At 3 am,
In a small city
Where the stars barely shine
And the darkness is silent,
You can hear hidden crickets
And feel the ghosts of forgotten memories.
They call it the witching hour,
But I call it
The hour of inspiration.
Because it's at 3 am,
That I write my best poems.
But it's also the only time,
That I let the tears fall
And I allow myself to think
Of hugs from winter,
Conversations with the breeze,
And the kisses from the stars.

don't forget me
p l e a s e

s.s

Dream
You chose to and you believed
Now look at your ship all wrecked
Yet somehow you're alive

The seas have been calm but still ruffle every now and then.
Though the ashes of my dreams still scatter everywhere each time I remem..
Her...
Such a beautiful face I've seen and it's one that's different compared to the others.

She left me though just the others along time ago.
Soon I'll be up and running again so will the others
But we are dreams who've been here in the clearance aisle

Waiting to be shaken...

His lips pressed against my skin like raindrops that fell gently upon my cold body. So gentle, so close. His love for me transformed, it grew until my skies were covered and his world was all I knew. The sensation he gave me was captivating, for I had always loved a storm. His smile hit me like a blinding streak of lightning, and it made me feel infinite. I was so lost in the thundering words that echoed in my ears, I was so incredibly obsessed with his hands and how they held me so tight, and I forgot that storms always come to an end. Slowly the raindrops stopped falling over my body so fiercely, his words ceased from thundering as they faltered to an echo. A memory. The ghost of his lips remained, like my love for him. Since the storm dispersed I sometimes fall in puddles of our forgotten love and I wish for the storm to return. A storm may be beautiful, but it will not last forever.

Oh, I think I've figured it out:  I'm so bouncy and smiley simply because I am chronically depressed.  



(sonnet #MMMMMMMCLXXV)


Oh yes, please text me that "it's love's detail"
And promise marriage ere we've talked fr'intents
But hours, to ask how I earn money hence,
Whileas ye ditch me cuz I don't in pale
Excuse have sure employment, and t'avail
That's what I've feared:  love false, as each want cents
When they quip "****."  And I knew't.  Good sense.
True love, shan't care for her purse:  love is bail.
I stoop low for the purple violets, stir
Twixt taller grasses that wee morsel's cue
Of deepest sorrow:  cuz I am as twere
Myself a violet, lost and trodden through
The years, and full of grief, yet smiling too,
For that's our lot.  Ai!  Is love always poor?!

24May18b

You think I don't like you but I do,
I wish you liked me back but you don't.
You talk to my friends but not me,
I thought you liked me but I thought wrong.
You flirt with my friend but why not me?
You seem like you care about me over text but
at school i'm nothing to you.
When I roll my eyes at you it means
I wished you talked to me.
I told myself I didn't like you anymore but
could not stop thinking about you.
I had a dream you asked me out
and told me I was beautiful,
but then i woke up an realized
that wasn't reality.
Sometimes I wonder what
life would be like if you liked me back.
Many girls fall head over heals for you,
but you ignore them.
I know you don't like me
and probably see this and think nothing of it,
but just think for a second, because what if
who i'm talking about is you?

All that’s left of him is a picture frame, once looked at over the armchair as coffee brews.
A bar of soap, bought for him in the winter as we slombered along to the dull sound of static.
His watch, worn day in and day out, as his world started and stopped with that watch.
And a small bag that held love letters before those who wrote them claimed them in the estate sale.

There they sit in the cold dark night. Lonely and forgotten. The aftermath of a war, and a fight he lost. And all I can hear in the darkness, is the slow ticking of that watch.

I read on a poem on a wintery day
Some kind of soham:
Nothing gold can stay.
And even this saying might be much true,
So much is staying
That is golden too.
So much you can't touch,
So much you can't see,
So much of you
Forever in me.
For Time can take,
And Time can break,
Things we've touched
And things we've seen
But Time, Valensa,
My love of Provença,
Can nothing do to what we have been.