Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
It's not actually a flower
It's a painting of a flower
No definition beyond
The flower's we see
Out on the lawn
Merely an image
Paint fumes replaced
The charmers scent
That once
Drew our mates

An orchestrated opus
Of wayward heart
Galaxies of lyric-less
Wayward stars
From who knows
Meaningless poetry
Is all we are

Why do morning dove
Insist to sing
Meaningless songs
Birds of prey scream
Blinding beams of sunlight
Reflect off mighty seas
Blinding our eyes
Yet still we believe
What meaning has
The giant ancient trees
Majestic mountains
Purple beauties
These impressions
Of nature only define
Meaningless poetry
That beautifully rhymes
traveler tim
Thankful for my life
For your gaze into my eyes,
For our daughters.
Pieces of my pride shimmer on her skin
Dressing her in my naked words
I love her so much that none can have her
I’m all that she deserves.

Being so greedy has got my mind confused
I never thought I’d hurt a heart or make her feel abused.

Now we sit together with adrenaline in the air.
We are love no more.
We are flooding streets.

Murky waters
Vinegar and salt smile
Sweet intentions with a sour escape
Hearts burst in the palms of the other

Drowning passion
Dagger kisses
Angry love

Water-wrecked minds
Hidden fears
Little communication

Tensions have risen in our tsunami of emotion
I found this on my old E-Drive and decided to post. Don't remember if or why I didn't post it earlier.
It's strange to me how much the word love is thrown around, and how different it's definition seems to vary from person to person. My mother tells me her love is unconditional, but her 'unconditional love' only applies to her conception of a perfect daughter. I found myself promising that I would only let those treasured words slip through the cracks when I meant it. When I felt it. Yet it has become a greeting I exchange more commonly than hello's. Kissing in the rain and chocolates and constant sweet nothings is the love I began to believe in, but it has not lasted. It has morphed from a feeling into a lifestyle, part of most everything I do. For if I don't act out of love, selfishness, hate, anger, might fill its place. Some forms more painful than others, unrequited, undying, have manifested within my brain, or my soul. The two are often confused, kissing in the rain does not equate to love, my soul tells me, but my head feeds into it either way. The brain is desperate for a form of love, holding onto whatever it can grasp because the fear of never finding another is too great of a risk for it to take. Loneliness, the ultimate opponent of the soul, and the push that sends the mind tumbling down. The purest form of love I have found is in the touch he places to my shaking arm as I struggle to understand it doesn't mean as much as I crave it to be. Standing in front of my mirror, conquering my denials, and he is always there, always touching. That is the love I have come to treasure most. The fertilizer to my seed of self love that has taken an achingly long time to sprout. I have also come to find that loving back, surprisingly enough, isn't in the kisses and sweet nothings. It is in accepting that your give wishes to be far more than theirs, and leveling with their take, despite everything. Unwavering hand always on their arm, through whatever turbulence that may come their way. What a shapeshifter you are, my love.
fall softly, my love, for i have missed
the sweet caress of rain against my calloused skin
free from careless storms, i have found in you a love that demands to persist
an enormity so grand that is our wonderful sin  
of which we once tucked behind dreaming eyes
now, at long last, had bloomed into reality
and as we stumble further into love we shall publicize
an act as pure and vulnerable as you loving me
for angel, you shine too bright for i to feel ashamed
over cowardly concerns of loving openly
and through everything we have both proclaimed
that despite the odds, the best way to love is outspokenly
we carry the weight of our past regret
and yet, we dare to love, my juliet
And for a short time baby
You made me believe
That in reality
There can still be
A fairytale lived
Next page