maybe the flowers will bloom
she spoke
but flowers die
i kept silent
i saw them wilting
and felt
their rough, dry leaves
crackling and cracking
like stale bones left from ***** bodies in the soil
they remain
next year
she said
next year we will get better rain
to wash away the tears i thought
i thought
i thought you were better
she sighed
i knew there was no better
life is hopeful
life is worth it
i know
but no one knows. Anything.
is it a flower or a ****
she asks
who are we to say
i am a root in the way
where you want daisies
i destroy the ground
i block the way
dig me out
dig me out

Poetry is about what is said
And what is implied

Implying is known for its subtle
Body gestures or vague sentences

Syntax and diction often control
The reader's persepctive

but
how can I control what other's think

Is it colorful word choice
Or WHAT WORDS STAND OUT

Am I accurate in assuming that
With a simple
pause

and repeat of word
I can cause someone to think otherwise?

Is it crazy that I control
the beat
in time
with a
meter

My dear I seem to have you under a spell
Can I tell you something

I'm not falling for you
I am in fact

Floating
Or for a better word

Afloat with you
Enjoying the water

And maybe
Someday
at some point
In some time

I will be ****** in
Drowned in your bliss
Penetrated by your words
Enraptured by your touch

Poetry is for mad people
With nothing better to do than to scrawl out their words with a pen nearby or a ***** keyboard that sounds more atrocious than the screaming of a fish

Poetry is the only way I can say my feelings
and if it's confusing

I'm sorry
I'm also confused

Maybe your love won't be drowning
and for once

It will feel like flying

they say only fools
fall in love,
well they must've been
talking about us,
'cos we have
a love so strong,
they'll make statues
and name cities after us.

a love so strong,
songs,
poems &
books
were made in our honour.

a love so strong,
the hands of time and
the cruelty of distance
could not ever come between us.

I find it very strange
how we are all made
from the same elements
formed out of stardust
shaped bones covered in skin
so how come
some girls are pretty

And I'm not

He's thinking about
His book.
And how he's going to write her into it.
She's a shelf that doesn't hold anything
But a few memories here and there
And some day dreams.
Her eyes sting
And her voice just sort of floats above everything else.
Like a sheet of clouds on a hot July morning.
There's really no place to acknowledge a power so fierce
Using just the ink from a couple of pens.
But he's going to try to capture the way her lungs give out
During long drives down busy highways
And her dark glasses always seem to be locked forward.
Her toes curl in her flip-flops
And she never opens her mouth too wide.
How can words describe someone
That only the pounding of a heart can imagine?