How can you hate poetry?
Its just like music but spoken through words that pour from your tongue.
Emotion that never runs dry.
“Rhymes are cliche and dumb” sprays from your lips,
and I concede... to an extent.
Yes, rhymes can be cages, chains sculpted not from steel
but from writers block and torn thesauruses.
Scrambling to find something to rhyme with drought...
doubt...
trout....
flout?...
in order to make your poem flow like a river.
But rhymes are not stupid.
They can make a poem more clean and polished.
But poems do not need to rhyme.
This was actually the first lesson I learned in my high school creative writing class.
When my teacher told us that I was thrilled.
The chains had been broken... temporarily.
Because poetry is not a simple lullaby,
nor can lullabies be classified as simple.
Art is not simple.
But people like to mock our written art because
“it’s easy” and
“anyone can write a poem”,
which is true.
But how many people can write a poem so painstakingly beautiful that the mere words bring you to tears?
Make you weep like you are again an infant in your mother's arms? Poetry is not easy. But anyone can do it.
As long as they know how to rhyme.

If I am your moon, then you are the stars in the sky.
Collect my tears as they fall like rain,
mix them with cranberry juice and feed them to the fairies.
They will soar so high, their wings fluttering
like the call of flowers in the spring.
Take my hand,
lead me to a place where the sun is forever,
where winter is short and by the time May arrives
it is but a fleeting memory-
lost somewhere between hope and heartache.
Because I hoped
your words were true and that you really did love me.
But my heart aches
for the months we spent roaming in Neverland
because now
I feel less like Wendy and more like Alice,
running in circles to escape this horrific daydream.
Why can’t things be the way they were before?
*Why can’t we just stay in Neverland?

Darling I hate this feeling you leave me with.
No more kisses goodbye or I love you’s
was I only a game, here to amuse?
Happy holidays Georgia,
I brought you this flower.
You're smile is gorgeous, please don't leave it behind
The scars on my arms remind me of you.
You stopped me from bleeding,
but now my fingers are blue
from the blizzard you left me in,
freezing, and wet from my tears.
I don't want your flowers; they were only a ruse,
to get me to love you
by the time new years rolled around
so you could tear me apart.
And now people will ask me what I got for Christmas
and all I can tell them is
a broken heart.

These trenches scream

with the souls of

fallen men. Left

to be remembered by

letters they sent home.

Songs of love, tears of blood,

their cries of pain

soothe the ravens

to sleep.

You aren't afraid of heights,
you're afraid of falling.
Of failing.
But how can you expect
a phoenix to rise from its ashes
if he's too afraid to burn?

Life scares me
and
death does too
but what scares me most
is the thought of waking up
without you.

As I sit down to type these words, there is nothing more that I want to write about than you. You clog every pore in my face, every inch of my mind, every cell of blood that runs in my veins is tainted by the thought of your voice saying my name. However, I do not wish to write about how your eyes burn through my flesh and seep into my bones. I want to write about something real, something raw. Something that is not just a lonely desire I carry. I want to write about. . . you. Its always been you, this stupid lust, this first love. I want to write about how I take the looks you throw my way and hoard them in a crystal box, that no one will ever open because I am the holder of the key. And I know this isn't fair for you because it is not my box to keep, you’re eyes are not meant for me. . .I want to write about heartache and longing for your arms around me. I want you to know that I want you to be happy. I’ll write you letters everyday if I need to. But I will not send them, for I know you will think it’s strange that a girl like me is so infatuated by a boy like you. But it doesn't matter because even though you are broken, I want you. Not so I can fix you or try to heal you. I want to feel your pain with you, so that when you feel like you are drowning, you will know that you’re not alone. . .I want to write silly metaphors that only a young naive girl could come up with, that are so cliche it hurts. But it won’t matter because I can feel your hand in mine and the earth underneath my feet. And when I inhale the air around me, I know it is your exhale that is being ****** through my empty lungs. . .I don’t want to write a love poem, but when I think of you, it’s all there seems to be.