Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 Nov 2020 Sophia Grace
Chloe
Broken and blue
Is how love leaves you
As I hear the wind blow through the leaves of the ancient cottonwood trees.
And I watch the squirrels gather their nuts and prepare for the coming winter, I'm reminded of a few things that come softly in the whisper of the autumn wind for all to hear, if they listen.

Behind the poem is a poet, a lover, maybe a mother or a father. But most of all there is a human being. They feel, and they love. They have been overwrought with pain. And enraptured by Joy. They need  compassion and friendship and the human touch.
Tread lightly, for you tread upon
their hearts.
Lovers will always love. Haters will always hate. What a putrid existence to not have compassion for our fellow man. Me and my friend Luis are experimenting with turning poetry into music, please check out our projects on  https://www.bandlab.com/thomaswcase .
 Sep 2019 Sophia Grace
Onoma
love roams starker

naked

with her every

candlelit thought

of him.

milky moon maiden

at loosest ends.

beams a riot of departing

sanity, and a longed

for scream.

firmly rooted to the perfect

mound of her clearing.
I came home, collapsed on the floor, and let it all pour out.
Every heartache and headache
Every bad dream and scream
Every punch, every slap
Every time I said "I want you back"
I cry and cry for happiness and joy
For my brother's new baby boy
Then, your voice sounds in my mind
"Never cry for me, My Dear
As long as you love me, I'll always be near."
 Dec 2013 Sophia Grace
JJ Hutton
She tells him this better be the last one--
the last first love poem he'll write.
The title, she says, needs to be brief,
something any lover can relate to.
Do you want me to leave the room
while you write it?

No.

With one step she's no longer in the
living room, she's in the middle of the
apartment kitchen. There are two bowls,
two spoons in the sink. The bellowing heater
acts as background, smoothing the space
with its hum. She squeezes a drop of soap
into each bowl. Fills both with hot water.

Any lover needs to be able to relate, she says,
but make sure you set it somewhere romantic--
not Paris, Rome, or anything like that--but
next to a body of water. There should be
birds. Clouds and rain. Not sunshine. Don't
you think?

He thinks.

She works the bowls over with a dishrag.
Dinner, breakfast--whatever you want to call it--was good, she says.

Good.

She dries the bowls, places them in the cabinet.
Have you written a line yet?

Yes.

Can I read it?

Not yet.

When I wake up?

When you wake up.

With a hand to each side of his face,
she denotes the spots he missed shaving
with her index fingers. Here, she says.
Here. Here.

The lines run from the corners of his eyes
as he smiles. Now she marks these.
She kisses him; she doesn't say, I love you.
Not yet.

Wake me up before you go to work, okay?

Okay.

With one step she's in the bedroom.
The bed's a couch.
She pulls the quilt up to her chin.
Her body curls.
She says, Hang out with me in
my dreams.

Wouldn't miss it.

Good morning.

Good morning.

A few minutes later her breath
goes steady, falling in line with
the heater.

The sun starts seeping in through
the blinds. The loose strands of
her hair become gold. He draws
the curtains so the light does not
wake her. She, he types.

In an apartment where once was one--
one toothbrush, one set of sneakers
by the door--now there are two.
Everything paired off and content in
its pairing.

Is a woman, he types. He hits the delete key once.
Then he types N again.

Her makeup bag is on the dining table.
Islands of stray powder dot the bag.
Her brush is on the coffee table
next to the couch. Countless
numbers of hairpins are embedded in the carpet.

I can't make it in today, he says into the receiver.
Yeah, not feeling too good. Thank you, sir. Will do.
Alright. Yeah, you too.


When he presses in beside her, she says, I've been awake
the whole time.

Have not.

Have too. Did you finish it?

Yes.

Can I read it?

After you actually get some sleep.

What'd you call it?

Is a Woman.

I like that.

— The End —