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When we dance,
We are one.
Our energy flows through our feet and spreads across the floor.
Our arms and hands hold our connection.
Our love travels that path back and forth.
And we can feel how much we mean to each other.
How much this time together means.
Because we never get enough.

When we dance,
My hair reaches for you when you spin me
Because it longs to tangle itself in you.
Because usually when it surrounds you,
It means I am at peace.
You’re usually not at peace
Because you’re being wrapped in hair.
But I am at peace when I am that close to you,
Tangled in your body,
Wrapped up in your breath,
Never wanting to move from that position...
Except to detangle you from my hair.

When we dance,
I can feel us communicate.
I know what you want me to do,
How you want me to move,
And I try my best to execute it.
I always try my best for you.
Because you deserve the best.

When we dance,
Time stands still.
No matter the tempo
Or the length of the song.
I never want it to end.
Our dance is my favorite dance.
I could dance with you into eternity.
Maybe that would be enough time.
But somehow I doubt it.
Second attempt at a love poem
I went away, but it wasn't for play
Certainly, though, it didn't show,
the strenuousness--
head wrapped in gauze and cement at once.
And your bed is your grave
like a mummy entombed.
No sleep is ever enough
because it's too late.
But compared to the rest of the world,
it's your sun-infusing life pod.
As Earth's energy grows
stalks to the sky in nature, emerald green
and in the city, tin men and women wound
with a key
tight to within an inch of their lives
to build pillars of silver and glass,
equal parts plaintive and proud.
The atmosphere and ants proceed
as they would
while I cannot be worshipful, as I should,
to this planet we've been given.
My tributes were never tangible--
whispy as they're twisting to, I fear,
be ephemeral.
So why does a pen or keyboard taps
feel like a moral stand?
They say the Devil's playthings are idle hands
but in reality, my corpse hands
cannot volunteer to any definitive ends.
Though sin of sloth, I'll have to admit.
I hadn't written poetry in too long...
J Oct 12
To some,
it may look
and feel like

But to her,
it was far,
far better
than that.

It was freedom.
Elizabeth C Oct 11
I’ve never written a happy poem.
It’s not as if I haven’t tried.
I’ve started many, never finished.
I’ve been wanting to write one for you.
But every time I try, it comes off too simple.
I want my happy poem to be as poetic as my love for you.
But not as cliché as my love for you.
I wanted the words to be mansions made out of metaphors.
I wanted them to soar with sincerity.
But instead, they fell flat with over simplicity.

I want to write you a happy poem, but it seems the only thing I’m good at is anger.
Any poem I’ve written before has been salty over social injustices or personal hurt.
Past poems have been about things I’m passionate about.
I am also so passionate for you.
I’ve just never been so passionate about being happy.
I’ve never wanted to put my joy into words.
I’ve never known what it was like to feel like I’ve “waited my whole life” for someone.
But now that I do, I know why so many people are excited to talk about it.
I’m excited to talk about everything I care about.
It’s just that my opinions about injustices are dramatic and loud.
But my love for you is both simple and intricate.

I simply love you.
But I don’t just love you. I love you with my whole being.
My body yearns for you because your embrace is my safe house.
My mind always thinks of you because you’re my comfort in the darkness.
My soul appreciates you because you wanted to understand me as no one else has.
My heart loves you because it’s so done with ******* and you are real and refreshing.
I love you is everything I feel for you wrapped up in 3 short words and it’s still not enough.

Now I’m trying to learn to love myself as you do, but I wear the scars of my past all over my mind and body as if they’re excuses.
These reminders of my damage I’m trying to bleach away.
They’ve been affecting the way I hate myself.
I try to love myself always, but too often do I fail.
I don’t want to because how can I hate someone you love so much?
I want to see me as the person you love, but my insecurities make me worry you’ll eventually see me the way I do.
And the me that I see is so much harder to love.
That me is still trying to grasp that she is wanted for more than what they thought she was worth.
They thought she had one use and that was not love.
That me believed them.
She’s still trying to shake those venomous thoughts from her head.

I don’t want these scars to be reminders of my damage anymore, but a map of my path to you.
They’re symbols of how my heartbreak prepared me for you.
The man I didn’t know I was waiting for.

I’ve never written a happy poem because I’ve never felt happiness like this before.
Almost 2 years with you seems like my whole life, yet still not enough time.
How am I supposed to feel familiar enough with this to put it into words?
I’ve felt anger so much, anger is the back of my hand.
It’s basically been my default emotion.
But now I find myself using my happy to keep the flames controlled when they threaten to overwhelm me.
And I realize what it’s like to love someone who doesn’t manipulate me.
And I realize what it’s like to love someone who loves me for me and not for what I do for them.
And I realize I now know what it’s like to feel like I’m enough.

