Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
V Feb 2018
their love isn't their own
it isn't a shared moment
like the rest who follow the
straight narrative.

they steal their kisses behind
doors, buildings, alleys,
places people wouldn't pay them any mind.
they flinch in fear.
Afraid to be seen, afraid to show
who they love.

their love is already decided.
They're birthed to follow
the straight narrative.
Having to be with someone,
their heart doesn't desire.
To be what others want.
To be safe.

Their love is too ethereal
for the people who hate them
to ever understand.

Their love is too different
for others to synthesize.
Their love is pure, wild, and spirited.
For they don't follow the bounds
or the narratives
Society has implemented.

As wild and pure and spirited as
their love is. They still
have to hide.
Afraid of isolation
and persecution.
Afraid of loving who
their heart aches for.
V Feb 2018
Your touch lingers on me, it burns my skin in a way the heavens could never heal.

   Even the divine impunity of the whitest rays couldn't cool the blistering touch you left, for they weren't strong enough to win the battle.

   Your touch was that of darkness, but it had its own light of onyx, one so abrupt and real that it held me captive, for no one's touch could suffice to yours.
V Feb 2018
You wouldn't believe me
even if I told the truth.
You wouldn't see a darkness
in my soul which you have
painted as light, as pure.

My role is that of an
innocent woman,
that of one with mild
that of one with
of stinging words,
and deliberate opinions.

No one ever sees
how dark I am.
They see the flux of
light that I have to offer.

They don't know the secrets
which I keep.
I'm too kind, I'm too simple,
I'm too sweet, but that's my
stellar performance on stage.
It's where I take my blossoming
breaths, where I indulge
myself in act one,
enabling myself a
break before act two
and before
the grand finale.

It never ends, for the
dramatic monologue
is of a continuous cycle of both
expectations and mildness that
I uphold.

Darkness. It's there.
You just don't see it.
No one sees it with
people like us.

The most innocent hide
the most complex secrets,
The most innocent hide
the darkest secrets, but
no one sees them until it's
too late.
Simplicity is not often with me,
For I am constantly spinning myself
Into a labyrinthine web of words.
(It's a problem - the spinner in my head
Cranks out WAY too much thoughtful thread.)
But I know how pointless it is to live this short life
without openly sharing my truths,
So, full of ambition,
I endlessly aspire to keep the door open
To this messy box.
So I wade through the mess
Collecting anchoring chords,
Endeavoring to weave them
Into an elegant and refined tapestry,
Ready to be presented to you.
One that says,
"Ever see the sun as the star it is, hanging in the sky?"
"Imagine giant glaciers bowling over these plains,"
"What's stopping us from staying out all night?"
"Let me list all the ways you are a beacon to my spirit",
"Please tell me about everything you love,"
"I look forward to these moments with you every other moment."

But that's always, like, way too much.
10.17.17 Inktober prompt: Graceful
Rules: No edits allowed
Star BG Oct 2017
With tapestry of words
inside self,
I place them in machine,
constructed in mind.

They churn, and turn
like inside a washing machine.
Water being breath.
Soap the dabs of punctuation.

Bubbles form like glue,
making sentences.
Energies build as all
gently move to merge together.

Once readied
with clear breaths of focus
into a heated heart they travel,
formulating to play with beating song.
To play upon empty page.
inspired by Sarita Aditya Verma - Thank you for your writing. Keep a writing to gift the world.
Richard Grahn Oct 2017
In the morning rain
There’s a feeling that grows,
Softly dripping,
Gently slipping
Into a dream.

It’s another day as
Thoughts gently sway.
Walking with memories
In this drizzling mist
Is hard to resist.

Across the meadow
A whippoorwill sings.
Down in the valley,
The echoes resound
With a joyous sound.

Ideas flow out but
Nothing comes easy.
The fabric is old
But a story unfolds
As the tapestry grows.

Woven with care,
This gentle refrain
Settles the soul and
Fills up the mind
With meanings.

Leaving behind
The mirage of time,
A rhythm explodes
Into mighty songs
Of healing.

Fashioned by fate
The music flows,
The flowers grow
And the raindrops know
It’s time to sow those tender feelings.
OK, I just noticed that this is the 400th poem I've posted on HP. A milestone I guess. My how times flies when you're having fun. ;)
Lyn-Purcell Aug 2017
The will of the Heavens
weaves its creations
great tapestries
of love and
A short poem I wrote in my journal during my walk passing a cathedral.
Next page