Poems are written in words.
Pieced together with sentences.
And sustained with periods.
Black coffee kept me awake,
I was discovering myself in thought.
I felt my pulse.
"For once in my life, I felt it."
The cursive in my mind was confusing,
Usually it came with a vision, but this was different.
There was no meaning.
Opening myself to vulnerability,
Understanding knowledge was not a gift,
but an acquired taste.
We as humans have no true understanding of personalities.
I have spent years watching people,
And learning nothing.
Happiness can be found.
Listen to the world.
When hope has eaten life,
You're left with one thing,
When I wait for her, I wait patiently. I sit close to her eyes so my sight can be seen visibly. I don't beg for her attention but I try to engage in it.
It's her actions and movements that scare me the most when I'm caught on the unknown side of a river bank. I know her well enough to anticipate her every move but for some reason I'm nervous. I've kept my eye on her before but never like this.
Where she walks I follow, I gaze into the desert as if I've known this place all my life but this is our first acquaintance.
There's a time bomb strapped to her and I'm worried that she will take my heart to. I just need to see her justify herself, so that when I tell her we can no longer be together, she understands why.
Its a bolt action M16 pressed against my cheek. My sights are fixated upon a young afghan woman. She is thought to be a local terrorist.
We broke up.
A writing from the desert.
When I look into the moon I see the only dependent part of me that still exists. Its as if the silence in her vocal cords spoke words of solitude. I gave her the only bio mechanical part of me that mattered.
The gears in my chest keep turning like clock work.
I count seconds into minutes and minutes into hours and hours into days. I keep thinking time is standing still while im still standing still.
I'm waiting, waiting on patience and as unjustified as it sounds I'm impatient. Dreams are just your natural thoughts heavily sedated, a sub-conscious reality based off the feelings we cant display them.
I don't consider myself a writer, I see the constant flow of words and as a kid it left me inspired. I'm more of the sub concious reality type. I drink coffee and outside of that I really don't have a life.
For me writing is self exspression without being judged by others.
I opinionate my feelings and organize them in ink. The papper is my empty canvas, my thoughts are my judgment, and the pen is the deliverer.
Sometimes writing is the only thing that can stitch my wounds, like the words curved inside my brain penetrating like the needlesof a tattoo. I wonder what will become me, in what paradox will I redeem the sum of me?
I just hope this bio mechanical heart ticks away. I hope people continue to be people with different mindsets and open steeples. I want love to be found and dreams to be created.
Me spilling out my brain in thirty minuets.
She catapulted her love into the stars reaching out to touch what wasn't hers. Unintentionally she fell madly in love with the saddest black hole.
He reached as hard as he could to fight the gravity that pulled her away, but her love was strong and the depths of her heart were much deeper than expected.
Two dreamers captivated by the faint hope of loving someone else. They didn't care about themselves but didn't know about each other.
This was more than passion or creation could have intended. Life was just not that modest.
In order for you to love someone else you must first accept your secrets. The darkness you carry are the worries they must burden.
We have all found hope in the depths of someone else's heart, but is it true?
The fragile glass of reality we stand on will only shatter. The walls we build will only break.
She loved the black hole for an eternity and he polished every star hoping she would notice him.
A poem for a girl.
I looked and saw an angel.
Death was but a presence.
Her life was of an essence.
She would have killed my soul.
My heart for hers grew old.
Distance was an option.
Our love created a carcass.
I don't regret the process.
I don't forget forgotten.
She was my apostle.
I listened to the prophets.
Our hope was always guided.
She spoke through me in silence,
but I could hear the screams.
She begged for peace & quiet.
She begged for suicide.
I had to give her life,
because hers included mine.
I was running...
Running out of time.
This is who I loved.
A poem about a girl.
— The End —