And I also realize that this still isn’t really a very happy poem.
But it’s my version of a love poem.
And like me, that’s enough.
Shane Rowe Oct 6
Take me away
From all the broken promises
And shattered walls.
Take me back to when the world
Was still bearable.

Turn back the time to when I fell in love with you,
And I was happy about it.
Shane Rowe Oct 5
Tell her all the beautiful things you told me.
But please, mean it this time.
Elizabeth C Oct 5
Yellow fever used to be used to describe a disease.
Symptoms can include chills, headaches, body aches, vomiting, and weakness.
Yellow fever is a virus that killed thousands of people.
Now it is used to refer to the intense fetish for Asians.
Now I know seeing a particularly hot Asian can send chills up your spine.
Having a confusing yellow guy or gal sending mixed signals can give you a headache.
Sometimes your body can ache to be with that special squinty eyed beauty.
Spending a night partying with that glowing Asian can cause vomiting cuz we go hard.
Your first kiss with your feature fetish can make you weak in your knees.

But what happens when they’re not Asian enough for you?
When they don’t fit the simple submissive stereotype you desire?
What will you do when you discover you can’t distill us down to your ideal Asian?
Will it chill your spine to know we’re not nonchalant chinks?
Is it going to give you a headache when you have to hassle with the idea that we don’t exist to please you?

“I’ve always wanted to date an Asian girl” is not a pickup line.
“You know I had an Asian girlfriend once” doesn’t impress us.
It tells us yellow is the only young thing you yearn for when you yell personalized catcalls at us.
It doesn’t make us feel special.
It just makes it obvious you want us to be another notch in your belt.
As if you’re collecting us as trophies.
Maybe you’re confused since we’re both gold, but we are not objects you shove on your shelves, simple shells of ourselves.

We are not a fetish.
We are not a conglomeration of races for you to conquer.
We are not “exotic”.
We don’t exist for your fantasies.
We are not a disease or a virus.
We are human beings.
Trevor Welch Oct 3
With wondering eyes and a thundering heart
The boy took his seat, infuriated with the steady
Pace of his mother, waiting on bated breath to start
His adventure. Nevertheless she drags, and ready
To burst the boy sits, and waits patiently.

“My father?” he teeters and yells with delight
“My father!
Tell me his story, leave no detail untouched,
With the glow of your voice might I see his face,
with bated breath might I  know such
A man as he was, and be one twice over!”

With her flourish and grace a thread soon formed
And wound through air and ear, a tale spun with love
And seasoned with pride, a whisper to show the roar
Of his existence, the land of mere legend he lay far above.

“He was field-tiller,
He was the huntsman amongst the mushrooms,
The strong amongst the stout.
May the point in is cap never sag
And the bend of his knees never wobble.”

“Though sag his cap did, and with each step a quiver
Showed true, fire burned in each cheek and coursed
Through each vein, the burn of his love sent shivers
Through those lucky enough to have tapped such a source
Of vitality.”

“He was many things my son, that father of yours,
And many more will you be too, but remember
To humble your heart and keep your soul kindled,
For greatness awaits the boy who sleeps in a thimble.”
Miru Eirudy Oct 3
The me that you don't see
Hidden under the mask.
Everything you know about me.
Those are all lies.
Removing my mask is the real me.
Under the facade you know is what I am.
Tell me now.
How do you like the real me?
Is this what do you expect?
Scary? Frightening?
Are you scared of me now?
Look at your face.
I see disappointment.
Everyone of you doesn't understand me.
Elizabeth C Sep 27
You are confidence on a brush
Beauty in a bottle
I paint over my flaws
Powder my imperfections
Contour my cares away
I wake up early just to put you on
You smooth skin no scars
Defined eyebrows for days
Cheekbones for weeks
You make society tolerate my face

See you can never win
If I don’t put enough of you on I’m ****
“You look tired.”
“Are you ok? You don’t look so good.”
Put on too much of you and I become a ****
“Don’t cake it on. Gross.”
“She just puts all that makeup on for attention.”
“I like the no makeup look more.”
They don’t realize that that look includes you, too.
People don’t appreciate you.
But that’s ok. I do.

So thank you
For my elongated eyelashes
My eyeliner so sharp it could slice expectations in half
I realize you don’t actually cover up flaws because there aren’t any to cover up
But I appreciate you nonetheless
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