Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
A flash. A crack.
Then the skies opened.
The ground swelled
With similies and metaphors;
Punctuation pooled into puddles
Of alliteration,
Forming rivulets of comparison,
Making streams of consciousness
For any to dip a toe, wade, swim, submerge.
Cascading rivers of figures
Of speech
Will evaporate
Wordy clouds
To wash over us again,
And soak us in blue verse.
Where else does our work go?
They say that 1+1=2, and that is in fact true
but when it comes to me and you
1+1=1 not 2
for together we are one,
not 2
for my future husband, the one who i have not yet met
Poetry has become my self harm,
I only write at my lows...
Instead of blood I see words,
Instead of a blade I have a keyboard...

I want to write about...
The wind dancing with the sea...
Or...
The way you smile and it lights up your innocent face...

I don't want poetry to be my self harm,
Because poetry is beautiful...
An art...
Not.
Just.
Blood.
And.
Scars.
Judge away... I'm trying to not care... No matter how much I do ...
I know it won't mean much to you
And you won't admit that the love I once felt was true
But I never gave up trying
Even though I knew each day my heart would still keep dying
For my heart you see should never be thawed
But it was for you, no matter how flawed
Each day though it seems
You'll keep chasing her among other dreams
Some will be wrong
But others belong
I just hope you'll see
You shouldn't love her
Because she'll never love you as much as me...
So much passion rests in his palms
solo's & chord's an ease
through every last song.
Sometimes I wish to
explain to him the "he"
behind every line of poetry.
Every line, typed out on
script, to give his lusterless
love-life a trip.
Imagine what we could be
if the world had been gracious
enough to unite you & me.
Through timeless days,
space above my head I pray
that soon, we will see that day.

*It breaks  my heart, all I see is we will never be. I bleed. I cry. I don't know why but something that rests so deep in your heavy eyes has just-

made me feel, again.
His soul. I feel it in the back of my throat. Embodying me as I think of him, Oh my god.
the problem with
being a poet in love,
is that you savour
& trust each word your lover has
without  question.

we are simply in love
with bare literature,
spoken from the lips of someone we hold
in higher regard
than ourselves sometimes.

when you love a poet
each word you utter,
should be a piece of artwork

each sentence,
a highly thought out structure of awe and beauty to leave us seeping
in the warmth of your voice
caressing such fine words

so when deciding that you love someone,
who writes or reads
fill their souls with beauty, memories & truth especially,
for a poet's heart breaks at ease.
thoughts.
the day I fell in love for the first time was the second time
it was meeting you first, all halo handcuffs and hallelujah
I'm no playwright honey, but we were one act
scene 1 you should have kissed her
scene 2 you should have kissed her
scene 3 you should have kissed her
scene 4 when you meet, it isn't always magic
scene 5 when you walk, fall behind on purpose just incase she falls
scene 6 stumble on purpose just to grab a hold of her
scene 7 wear her arm like a chokechain and pretend you won't let go
scene 8 she has a bad memory and I am easy to forget
scene 9 it's been days and elvis songs are still making me hide my face,
I call myself lover and remind myself it's been days.  it's been days.
I let her hold me, let her make me honest; honestly, her tears are hymns
waiting to be sung through the right teeth.
and those sparkling lights that we did a push and pull dance beneath
we both wanted to hold eachother's hands.
I was made for the leaving,
I was made for the breaking, my bones are braced.
But honey you have god in your palms and you don't want to let him
see you crack me.
Open, like my heart when you whispered thank you for your poems.
Thank you for loving me.
But this is not a performance, this is a recollection of memories.
Tapping on my tongue saying stop stuttering, idiot.
Tell her you love her.
Tell her two years ago you fell in love with an artist.
And now you'll never die.
scene 10 she's watching you stumble over your words about her
scene 11 I still love you
scene 12 I always will
end scene.
You gave us this world with opportunity and every ability to build paradise,
Yet we blame You for all tragedy , evil, pain, and unnecessary suffering;
You are the culprit, we charge, and dare imagine you with heart as cold as ice,
With never a glance in the mirror to reflect upon our failures with any misgiving.

So we shake our fist, trample Your words of wisdom and the help You offer,
Content to live as our own gods in the self-made illusion of human grandeur,
While our world careens toward disaster, as in foolish rebellion we take cover;
Your tears falling in the rain for Your children and creation in immortal danger.

How is it the fool says in his heart, “Surely, there is no God, no higher power,”
When with lost divine likeness and shattered image, truer it is there is no human?
More like empty shells with vacant eyes, we walk this earth enslaved by the hour,
Ever too proud to turn to You in the light of Your Love, redemption to summon.
There is so much to be said about the human body but I would like to focus on one specific part for a moment.

Hands

There is something so magnificent yet terrifying about these rather small body parts, in comparison to the rest of you. Hands are capable of fixing and breaking and shaking and crushing and holding and letting go.
(Please do not let go of me.)
There are little creases that tell stories and lead to greater things, like the rest of you.
Hands, like the rest of the human body, come in all shapes and sizes and tones and textures. They can be rough or they can be soft, every pair has the same capability as the next.
Hands are the root of Touch. Hands are the root of Feeling.

I think about hands a lot; your fingers dance around in my head.
There are stories embedded in your palms and I will listen intently to every word they whisper or scream.
There are little fires on your fingertips and I cannot wait for you to set me on fire.
Next page