Time.
Give me piece.
Just feel the falling.
Just to hear the calling.
Just to sense the stalling.
The tolling of bells.
Where we give in to sells.
Let me see.
What it is like.
To be a force.
That is not yet completed.
For no amount of time.
Can fix lost time.
Not one of my rhyme.
Not one sour lime.
So I just tell my story.
From sad, to gory.
I don't deserve glory.
Cause the things I am given now bore me.
So don't give more to me.
Unless it is true,
Not just lore or sympathy.
So come only with heart and soul.
If you could have the need to help.
Then give me sweet call.
A lovable Yelp.
I am joking.
Yet I am not.
So give me what I previously sought.
So I could have a strong distraction from my thought.
And also...a signable direction.
Towards this thing that is called affection.

I, no longer drowning
hold fast
current around me
tried to pull me under
but her
I, I found a way to hold on
how to be strong
I found a way
her hands
its almost everything I need
when I dont speak the words to say "I love you"
I dont have to
because everytime she looks in my eyes
she can see she is saving me again
not wave nor rapid
her hands

I knew a girl who used poetry as a weapon.
Who broke hearts for fun, only to dip her pen in their blood and write lines in the sand.

I knew a girl who used poetry as a shield.
Who thought her words were justified if she dipped them in honey before she spoke.

I knew a girl who used poetry as a blindfold.
Who hid her betrayal behind selfless lines and artful lies.

And she called me her muse and I thought it a compliment when really it was a curse.
Because I knew a girl who only wrote poetry about broken hearts so she let me fall so she could watch me drop and describe the sound of my impact with honey-coated drizzle.

Because it’s my heart that was pen-dipped.
My ears that were darkened by honey-covered lies.
My eyes that were obscured by a blindfold of silk.

And when my blood dried and the sand was used up, she went for another boy.
A broken boy.

One she didn’t have to break to write her twisted lines.

He was born in August
Despite being surrounded by summer
He was susceptible to sadness
When he walks he goes heart first
Feet after
He speaks with a pencil
And a sketchbook
Always placed in his back pocket
Its outline is engraved in the denim
There's courage on his eyelashes
Despite the long cold winter
His flowers grow back relentlessly
Every
Single
Spring
He lets them grow wild
Since others trim theirs back

He finds another
Tends to her sadness
Waters her flowers so they can grow wild
Too
Always hers first
Even if there's not enough water for two
In return she carries some of his sadness for him
After all it's grown heavy

He was born in August
Sunshine in his hair
There were no clouds in the sky
Because he was holding on to them for us
Carries them in a jar
In return the wildflowers thank him for it
They grow thick on the forest floor so he can rest his head
While he sleeps
They sometimes withdraw a cloud
Absorb the sadness into their roots
And leave him nothing but the silver lining
"So you know you're loved"
The wildflowers whisper
"So you know it has all been worth it"

Amongst the silly humans
fumbling about
these parts
is

this heap
this leap
this unfairly fashioned
female sweet

who's presence
Burns like the
certain sun








Copyright@2018 Dennis Willis