i preferred it when you had your hair in a bun, walking down Tweedy with ripped jeans and taylor gang chucks, with your hair blazed bloodier and brighter than desolate Mars, when you were just another girl i grew in war with,
i never dreamed, though i saw that one day you would leave, and desert the dirt covered laces and kiss me goodbye, tethered up in knots as you threw us in the sky,
i look down at you tangled on the line, a saddened women posing in her in undergarments before the digital eye, you are the baddest *****, i can see it on my screen as i scroll past in thirst, you are the baddest *****, i acknowledge this to be true,
infantry ****** open fire, shooting explosive emojis that detonate your feed, i know you wear bullet proof armored sweaters but i also see the bruises on that solitary face, leeches feeding lust into your neck, you step into battle with black eyes on your chest, swinging your “i don’t give a ****” sword, beheading lascivious foes,
i preferred when we sat on the terrace during the decline of the sun, softly voicing how we’d get out of this cage, walking north of south gate with worn out tokens,
i left you unguarded pardon me, lustful,crimson Helen of Troy
They stand still, dangling their heads in mid air, as if bent over by curiosity, catching the eyes of bystanders as they plant their roots and intertwine their bodies under a dim lit sun
Their arms lightly touch along the spines of one another, grabbing second glances as they kiss gently from tip to tips—shifting earth's gravitational grip— slipping sensual aromas into the timid crowds, stealing attention
They caress with their fingers anyone who draws nearer and nearer, collecting corroded notions—creating, blending, coalescing and infusing carnal spirits—for those who fail to ignore what lurks before them; they splitting minutes of the mind divided
the problem with poetry is that not everyone understands the crap that you are trying to convey, the message is always encrypted in cryptic code, you have to get past the firewall before you can see the
01011100110011110010101000111100101's
many of us don't have the time to pursue the purpose of a poems meaning because we are busy deciphering what the **** our own heart is trying to say while simultaneously trying make sense of it, so that we can post on hello poetry, hoping that maybe a handful of depressed poets might take the time to view it, let alone like it, or possibly even comment or **** maybe even share it, assuming we said anything of merit.
it's in our nature to ignore and call others ignorant and believe that we are intrinsicly more important.