Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
A beautiful verb, now only past tense,
Felt from that day, to all the years hence,
From beautiful voice, I held it so true,
But tell me just when, was it past tense to you?
We promised the moment, it happened we'd say,
But I haven't yet, and you didn't that day,
Sometimes conversations, they still feel like home,
Like you did that day, by the sand and the foam.
This poems not finished, no it doesn't feel done,
But as I think of a title, past tense's not the one
Should love feel like coming home?
Like shelter after you roam?
Like peace and quiet and hope and sleep?
Like a safe pair of arms in which to softly weep?

Or is it adventure we seek?
When on our lips of love we speak?
Within you you feel a fire burn,
For love's the adventure for which you yearn.

But perhaps my dearest, sweetest you,
Both of these loves are always true,
And in your love I've always found,
Both kinds tend to be abound
Do you stare too at the dot of green,
Wondering why, and what did it mean?

Are you out there unfazed, unfettered, unseen?
Or do you sit too, and curse what has been?
Mad you said things that you didn't mean?
Or is it just I who stares at my screen,
Driven insane by that dot of green?
The limelight dims, the curtains fall,
Unset the stage, we've seen it all.
The story's told, it's a such a shame,
The backdrop's new, the end's the same.
Why do we bother, to take our seat?
The play is sad, and all too fleet.
Through empty rows, his voice now leaps,
And into him, emptiness seeps.
Hey
So I say hey, how have you been?
I tried to stay mad but that isn't my scene.
I always freak out about what to say to you,
But who is it that I am really lying to?
Cause we all know, what it is I mean,
When I say hey, how have you been?
Bloodied knuckles, and a bleeding wrist
Waves of a feeling, I haven't missed
I thought I was done with feeling this way
I thought I was over crying everyday
It's just as bad as it ever was
It never ends it just goes on pause
Hurts for the reason it does every time
Hurts in the way that makes me rhyme.
I don't write them the way
I did when I was young,
And these days I don't
Show them to no one.
They're not here to impress
To lie or to win
They're just here cause I
Don't know how else to begin.

So ***** the time scheme
And accept the forced rhyme
I don't even remember
When those rules felt like mine.
I'm just here to practice
Til one day I know
I've written something
That's ready to show.
Next page