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
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
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.
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?