Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 Jul 2018 rose
Pure of Stars
 Jul 2018 rose
Pure of Stars
rain sounds like magic to me
how all the clouds gather together and cry of their losses
how each drop whispers to me
egging me to listen to all of their stories
and all of the trees shaking with glory
each leave singing it’s song as the wind sweeps them away
the thunder cackles at the fields of flowers and their silly dreams that are swept away into the bitter wind
lightning flashes a quick smile to all the children peaking at the rain from inside
watching each rain droplet race each other down my window
only to form into a puddle outside my door
leaving me perfectly content
as the rain speaks its magic
there is something truly magnificent about rain and the way it subtly wakes up each creature also this seems to be the first poem of mine that isn’t terribly sad
 Jul 2018 rose
your room is full of ghosts.
one moment you are lying on your bed in the corner
and i am busied somewhere else.
but in a matter of seconds
you are leaning across your desk to kiss my neck
and we are lovers once more.
but the air between us is different now, thicker
and it is hard not to think what i already know
that your lips will be wet
and just the slightest bit cold
and they will taste of white wine
too sweet for my liking but i will kiss you back anyways.
and i will regret it in the morning
but love you in the moment.
maybe that's always been the problem with you and me
 Oct 2017 rose
no title
 Oct 2017 rose
i am young. i am in the habit of saying things i think i mean because
i have no one to tell me right from wrong. i am in the habit
of giving everything i have to every one i pass because i have
no one to tell me what is enough and what is too much. it is
all just enough, i give every piece of me to every stranger with
warm hands and it is all just enough, i fall into myself in an
endless spiral of every stranger with a gentle first touch and it
is all just enough. part of how to stop being young is learning
to choose your words carefully, learning what i mean and what
i want to speak into meaning are very different things. part
of how to stop being so young is to learn that i should not have
to empty myself into a gentle touch or a warm hand because
there is no place for me to go besides inside of myself. no one has
the capacity to contain me, no one has the ability to hold all of
what i involve in their cupped hands. i fall through the cracks
in their fingers and onto the floor like sand, how to stop being
young is learning that i am concrete, i cannot push myself into
anyone and expect them to carry me on their shoulders. how to
stop being young is learning that i don't need anyone to fill me
up, to fix me, to calm my brain, to keep me kind or save me.
but i am young. i am in the habit of wanting what i can't have,
i am in the habit of wanting to love so hard it kills me, and that
being said i miss you so much it hurts my skin.
 Sep 2017 rose
blue mercury
i’d written line after line
about the look in your eyes
the way i felt like i could die
but what’s the point now
in all those wasted words?
when all that’s left hurts.
i'm working on an album/ep called written in stars
 Sep 2017 rose
 Sep 2017 rose
this emptiness still smells of you.
 Aug 2017 rose
Few seconds
 Aug 2017 rose
It may take only a few seconds
to hurt someone that you love
but it may take a lot of years
to heal this pain.
 Apr 2017 rose
like honey.
 Apr 2017 rose
isnt it sweet?
how much the human heart is able to bare,
the lines between support and manipulations that
past-lovers have drawn for you,
isnt it sweet? how much you will
carry for the people who arent quite yet
past-lovers, how you will draw boundaries
and cross lines just to touch, just to feel, just to
create some sort of tangible memory for when you
sit with only their names left in your mouth, isnt the
line between sweet and naive based on experience?
isnt it naive? how far you will go to love people into
boxes, how you will let yourself fall apart and
you will watch them spit you out onto the floor and still
you have so much faith in every single rushed kiss and
almost-memory that one of these people you let touch you
with the lights off, one of these people you will drink
into your poetry will be more than just a past-lover?
Next page