I am incomplete;
I am coffee without cream.

Without you, I'm only me,
Just a part of a whole.
The puzzle isn't finished,
I am an abandoned goal.

Homework forgotten for TV,
I sit in ever hope,
That you will remember me,
And choose me over the remote.

I'm a painting never finished;
My completion is no rush.
I hope my artist's waiting,
and designing the right brush.

And though you can't agree,
You, sir, are my missing piece.
For I am incomplete;
I am coffee without cream.

You're the sun.

So beautifully bright that I have to stare, even though it hurts horribly.

I live in Antarctica, where you only light up my world half of the time and then leave me to suffocate in darkness for months on end.



You're a deer.

Unaware of me observing your adroitness from the dark depths of this brazen bracken which conceals me.

If I make any sort of sudden movement, I know you will sprint away into the trees because you're so afraid of letting anyone get close to you.



You're a puppetmaster.

Pulling at my oh-so-vulnerable heartstrings in the most musical way while creating the most fantastic and addictive art.

Your fingers are magic to me, and their slightest movement can either plunge me into endless despair or **** me up to the most heavenly of all cloud nines.



You're a siren.

Drawing me in with your sweet song only to ultimately unravel me.

You taunt me with colorful hints of false hope, making me wonder if you're really that cruel, or if you're merely  unstable.



You're a child.

So oblivious to the obvious, yet incredibly innocent.

You brighten my day with your silly antics and sweet gestures alike, but you're too enthralled in your own little world to ever notice.



You're Doctor Jekyll.

Always changing your face from friendly to arrogant and asinine, then right back again.

Sometimes I wonder how I could love someone like Mister Hyde, until you turn into the nice guy again and remind me.



You're a weaver.

Excruciatingly twisting the threads of me into the fabric of my being, leaving little streaks of sorrow and joy.

You have shaped this tapestry in the most painful and beautiful way, and without your unknowing influence, it would surely be unrecognizable from its current battered, but unique, condition.





You're a thorny rose I keep trying to pick.



Sending me away ******, bleary-eyed, and smelling sweet.



I wish you could understand how much I need to carry you home.

Whisper into my ear all the words you wish to say.
Whisper into my ear all the secrets that you hold.
If you are too scared to speak the truth, write me a poem.
Hide your feelings in metaphors, write your heart's desires into illusions.
Tell me how your heart beats in metre, so late at night, when the night is still-
when there is nothing to hear, but a faint heartbeat,
I know it's yours, yearning for me.

there is an ocean inside of me
one that's waves manifested from disappointment and heartache
and i'm choking on saltwater

today my gums bled when i brushed my teeth,
and i thought of making some metaphor
about how efforts to attain purity
only result in more stains,
but no.
it was just blood.

to call a rose — or torn gums — by any other name
is to silence the initial sting,
but it still ends up hurting more in the end.
it always does.
lying always does.

and if all i have are my words,
what am i if my words are lies?

what am i if i cannot be honest?

a bad writer, perhaps.
but trying.
i am also trying.

there are some days when the blood looks
a little less like words on a page,
and simply a little more like red,
and i am hopeful.

yet still i know
that efforts to attain purity
only result in more stains,
and red is a ***** to clean out.

(a.m.)

i tried to love;
i think i succeeded

but not like you,
not like them.

my love comes in waves,
fleeting and crashing;

it surges, strong,
then breaks against the sand

and i'm left with nothing but an empty shore

If I had to choose
Between the green of the grass
And the blue of the sky
I'd choose whatever
Caused that glint in your eye.

Because the blue of the sky
Does not know my intentions
Behind words so bold
Such as "I wonder
If I want to grow old?"

I was so obsessed
In not becoming
Another bad memory
For you,
I had not realized
You had become
A nightmare of a memory
For me.

And as I recall
Good times and great times,
I am sad to say
That in the relay
They have been tainted
By the bitter black of your rage.

So congrats,
My dear,
You moved on barely a week
After you left me
Seemingly broken
And seemingly undone,
With nothing to my name
But the sandals on my feet.

But interestingly
Enough
I do not care.

I hope your new flame
Is good to you,
Beady eyes
And all.

And I hope that you are good to her,
Toxic rage,
Volatile guilt trips,
Cruel fists
And all.

For I found that,
Just as before,
I have always preferred
The green of life and living,
And the orange of the sunset
So much beyond
The simple blue
Of the broken shell
Of a robin that never got a chance
To be more than an egg.

I hate the storm of your eyes,
But I no longer fear storms.

Why, you may ask?

Call me Storm Siren.

Maybe you'll understand then.

Everything in life is a metaphor from the Shining Sun of May looking wise and blinding
to the clever looking
young
waxing crescent Moon
smiling at me
I'm hanging there like the surrounding brilliant diamond angel tears
dangling on its every
winking word.
  
Cherie Nolan © 2016