i feel haunted.
is it you?
or am i ghost
in my own body.
a writer’s fictitious realities
stem from their lived experiences.
so when i tell you a tale
about the monster under my bed,
let it be known that he is very alive
and very real –
living inside my head.
becoming the subject of a muse,
merely an object as the muse.
i see the discomfort that comes from
having your story told for you,
displayed without your consent.
i am the director of my own life.
i wrote you out of my script,
so leave your idealized version of me
out of yours.
the unsettlement i feel
to be spoken of so highly,
with a glaze of gold outlying my skin,
stuck to a pedestal.
i am not your trophy,
i will never be your wife!
your version of me
projected through the eyes of obsession.
did you see me as your possession?
and so here it lies.
here lies the irony of making you a muse,
to preach my uttermost desire
to be shed as yours.
we grow wiser with age.
so teach me-
reveal to me your knowledge.
three hundred rings my elder,
what have you seen?
what have you heard?
you stand strong
through all you’ve experienced.
teach me to stand the same.
speak to me,
speaking to the trees
i drank from the garden of Eden.
Lu s t,
gulping for air as the water drowns me.
sinking into darkness.
was it worth it?
betrayal to Him?
betrayal to Self?
in a moment of intoxication;
a moment of weakness.
i broke a promise to myself.
a promise i've made to you
a hundred times before.
never again becomes
this is the last time, please promise me that.
you know me better than i do
and you know i can't say no,
never to you.
i need an escape,
but how do i get away?
you won't let me go.
my promises become a reaction,
or better yet-
a weak one at that.
it's not about the promises you make;
but how well you keep them.
and i've kept mine,
as well as you've kept away.
3-20-19; definitely had some Ellen Hopkins inspiration with this one! :) Love her poetry.
when will i stop
making playlists about you?
writing poetry about you?
when i realize
there is no you.
there was you.
and when you were you,
i wasn't me.
our love no longer exists.
we no longer exist.
now i feel myself letting you go.
infatuation is a funny thing.
it doesn't rhyme with love,
but it sure sounds a lot like it.
mostly because it isn't.
you didn't see
what was right in front of you.
you saw imagination.
you saw perfection.
life isn't Barbie,
and he isn't Ken.
don't be fooled by the fantasies
inside your head.
the mind is a universe of its own.
full of wonder and surprise.
trickery and demise.
seek out what is real,
and decipher what is not.
how could i ever go back
to a time before?
a time before you
and before hard love.
a time before my soul surfaced
from the darkness.
a darkness we created.
it wouldn't be fair to say it was you only.
it was you only i wanted.
it was you only i craved.
i yearned for your love
in my own desperation
and through my disposition
who was i before you?
who did i become with you?
who will i be without you?
when they tell you, "don't fall in love with a poet," mark their words.
poets love differently than most. we feel differently than most.
we fall in love with words as we trace their outline onto your bare skin.
we fall for prose, not people.
we'll dream about what it's like to lose you before you're ever gone.
we romanticize loss.
a heart inflicted is a powerful tool and the passion that flows through our bodies fuels our writer's hand.
melancholy was gifted to us.
we express our thoughts best when we write them down
as we write you off with nothing left to say.
we will leave you br oke n.
"don't fall in love with a poet," they warn,
"you'll only ever be their muse."
so what made you different from the rest?
your ability to provoke,
the passion you ignited to the surface,
who knew i had it in me?
push and pull;
pushing just past my limits,
magnetic forces pulling us together.
together, there with you;
it felt like home.
the space between us
felt like a river.
it was only a small distance
i had to cross, but
would i sink or swim?
gasping for breath,
taking in all of your oxygen.
it was never enough.
what we had was never enough.
we were a flame,
bound to go out.
inevitability on our side.
time was never on our side.
in its denotative form means;
"a lack of corruption or purity."
in its connotative form means;
"a time before you."
the person i was before you
is gone gone gone.
i fell down the rabbit hole of love
fighting for your affection,
you were my favorite affliction.
i crossed a line from which i can never
i ate from the fruit of eden,
and i paid my price.
a beautiful serpent;
you wrapped me up,
slowly warming my skin
layer upon layer
until you swallowed me whole.
into the darkness, i was consumed
only by you.
a loss of innocence.
a simile comparing my love to the explosion of a star as a supernova
have you ever seen a star explode?
do you know what a supernova feels like?
I've never seen a supernova, but I've felt one. I've fallen in love with the brightest stars and once they disappear, it's only a matter of time before it hits me. First the wind hits me from the outermost layer and I feel it but have no idea what's to come. Then the heat begins to consume me. It's hurting but I've not reached the point of rupture. And once I do my whole body collapses into the heart of a supernova. Watching the star burst into a million pieces all at once as if thinking about your own heart, feeling it do the same.
That's what it felt like loving you, you were a supernova that just completely decimated my world.
a loss of words:
usually it does not come easy,
writing a script to a private performance
hidden for your eyes only.
eyes are the enemy,
one look and guilt overcomes you,
engulfing you into a swarm of
words escaping you
attached to a kite,
flying further and further
and further away.
stumbling over your voice,
tripping over your tongue.
they don't mesh at all.
the closing scene.
the credits start rolling,
and you're out of time.
She was a poem he found inside an old history book.
A hidden treasure beneath all the rubble.
She was a light that filled the darkness of his mind.
A gold medal, his own personal medal.
It wasn't until she left that he knew this.
She was a pen and he was no longer her paper.
The worlds once written between them were gone.
Her silver lining would no longer show in the distance.
His light had gone out, his treasure now broken.
His medal had rusted, but he kept the poem,
Free verse, written 2013.
You couldn't not believe her if you tried.
Her eyes stare forward, face unreadable.
The way she is, you wouldn't think she lied.
She won't ever change, she's incapable.
The way she smiles at just the right moment.
A soft lullaby rolls of her tongue.
She simply does this for her enjoyment.
She does not care, for she is much too young.
She speaks to you, you feel like someone.
But you don't know, her fun has just begun.
In the end, you're the one to blame.
Your mind would like to say differently.
But the pain on your face speaks quite clearly.
Sonnet, written 2013.
A cold and empty winter evening,
A fateful source for all her grieving.
Her dreams still haunt her every night,
Her inner thoughts are dark, not light.
She's grown up from mistakes she'd made,
Though there are thoughts she'd like to trade.
Her smile is weak, her stare is cold
A trace of stories she's not yet told.
A cold and empty winter evening,
A state of mind that's quite deceiving.
Rhyme scheme, written 2013.
he left you,
you text charlie again
"where are you my love?"
to your plea, the response is clear.
"ill be back when i'm ready,"
the harlot says
in the midst of the chaos.
to be brought back to abnormality by the sound of his insecurities leading to your own demise.
you're not crazy.
i'm not crazy.
i am not crazy.
to the mountains and skies,
my brightness and light.
to the burrows and shade,
brought out at late.
i'm questioning my peace of mind
trying to justify another's.
say it out loud in your head, in my head.
— The End —