There was a clear sky
but then you arrived
a thunderstorm
that rained over me.

I'm all soaked
it's like a summer rain
that you can't help
but fall with.

Writing poetry is like making love:
if you have to force it, stop.

TOD HOWARD HAWKS

when my voice
can no longer
be remembered

when the feel
of my touch
has vanished
from your memory

when you cannot
recall the joy
or bittersweet
pain we shared

then that will be
when you have
broken the obsession
that is "US"

If you break my heart.
Will you mend it.
Will you wipe away the many tears.
That I shed for only you.
Will you replace the light that shone forth.
As my eyes lingered only on you.
Will you fix this broken vessel.
That was perfect when you met it.
Or will you walk away.
And say, let's just call it a day

this is mysterie, on her second account.

this account will have unedited poems that will not be found on my main, this will also include insights to how i was feeling when i wrote this and why it's like that.

i wanted to share this on a separate account because i want tips and tricks to improve and i want to help others to improve.

accepting all constructive criticism.

Why don't we know
When we think we know
When we know the most
Surely it's obvious
At the critical point
** **!

delphinium migrant blue,
and into night
we follow,
toward the residue
of morning,
where there's no time
limit to grief.

you wake with
electric intervals,
something's wrong
with yesterday,
in your head are
galaxies like grains of salt,
and they fill up the sky.

these red metallic balloons,
that come to you
when you are ripped open,
whether it’s by pain
and heartache
or you’re falling in love,
these you can’t close
yourself off to.

but what you actually want
is to bypass them,
and try to reach that
dawn serenade,
which is floating
above them,
as if golden electric ribbons
which don’t
demand repayment.