I had this thought which I have found a little scary What if these things which you were saying You said but didn’t mean at all Who am I to you after all? A friend? A person you hanged out with for a month? Or just a gal you had acquaintance with? Avoiding girly analyze Of what you think and say to me Of what you wanted me to hear Or what you feeling What are you feeling deeply? Our relationship is going through time testing And are we passing such exam? Some time ago you even made a joke that we could marry Each other Oh my god I even didn’t know how to react on such request But honestly I’d probably consider proposition Not from romantic side and all But just because it’d give the possibility to stay with you a little And do the things together The things we dreamed about You know we short in options In current situation When boarders closed And lockdowns everywhere I wish to share with you my moods Right at the moment And now it’s hard to do We’re having 14 hours difference My sunrise - your sunset It’s gonna be two years already That’s why I’m asking you If you’re ready Not let your joke come true I may not ask you for such thing But do you wanna have with me Some part of our future?
she was afraid when they looked at her what did they see always wondering what they were thinking how do they feel analyzing every little thing she said overthinking she just cared so much she just wanted to be accepted
What tends to happen with many a poem is You hop in, then land up somewhere else Like driving to Texas and landing in Maine Or Going to India but ending up in the Caribbean
And it’s not nonsensical Certainly not, The poet is very much as sane as You or me
But rather, That walking or jogging at a Steady pace as you’d do in a novel Or essay or racing through a Movie The poet instead likes to hop and skip and Jump and race and dance and Twirl and roll and fly
So much so that those whose minds would rather Stick to a steady pace Are absolutely ******* in knots
In this case, One of two things may occur Some may scratch their heads and give up, deeming poetry “not their thing” While others, May read the poem in bits, At their own pace, Maintaining a slow and steady while acknowledging and appreciating and analyzing the hops and leaps and twirls- They are like detectives, Tracing the possible routes through which the poet may have traversed
Coming up with theories, And although a theory may or may not be accurate...
We don’t know how humans evolved But we appreciate it all the same
(Feel free to comment with a different title suggestion, I’m not sure the one I currently have embodies what I’m going for)
Tall, and sagacious, with unassailable secrets locked by crooked keys in rusted chests - stoic glances - upturned lips hiding more I want to see. I find the mountains of my skin between my fingers, hands on my hips, squeeze, push in and battle the duplicities: more or less. Does he look? He uses big words I look up in dictionaries I wonder if he likes complicated clamor of endless infractions like the books he reads, like the characters he keeps in his brain's edifice. And I'm volatile, I want to be written, but I know, yes, I know I should be writing myself. But I am small, in ways, somewhat sagacious, slightly introverted. Does that even count? I stutter, and feel my chest unlock then I'm grasping at it like hands catching nuts and bolts so heavy they're slipping through my fingers to dance on the floor. The pieces I lose make musical clamor, and I wonder if he's fond of the genre.