Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
 Feb 2016 Michelle Garcia
ryn
Let the poetry...
Write itself....
As the ripe new moon
strums the swaying
silhouettes of the night.

Let the poetry...
Write herself...
With the vast
expanse of obsidian sky.
Pocked subtly with the shy
murmurs of the stars...
Offering solace and peaceful respite.

Let the poetry...*
Write of you...
As the splendour...
Envelopes each unspoken letter.
Embedding words of warmth,
that seize my heart
in a state of enamour...
Before taking its majestic flight.
 Feb 2016 Michelle Garcia
ryn
I once professed my love to the wind...*    

I had professed that I admired the way
     it had caressed my face.  
           The way it cupped my cheeks    
   and combed through
                 my tousled hair.

I once professed my love to the wind...    

I had professed that I was infinitely enamoured        
with its playful but gentle ways.            
The way it would upset            
the serenity of my clothes.      
          The way it would engulf me cool        
on a hot sunny day. 

I once professed my love to the wind...    

I had professed that I get addicted to the way
it would reach into my lungs  
and abscond with my breath.    
Leaving me asphyxiated for a brief moment      
before mischievously  
introducing new air;
hale and fresh.  

I still profess my love to the wind...    

I'd profess my adoration for the way    
she fills my sails full      
and my heart full of hope.        
For I am a lone sailor        
in a crowded ocean.      
Sailing in a vessel bound for nowhere...      
Traversing time and space      
with my love, my breeze...          
my air.              

.
Is there a barrier
between myself and
the world?

Why do you
conceal your heart
from me?

Loneliness is
watching animation,
laugher, voices, chatter,
and feeling suspended
in time.

Maybe that's why
loneliness is easier to bear
when you're alone,
than around others.
Maybe it's time
to realise that
I do not have
to search for love
elsewhere;
not when it's etched
into my being--
my identity.

Maybe it's time
to not salvage
that love for anyone,
but embracing it
for me.
I am not creative; but I am emotional and human.
Most of my creativity emerges
from crestfallen summer nights,
where I tear the seams of the scars

that have reopened
after a thoughtless word
after a tasteless comment
after an inconsiderate finger,

jabbing into the insecurities
I imagined myself to bury,
but in reality,
I have not.

Humid,
crestfallen summer nights
encapsulate me,
until the pain numbs
me.
Next page