Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
I once thought big words
held more depth
than small ones.
Now I know they just cause
macro-cosmic misinterpretations.
I see her eyes
they are curious
raw
and enormously round
like the heart of an water lily

the petals never close
they risk desolation
destruction by the tempest’s wrath
they have felt the frigid hail before
how they know its bitter sting
but they despise ignorance
for what is surviving safety
if beyond lays living hell?

if one flower blooms
the maelstrom becomes worth fighting
so they gladly withstand hurricanes
giving those thrown into this gale
a remedy
to bring the dying back to life

I see her eyes
they are dark
enigmatic
of burnt umber
like the ashes of the phoenix star

the dust of the dead
compressing and contorting
their carnage reaches distant worlds
as a glimmer amid the twilight
to them, this is worth the pain

I can see them rupture, crack, and fade
they burn
they rise from peace
to welcome the chaos of ignition

In looking at her
my surroundings blur to grey
the grey of colors so confused they mix to absolute equilibrium
and so I see only her eyes
but that is all I need
to perceive her
Kissed collarbones
Bruised lips
You told me about the gifts you had for me
(I'll keep everyone)
The love letter written on the back of a napkin
We have been in love more ways than there are words to describe:
Passionately
Bitterly
Yearningly
Miserably
Tenderly
Dis­astrously
Continuously
No matter how many times we pull apart
The elastic bands around our hearts snap us back together
High force collisions always end spectacularly
You've given me countless gifts
And I'll keep them
*forever
Life and death have been in love
For longer than we have words to describe
Life sends countless gifts to death
And death keeps them forever


(saw this quote on the internet and decided to make a poem about it)
It isn't sadness;
that is the biggest misconception.
People treat it like an emotion infecting a blue day,
labeling slightly soaked cheeks as this ailment of the mind.
The term is cracked like a whip in stinging insult:
weak, powerless, loser, outcast.

It is feeling a lack of feeling,
where one exists in a mental state of wanting to be anything but lethargic
yet finding nothing worthwhile inside
with which to take action:
no talent, no skill, no interest.

It is not only not believing one has any energy
but seeing nothing to which to give it,
in yourself, in others, in the world.

It is severe despondency and dejection,
consuming worlds like oozing, viscose magma
dribbling uncontrollably as burning ***** from the mountain's fiery mouth
burping filthily as is sludges onward.

It isn't sorrow, or misery, or despair.

It is inadequacy,
an ebb of interest in life,
with a sliver of interest to take it.
Telling someone not to be sad
because others have it worse
is like
telling someone not to be happy
because others have it better.

— The End —