On a busy afternoon i sat on the floor,
and i felt someone looking at me.
Through the glass frame peering into room,
Was an old, brown wood tree.

The tree was old, yet rather slim,
And i wondered how it spent it's day.
Was it by feeling the raindrops fall?
Or by watching the children play?

The tree had rusty green leaves,
Dwelling on its branches all along.
When the wind blew and the leaves moved,
They'd whistle it a beautiful song.

The tree was still and i could move,
Yet to me, it felt more alive.
As i could move, still feel stuck.
And it was still, at peace and thrived.

I often envy the brown wood tree,
As it enjoys the sunset of june.
Thinking that, i get up and realize that I'm late,
To continue with my busy afternoon.

Your scent lingers,
Your essence, rich
Spilling warmth,
Sun-kissed

I breathe it in;
Hungry for more,
A fragrance
Heavy with memories

Pulling me
To that first kiss,
To the rock where we sat
Both knowing

This was it

The world slows,
I sink in
Edges of everything else
Soften,

Fade.
-July 29th

Nestled
beneath the calm of your hold

Morning’s light
Folding around us

The scent of you
Carried in the stillness

You look at me
Eyes soft, gazing

My skin remembers
where your hands have been

Silent vows
pressed
Onto my body

Colours,
Staining skin

Blues, purples and yellows

It feels so good
Everything does
It’s almost frightening

The warmth lingers
But time does not hesitate

Hold me a moment more

Let my eyes speak
The adoration
My heart keeps for you

The day pulls me away
I let it,
Unwilling
-Wednesday, july 23

be gentle with us
please.
or don’t.
it is, after all,
your choice.

but know this

we, the poets,
are not built like the rest.
we are the black rose
among gardens of red
too rare,
too delicate,
too dangerous.

we feel with the whole sky.
we love like the sun
is seconds from setting.
we fall,
not softly
but all at once,
like shattered stars
scattering over wounds.

we live small
but think wide.
in our minds,
we are always flying
between memories
and make-believe,
between hurt
and hope.

don’t be deceived
by calm faces.
we wear masks
stitched from poems
and laughter
but behind them
we are velvet chaos,
quiet storms
with bleeding edges.

we, too,
have danced with devils
and kissed pain
like it was wine.
we return
from places
we cannot name
but we carry the fire
in our chests.

a poet could be anyone
walking beside you
a poet could be everyone
breaking silently

we collect fragments
glances,
murmurs,
empty chairs.
we see beauty
in undone hair,
in chipped teacups,
in rain that ruins plans.

and love
when we love,
we don’t stop at skin.
we fall into souls.
into scars.
into shadows.

and when we’re hurt,
we trust slower.
touch softer.
speak less.

so now you know
this heart,
it does not bruise
it blooms in pain.
this soul,
it does not break
it spills light
through its cracks.

so if you come near
and if you care
then please
be gentle with us.

be gentle with us
or don’t.
the stars still fall without permission.

but if you must touch us
touch slow.
for we are poets,
woven from breathless skies
and midnight trembles.

we feel too deeply,
like a violin played in a burning cathedral.
it is not a fault
only a fire
that never learned silence.

we do not fall in love,
we crash.
like galaxies meeting at full speed.
we love like we are dying,
we live like we are fading,
but in our minds
we fly barefoot across constellations.

our hearts
are black roses
growing among the red
soft to the gaze,
sharp to the soul.

you will not see it in our steps
or in the way we drink our tea.
but we are stained glass
already cracked
still catching the light.
and if you press too hard,
we will bleed beauty.

a poet is not always seen
sometimes just a smile in the corner
a sigh in the crowd.
we are everywhere,
soft and wild.

we tell stories
so the silence doesn’t win.
we wear masks
not to hide
but to protect the soft
from the cruel.

we notice the things you forget.
the chipped cup.
the tremble in your laugh.
the way sorrow dresses like strength.

and when we love
we love your entire world.
not just your name
but the way it sits in our lungs.
not just your eyes
but the way they flinch when the past whispers.

we adore the broken
shards glinting red
like stained mirrors
still daring to reflect stars.

we have kissed the devil
with trembling mouths,
left pieces of our soul
in places no light touched
and still returned.

we are fragile
yes
but not weak.
our hearts are ruins and gardens
at once.

so if you come close
come gently.

because when we hurt
we hurt in verses.
and when we fall
we don’t land.
we become.

so this is your only warning,
written in blood and ink:

be gentle with us.
or
watch the beauty bleed.

I am not a poet.

My words were never made for the masses,
Made to pry emotions from your heart.
Rhyme can sometimes leave me at a loss,
And my inkwell is more often empty than not.

I am not a poet.

I can write only what I know and feel,
Each poem I give a little piece of me.
Every line is just a wisp away from existence.
Each poem might just be the last I write.

I am not a poet.

Yet why do you feel like my muse?
Your eyes remind me of a thousand places,
Like sea glass glinting green in the hush of tide.
Your voice has its command over my pulse.

I am not a poet.

But poetry you are.
How else do I describe this feeling,
If not with flowery words and rhyme.
And yet no words can hold it right.

I am not a poet.

I would be lost if I were.
For if I give a piece of me,
It will always be here in this poem,
With You.

We become soil and ash
We all do, decompose in the east
If my knees can’t carry me up the hills
If the millipedes can’t have a feast