If I were to write you a poem

I might appeal to your senses

Tastes and smells
That trigger comfort
And satiety

Images that make a man
Stand taller

There would have to be
A mountain
And some tall trees.

If I were to write you a poem

There would be a hand to hold
Shining eyes
And communication without words

One day soon
I will write it

If the world be ever changing,
Ever rotating on its wobbly axis,
Then I,
As constituent and citizen of the world,
Be ever changing too.

I was born hot, and wet, and loud, the last day of June.
And now I have grown,
And I have grown cold,
Because the hurt of learning
The pain of change, and the disappointment,
Has eaten to oxygen from the flame of joy
I was born holding
In my chest.

Were that I could find ignition within,
Some magic bit of unlockable truth,
rather than casting out my net of questions,
And attending to the ones who bite.

It's beautiful,
To run into someone that knows you,
Who you can't remember.

It reminds you that you exist,
Outside of your own mind.


-Hadrian Veska

When I see the people abandon their old American Dream,
I read about their travels, their hungers and their happinesses,
I wonder if it is
madness
or if it is
love
which has inspired their souls
to commit the ultimate treason-
the pursuit of freedom.

Existence is fallow
Upon the sheaths of grey
Transparent in the slides
Omnipresent crawling
In with no other
Inflated into, frozen in
Panes of glass
Brazen ice tell me your name
Internal tread on jags
He in his own bloating
Of crashing white sun on
The surface plain.

You may end up fossilised
a prized exhibit in a glass case;
make sure you get enough calcium.

We sprawled across your double bed for days on end,
Watching movies and eating Chinese food,
We cuddled and hugged,
But we never once kissed.

I wondered why you didn't want to kiss me,
And couldn't think of a reason why,
Until I realised that you, just like me, a few months before, just needed somebody to hold.

I love you, I never even kissed you goodbye.