I wrote sonnets
and wore
us like jewellery

You had me
feeling like gold
and I had no gravity

when he kissed
me goodbye
I held on
with tears
in my eyes
and usually
i don't hold
on to no one

you gave me a star
but I wanted the galaxies
of your heart

In the dusk's fading light of youth , a ghostly spectre stands tall,
An abandoned wreckage at the old dock's forlorn sprawl.
Once majestic, now decaying, she's a vessel of despair,
The timbers of her heart weathered and worn, beyond any repair.

Like a fossil of forgotten tales, she stands in solemn gloom,
Haunted by memories, whispered secrets, and tales of doom.
The ocean's embrace turned hostile, her beauty eaten to decay,
As the years wore on, stealing her magnificent colors away.

Anchored in the stagnant waters, trapped in a wistful trance,
An epitaph of dreams dashed she's a vessel caught in circumstance.
Tangled in seaweed's grasp, her sails once proud and taut,
Now a haunting reminder of a journey that was never sought.

Tempted by the tides of time, her fate was sealed,
the undying resilience broken, her septic wounds revealed.
There she lingers, forsaken, a relic of forgotten glee,
A rotting boat, a silent witness to the cruelty of the sea.

her words snap me back to reality,
away from supposition and hypotheticals,
into her arms where I feel safe.

blue eyes that pierce whatever darkness
i thought i had and lied to myself about,
eyes that see me for a who I am and who I want to be.

imagine walking down a darkened path,
content in the streetlights that guided
you home, and spotting something small
and kind. whatever it is you imagine,
it beckons you to hold it and when you do,
you smile, truly and impulsively.

that essence is a woman, and one i admire.
someone beatiful, kind, and funny,
including her incessant snoring on
already sleepless nights because a cat is begging for food but you feeling comfort
in their REM cycle. too little space
to be your own, but enough heart to bridge the gap.

imagine, then, that someone places
your hand on their lap when you drive,
but are equally willing to do the same,
in what feels like an equivalent exchange
of heart and sheer goofiness.

and tell yourself it doesn't feel right
that you were able to find home in them,
effortlessly and happily. you won't
and can't, and neither can i.

words can't express that she has been
friend, confidant, and a visual marvel,
and someone i envision as a pillar
of my bright existence.

Curse the poets blood.
No matter how much I cut myself, I cannot bleed it away.
Curse the poets skin.
I cannot tear it off, it holds everything in.
Curse the poets feet.
The more I try to run away, the more they dig in, rooted to the words that ground my life.
Curse the poets tears.
They provide no comfort. They blur my vision, wet my pages and smudge my ink.
Curse the poets mind.
At times I dream of throwing it all away. But I cannot differentiate between reality and figments of creativity.

with one look,
         she had me wanting to be with her
         make her so hot, skin feel like fever
         not only do I want it, I need her
         just to touch her, I am longing for
         and to feel her, I long for even more

So I'm a poet,

which was once just a pose, but --


I conformed to it.