I'm not sour,
or looking for revenge
or recompense.
I know it's your fault,
for not being
what I want.

But I will forgive you,
if you given me what I want.
Just change your mind,
change this life's font.

Give me acclaim,
for all my talent's n' passion.
come; see sense,
you know it's
what I deserve ,
n' what I want

And I will forgive you,
if you given me what I want.
Just change your mind,
change this life's font.

They sit until stirred through the air by stomping feet,
their beauty left behind in an abundance of forgotten fate,
dirtied by the bottoms of soles whom drift with paltry paths.
Have they any recognition for their once grandeur existance,
or the visually vibrant ambiance they had to relinquish?
They go disregarded by many whom hold the same discouraging weight,
their fractured features left by the taughting aura of the feet,
mistaken for nothing but miniscule fragments of the world.
People try to propogate some sort of prominent impact,
and end up forgetting that everyone leaves.

"why are you upset?"
"i don't know i'm tired, i guess."
"then just turn it off."

They say;
"The flame burns brightest in darkness."
but then, I would argue;
"The flame burns brightest amongst the many."
As no fire nor flame
can ever truly be distinguished

He yelled
Out **** spot
to the freckled boy from next door

and
out **** spot
to his own black labrador

he wolf whistled and cawed
to all the lambs on the moor

yet
he had never seen or thought
of the blindspot in his own eye before

She's looking
For her Cali King
The one to endure
To hold her
In comfort
To support her
Meet every need,
The one to lean on
To stand by her
And grow
Through the hard times,
And the good
The thick
And thin,
By her side
Through
The sweet
And bitter
Sturdy
And dependable
No matter
What the spill
Each and every
Tear and thrill
Always and forever
Till either is laid
To rest,
Maybe she'll just settle
For a couple pillows
And this mattress...

APAD16 - 024 © okpoet

I cannot hear, the past in my rear view mirror;
Nor the wheels rotations,
or motion's sensations;
While under a flower bouquet
182.88cm away from me.

It's 4 a.m.

I have spent the night
Trying to write
A heartfelt phrase of clever verse

Each stanza is just worse and worse
I fail to create
Anything of worth

How can I describe
How I basically
Want to tear out my heart
To give to thee?

I want to pull out the gory strings
And write you a ****** love song.

How can I transcribe
The look in my eyes
As they blink when
You're away from me

They flutter open and close, as a sign of hope
That you might be there the next time.

I have tried comparing you to a summer's day
But a summer day does nothing for me-
I want to compare you to a tempest of force
That has swept me into a lovesick fantasy.

I have tried composing some poetry
That could attempt to configure
The colour of your eyes
But all I could come up with
Were ****** metaphors and signs
That simply would not
Do.

Their presence is not "you".
You are you,
and you are far away,

Doing something with someone else.

I write for therapeutic torture,
Woefully convinced that should I be able to craft something
Reminiscent of this attraction
It might be generated right back.

I would be rightfully wrong.

And yet I continue to write.