Everything about you is miraculous.
I have no words to give you
because they all taste like apples,
when they should taste like pomegranates.
It is all too generic, nearly – spiritless
to call you beautiful.
I am merely
existing in this dazzling
vapor of mania, that I
so clearly see
buzzing mad about you like hornets.
Only psychotic pills can describe what you mean.
Everything makes sense, in that, it doesn't.
I want to tell you all my dreams. And somehow communicate
that I think you are far more staggering
than I could ever articulate.
Isn't it a sick shame
that those – I mean those
wickedly gorgeous human beings, those with souls
heavy and earthy as antique clocks,
souls like tree moss
living for ages on wood sheds;
souls warm and tormented
like voodoo shops and dreamy sunsets;
souls like ruptured stones,
in-grown toenails and volcanoes –
those who,
should take compliments
and tuck them away on the wide shelves of their hearts,
instead –
handle them like steaming acids.
I only wish you would
take more than a kiss from me.
but I feel content
also obscene and distracted;
listless yet
serene – when we
share a close space.
The aesthetic I find, I cannot ignore
nor quite place.
It smokes. It intoxicates.
I want to describe the spices in your curves,
(surely you must know) – the organic magic of them
and how they flow, sway-swaying
gentle stream, always waiting to be
dipped into.
But, there is
an energy far more hypnotic than lips or hips,
it is familiar yet new, and constant
and constantly
enticing,
beneath your skin, behind your tongue
somewhere twisted within
your twisted brain –
it gives me
sharp visions of grandeur, like African whiskey;
I can hardly come back from it.
Your dark eyes beaming in the moon rays
like violet plums chilling in water.
Sweet hell.
My heart hurts so brilliant.
When you are near
I thank the stars I that I am, too.
I close my eyes and I am a poet.
But once, as is inevitable
you go; I am helpless
as I am when the clouds move.
The satisfaction I felt
evaporates, in seconds,
just as it came.
one, two, three...
I feel directionless
and ordinary
in all the sober haze.
Apr 21, 2015
Apr 21, 2015 at 8:06 AM UTC
Everything about you is miraculous.
I have no words to give you
because they all taste like apples,
when they should taste like pomegranates.
It is all too generic, nearly – spiritless
to call you beautiful.
I am merely
existing in this dazzling
vapor of mania, that I
so clearly see
buzzing mad about you like hornets.
Only psychotic pills can describe what you mean.
Everything makes sense, in that, it doesn't.
I want to tell you all my dreams. And somehow communicate
that I think you are far more staggering
than I could ever articulate.
Isn't it a sick shame
that those – I mean those
wickedly gorgeous human beings, those with souls
heavy and earthy as antique clocks,
souls like tree moss
living for ages on wood sheds;
souls warm and tormented
like voodoo shops and dreamy sunsets;
souls like ruptured stones,
in-grown toenails and volcanoes –
those who,
should take compliments
and tuck them away on the wide shelves of their hearts,
instead –
handle them like steaming acids.
I only wish you would
take more than a kiss from me.
but I feel content
also obscene and distracted;
listless yet
serene – when we
share a close space.
The aesthetic I find, I cannot ignore
nor quite place.
It smokes. It intoxicates.
I want to describe the spices in your curves,
(surely you must know) – the organic magic of them
and how they flow, sway-swaying
gentle stream, always waiting to be
dipped into.
But, there is
an energy far more hypnotic than lips or hips,
it is familiar yet new, and constant
and constantly
enticing,
beneath your skin, behind your tongue
somewhere twisted within
your twisted brain –
it gives me
sharp visions of grandeur, like African whiskey;
I can hardly come back from it.
Your dark eyes beaming in the moon rays
like violet plums chilling in water.
Sweet hell.
My heart hurts so brilliant.
When you are near
I thank the stars I that I am, too.
I close my eyes and I am a poet.
But once, as is inevitable
you go; I am helpless
as I am when the clouds move.
The satisfaction I felt
evaporates, in seconds,
just as it came.
one, two, three...
I feel directionless
and ordinary
in all the sober haze.
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