I love
that you
love

The things
that you
love

Even if I don't

Could you do the same for me?

If yes

What great lovers
we
could
be....

What makes a good poem?
Is it the rhythm? The structure? The carefully placed similes like dog treats and the restricted use of rhetorical questions?
Oh.
If that's the case,
I think I failed the test.
Oh please! Don't leave! Let me try this again!

(A cough to clear the throat)
Ha-HEM.

When one writes iambic pentameter
Doth that make his good prose the worthier then?

...No?

If I write a witty couplet in a rhyme
Does that make this utter **** more worth your time?

Have I got the tempo right?
I need an exclamatory tone!
Rhyming feels better somehow
But it doesn't make trombone.

My jittery jilted stream-of-consciousness different-line-length punctuation-less word-***** onto a page-
Pause for breath-
Can never match the likes of Donne or Keats;
But I've bled my soul and fire onto this page
And surely, that is worth more than conceits?

Sitting down I gaze at smoothed rocks,
Waving seas grass-
The breeze touches my cheek.
But I am not by the water,
And theses rocks and grass aren't of the sea.

They were imported from some plant
Looking to make money off the idea.
Stones nestling metal slats,
Sea grass swaying in the city breeze.

I have been staring at them-
contemplating my own existence.
It's like that of the rocks and grass that line Harke Laboratory
I'm out of place.

maybe it's because i am not satisfied with who i am
maybe it's because i've fallen so from where i use to be
maybe it's because i let myself fall in love
maybe it's because i learned friendship, and trust, and hope and
with learning all these things, there was a consequence
a consequence that wasn't mine to serve
it's because after knowing what these concepts were,
it was impossible but to not notice their absence
i am not sad because of my unresolved trauma, i am sad because my coping skills were people and people leave
and sadness is present
sadness does not pause for you
sadness does not let you prepare
sadness rips into your chest and makes its home there
i'm sad because i'm not my own reason to live
i'm sad because i want to stay sad
because it's safe
because it's the only constant in my life

Sometimes,

I think of taking my hands
And ripping - splitting - cracking,
My ribcage in two.
                                                            ­            
The breastbone splintering apart,
My torso opening like a rotten tree.
The inside hollowed,
Like a lake that has been emptied
 
I've convinced myself that
Fragrant flowers
Would grow there.

That they would grow feverishly
In the gnawing gap
I had created.

And that time would preserve
What I had done.

he says “we end nicely. with a hug and a kiss. we end before it gets bad so we can never hate each other.
and in five years i’m going to call you
and ask you to marry me. please
say yes.” and i’m laying in the bed of a boy
that broke my heart and i’m
crying and saying “in five years
i will be just like every other girl
you’ve loved. i will know better by then.”
and he doesnt reply so
eventually i say “i could have
loved you forever if you had
let me. you win. you win, you win,
you win.” and instead of
saying anything he pulls
me close for a second and it feels like normal,
like maybe everything is going to be okay, but every
inch between us is cold we
can both feel it on our skin. “this doesn’t feel like
winning. i will love you for the rest
of my life. this doesn’t feel like winning.”

Missing You!©

When I am here, I miss being there
When I am there, I miss being here

When I am in solitude, I miss companionship
When I have companionship, I miss solitude

When I am single, I miss being in relationship
When I am in relationship, I miss being single

When I am working, I miss not working
When I am not working, I miss working

When I am in the city, I miss the countryside
When I am in the countryside, I miss the city

When it is winter and it is cold, I miss the summer
When it is summer and too hot, I miss the winter

When I am on the prairies, I miss the mountains
When I am in the mountains, I miss the prairies

When I am on the rim of the Grand Canyon,
I miss being at the bottom
When I am at the bottom of the Grand Canyon,
I miss the rim,

When I am on the ocean, I miss dry land
When I am on dry land, I miss the ocean

When I am flying, I miss the ground
When I am on the ground, I miss flying

When I am on the east coast, I miss the west coast
When I am on the west coast, I miss the east coast

Maybe what I am missing is the point of it all

Andreas Simic©