Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
I long to travel,
but for a place to call my own.
I wish to find true love,
but for solidarity.
I dream of spontaneity,
but of stability.
Everyday, nostalgic,
but dreaming of tomorrow.

Praying for simplicity,
if not for contradiction.
I apologise, for I only wrote this a couple of minutes ago.
When you look at yourself,
Your psychedelic bruises,
Your prosperous veins,
Your ever-increasing freckles,
The stretch marks on your hips,
Your ever-so-slight collarbones,
Your deep blue eyes,
And you say
"Why can't I be lovely?"

Understand that when I look at you,
I see the endless galaxies,
The roads yet to be travelled,
The marvellous constellations,
I see the lines of Jupiter,
The glorious mountains,
I see the wondrous ocean.
So when I say
"Darling you already are"
Know that when I look at you,
I see my world.
When all that you need
is the company of ones soul,
and you cannot bear the sound
of your mothers yelling,
your devastating thoughts,
or the laughter,
know that I will be waiting.

If the world is deep in slumber,
I will remain by your side beneath the stars
until you find your way to reach them.

If the world is not yet still,
I will remain until the last light
flickers away, until you find comfort
in yourself.

Whether you are beneath or above
the constellations of the sky,
know that I will be waiting
until someday when you,
are amongst the brightest.
Until all of your dreams,
are finally true.
I have a fascination of clocks.
The exact moment that they have stopped,
is known for anyone to see.
How can it be,
that love, careers, and families,
cannot be the same?
How can it be,
that I will never know,
the exact moment when it all stopped,
when it all came crashing down?
Perhaps the reason,
why I find flowers,
so simple yet beautiful,
is not because of their beauty,
but because of how easily they can be created,
at the fingertips of myself.

Perhaps the reason,
that I find myself,
so insignificant,
is not because of my insecurities,
but because of anothers perception.

Perhaps the reason,
may never be known.
For all of the things I know,
there are billions I don't.
So when I say I don't know,
whether I want to be with you,
always know,
the indecisiveness is deafening.
Your voice is telling me
a story.
Your eyes, another.
The blinding confusion,
it tells me that,
Perhaps it isn't a story
to be told,
But a chapter to be written.
My first poem y'know

— The End —