DEAR PENPAL PEOPLE, I'm well aware that nothing makes sense, including this poem :>

content is not something we give consent
you hold your pen yet the ink spills as it pleads
you are a walker of blood yet it sheds out when cut & bent
you have a brain yet the tongue blurts out the feels

content is not something we color
just an acceptance of the past
just a canvas you get to paint with limit bother
good for a day then a memory till it lasts

the kiss of a palm forehead & cheek
drafts in my head just to render a sleep
some greed never fed or a satisfaction to meet
yellow till it goes mustard & a shade deep

the saving of a night that would save the day
it's like it's gold but you're swallowing the sand?
the desperation for a treasure at some bay
how would I even find content when out of the hand?


                                                         ­                         --------ravenfeeels

and from a distance
i counted the pigments etched on your face,
your mother was a good painter.
in the windows of my eyes,
i connected the dots,
traced them,
articulated them,
to the point i found big dipper
near the creases
of your eye brows,
i found orion
beside the stretch of your smile,
and virgo
rested against your cheek.
you brought the entire
constellation in this room.

and from a distance,
i stargazed.