my galaxies;
you always thought the stars were overrated.
which of us loves the other more?
Could it be me
because I have always loved
everyone I met without restraint
and thus have more practice?
Or could it be you
because your love must be earned
and you have been saving it