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kathy-zPoems
I've only written poems about love. Most of them- filled with angst, overflowing not unlike a flooded river, maybe the Nile in spring. I don't really use lipstick, or mascara for that matter, because makeup, is just something to hide behind a shield that people are trying to cast off every day. writing a poem without inspration is like trying to describe a chocolate eclair without taste buds. Maybe that's why this is so hard to write. But I had pleaded for another wish, on a birthday candle, one day in May Blowing the little flame out, I rode my hopes on that little spark, making sure that there were no embers left in the ashes. Maybe I missed one, I'm not sure- because that wish still hadn't come true, to today. The voice of an aucostic guitar strums into my ear my only comfort against this dismal highway. And my earbuds are unbalanced the right one louder then the left and no matter how much I tilt my head it's still uneven Someone once told me "Tears taste like the ocean" that same person wiped away those tears, brusquely saying, "Don't cry. I don't want you falling asleep tomorrow." I held that as an act of kindness, one of the few close to my heart. The taste of coffee is too **** bitter. Yet I crave it, holding its warmth against my hands and blowing the excess steam off. Starbucks, in winter. When flipping through paintings of angles and demons, I wondered do angles really have halos? do devils really have horns? Who created the idea of supernatural creatures, at all? "Superstitious freak" I mutter, slamming the book shut and getting up to get another book called Lord of the Flies The blinking crusor and the white screen that's staring at me right now 4:45 a.m in the morning I couldn't sleep. So I check my email- it says You have no messages. For some strange reason, that's always the time when I feel the most alone. I wonder if people these days would ever write something, just for their own benifit, and not for the lust of getting reviews or compliments of others. I'm a filthy hypocrite, and I embrace that fact, writing pointless stories just for the sake of getting compliments, telling me "You're worth it" and "amazing."
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Jul 9, 2013
Jul 9, 2013 at 2:32 PM UTC
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I've only written poems about love. Most of them- filled with angst, overflowing not unlike a flooded river, maybe the Nile in spring. I don't really use lipstick, or mascara for that matter, because makeup, is just something to hide behind a shield that people are trying to cast off every day. writing a poem without inspration is like trying to describe a chocolate eclair without taste buds. Maybe that's why this is so hard to write. But I had pleaded for another wish, on a birthday candle, one day in May Blowing the little flame out, I rode my hopes on that little spark, making sure that there were no embers left in the ashes. Maybe I missed one, I'm not sure- because that wish still hadn't come true, to today. The voice of an aucostic guitar strums into my ear my only comfort against this dismal highway. And my earbuds are unbalanced the right one louder then the left and no matter how much I tilt my head it's still uneven Someone once told me "Tears taste like the ocean" that same person wiped away those tears, brusquely saying, "Don't cry. I don't want you falling asleep tomorrow." I held that as an act of kindness, one of the few close to my heart. The taste of coffee is too **** bitter. Yet I crave it, holding its warmth against my hands and blowing the excess steam off. Starbucks, in winter. When flipping through paintings of angles and demons, I wondered do angles really have halos? do devils really have horns? Who created the idea of supernatural creatures, at all? "Superstitious freak" I mutter, slamming the book shut and getting up to get another book called Lord of the Flies The blinking crusor and the white screen that's staring at me right now 4:45 a.m in the morning I couldn't sleep. So I check my email- it says You have no messages. For some strange reason, that's always the time when I feel the most alone. I wonder if people these days would ever write something, just for their own benifit, and not for the lust of getting reviews or compliments of others. I'm a filthy hypocrite, and I embrace that fact, writing pointless stories just for the sake of getting compliments, telling me "You're worth it" and "amazing."
kathy-z
Written by
kathy-z
American
Jul 9, 2013
Jul 9, 2013 at 2:32 PM UTC
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