Coffee drips blue to the touch
Dark on its own brewed as such
I take one sip it’s over by the next
I take one cup,
And the three follow to keep me vexed.

I don’t understand what is happening
Why my dependence on caffeine is rising
Why I need that cold brew
Oh! But my coffee
That sweet drip of toffee!

A poem about gravity
I know he’s going to break my heart
I tell everybody that I know that it’ll come
I tell them, to tell myself
Maybe I’ll remember
Maybe he’ll run
Maybe I’ll run
Maybe just maybe, there’s a future but I’m afraid to feel that way.
Because
maybe I feel too hard,
maybe I feel too much, maybe I haven’t felt this way in a long time,
maybe that’s why I’m terrified.
I know it’s going to hurt, he’s already hurt me.

My walls are down, I know his are not.
I wish I could keep mine up,
but oh boy, it’s too late.
No relationship is ever certain
No love is ever promised
No life isn’t confusing as hell.
Always “love on me”
Never “I love you”
Hail, rain, warm nights, street lights, sunrise bedroom kisses, warmth, cold
- sometimes so cold, and Pleasure, and so vague,
social, no PDA, but then he grabs my hand and we walk together.

W T F is this, why do I want it so badly when I know it’s only gonna hurt me.
Why did I allow my heart to be open enough to be broken?
I’m still trying to put my own pieces back together, I didn’t and don’t need this.
But it’s truly everything I want.

Him, his black hole of a bed, those windows, those eyes that are **** galaxies.
They show so much, I can read them but not all of them,
sometimes they shift to a far off world that I have not been invited to.
But I want to know what’s going on behind those gorgeous galactic windows to a planet and soul that I will probably never get to visit.

Why, when I know, this is going to crush me.
Tear me apart in ways I know are coming,
Why do I come back and leave my heart on the floor, begging for more.
Why can’t I stop falling in love with a dark matter in the Universe?
Why does it already hurt but hasn’t even happened yet?
I am the light, orbiting the black hole,
Knowing full well I’m being ****** in,
And to my own detriment,

I circle it and am bracing for the inevitable-
But I’m also already ****** into his gravity.

Material lips; sewing on a seamless smile;
A shrouded piece of wool- for one wearing
The jersey of youth, as time slowly pulls at the thread
While I lock away my shadow of the writhing darkness,
Trailing behind me in the day; as I once tried speaking
To my void, but the emptiness obeyed not a single word

A tap tap at my window- the eyes to a soul, painted wholly
In the colours of divorce; as the separation of dreams
From one’s imagination. All, all was so dark; slandered
By such a terrorizing world- until I opened to let him in;
As a child with a curious thought, soon questioning, and
To study- for my lips to utter:

I cannot live out this life,
Without letting You, O Lord in.

I stalk through the dark hallways
Drifting through remnants of a sun.
Spirals into vortexes, cascading shafts of light on
Brief transits inward, where time falters.
Forces push & pull and all around
The tide of the cosmos envelopes me,
Wading through the static sea
Waves come in crashing-
Laughter, screams
And yet, no sound escapes the vacuum

I am a poem in motion, in itself-
I strike an empty canvas; drawing out inspiration from
the library of experiences sitting on a majestic shelf,
“what picture shall I craft,” to showcase an unheard story,
an unsung song- “and what lines shall I once again cross”

Poetry has no bounds;- its never short of words,
its expression is wild; tamed by the artist’s pen- my sword
to fight against the marching violence in my mind.
My words- are all a part of me; they separate me from the
entire world, as I watch everything unfold into the paper
where I write down my thoughts.

[the poet-
is an outsider; a broken writer, who gets his fix from
his literature art. It’s an addiction, and a cure to my everything-
yet it’s still nothing. It is here, it is there, it is everywhere; still
it comes from nowhere.

[a poem-
are her words tender, but also so raw. They are the length of her
elegant body, they are short of breath- she is my answer, she is
my many questions, she’s a truth made out of my lies. She is
everything to my nothing

No poem is a mistake; every poem is perfect-
written by imperfect people.

Your kiss feels like a petal in a violent wind;
an edible desire on my florid cheeks- blushing in my
memory of you, incessantly playing out love and seduction;-
you threaten my eyes with longing.

Swimming in an ocean of your dreams;
her waters are so clear -every tear in her eyes reflects a
better version of me; as I see my love for you is so frail
-destined to fail from every touch of our running lips;-
chasing after love, its sweet venom killed me from the start.

Darling, our love was a short poem; written in black
-for we couldn’t see its predictable conclusion;
our love was a short poem;- short, brief and obscured.

I don’t miss her, being my girl- I just miss
the feeling of not being so in love with someone,
who doesn’t love you anymore.

                          Today I wrote her a black poem.

I kissed a night;-
that had promised to keep me warm inside, falling
in love with its ghost- her absence haunts me still.
Steered by the afterimage of a crafty mindset;
a dramatic picture- its frame, filled with all pains;
their hurts written in unflinching paint.

Suddenly, I find myself hanging it all on a wall;
staring at it in a perfect dark, a dark work of
art- capable of still seeing it all.

Sometimes, its just her, him, them or it;
how I choose to see it, isn’t how well I express it.
Killing time, while battling a bipolar practice
of depression; that promised me just a subtle kiss-
but had embraced me in its dark aggression.

I kissed a night;-
that had promised to keep me warm inside, and
it was that very kiss that ****** all the life out of me.

Black mirror tears; crying in the dark—
reflecting on things about life, throughout late nights,
Buried talk with an assortment of people nowadays;
enduring their dead conversations; also texts feeling so late.

Overbearing much— bearing on regrets that weigh heavy
on a heart; a heart only heavy by weights you choose to carry.

So, do you carry on carrying that weight; the baggage
of your eyes, carries around judgments as more court cases.

“Just in case, I need some old evidence to prove
my worth,” you say, just in case.

Afterwards cracking that mirror in the dark—how do you
really see yourself any better, if you keep hiding in the dark?