Pull me down.
Hold me c l o s e.
You're the one,
I want the m o s t.
Breathe in deep.
Pull your h a i r.
You wanna be here,
I wanna be t h e r e.
What's old is dust.
And today is n e w.
You remake me.
I'll remake y o u.
**** and kiss,
and tongue and *******.
This is fate,
with a little l u c k.
Love poems are life.
past simple praise:
he loved me
but he loved his pain more
i pulled him into the bathroom once, it was dark
his warm fingers gently plucked at my heart
for some time
the way we kissed was art
his rhetoric far surpassed mine
he asked me how my day was,
i proceeded to word *****
i talked about the most useless ****
when i asked him about his,
i got a shakespearean ******* sonnet
present perfect pain*:
i have never been good at thinking things all the way through
and that is why i've fallen so deeply for people like you
Scratching for a meaning.
Deep down, you're tracing holes for the rain.
Forgiveness is not remembering a whole **** thing.
Breathing in, whilst hopelessly trusting the clocks will stop.
The mask slips down, yet still,
It's knotted around my neck.
The vacancies turned on its side,
Neither open nor closed.
And this, this is the current state.
It is full and waiting to let go.
when the majority claims the need
to violently fight for its minority rights
something is rotten in this nation
Apropos Charlottesville's domestic terror attack...
The words of empty rhetoric,
don’t impress the unsaved;
Love requires real actions
of Faith; one day, a grave
will contain soiled remnants
of how, we were perceived;
the memories others recall,
are what they often received-
by the witness of our lives.
Before men, we’re justified
through our works of Love;
yet, it’s Christ crucified…
that serves as the impetus
behind our true motivations;
He’s the standard for living
and grace against damnation
of our eternal souls.
Jam 2:24; Exo 17:15–16
Learn more about me and my poetry at: amazon (dot) com
By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2017, All rights reserved.
What's another sleepless night on the path to infinity? Here's to the pills to make me chill but still don't do anything. So I'm just staring at the inside of my eye lids watching the scenes of my life play out on my internal movie screen.
I see in vivid colors the memories that I thought I had let go, but were continuously burning from within me. Like the time I spoke venom and rhetoric at the loss of my notebooks and it was probably then and there that you fell out of love with me.
Or the moment you got too close so I shut down and refused to speak. Those times got more frequent and fraught with the fear to be open and honest but a liar I'd never be. So we sat in silence in the car like a sad film scene where it would rain, but we wouldn't cry, and so you fell out of love with me.
And if there's a demon in me, he's learned to speak in silver lined tongue and in prose and in rhyme and to paint pictures with words so he can pretend he's free. But I'm still haunted by the actions and the fears of a scared and tired little heart housed in chain and ice and it's when these fears came to life: I learned I'll never be free and so I fell out of love with me.