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  Sep 16 K
Crow
we do not write poetry
we write mirrors
which are held up
to curious faces
who read
looking for their
own reflections
K May 28
not in riddles but in lyrical ballads.

let us dance under the moonlit sky
cold water beneath our feet
eyes closed, swaying in silence

address unknown.
K May 2019
you said that i was the most exotic flower;
but flowers wilt
and flowers die.

what now?
K Sep 2018
i miss the sound of your voice echoing around the emptiness of your barren room

you reading your favourite poems in hushed tones as if whispering sweet nothings into my ear

i miss the mellow beat of your heart, the rise and fall of your chest, and your warm breath on my face
but missing the memories, not the person
K Jul 2018
you were an unfortunate walk in the dark. I clasped ever so tightly to the rope that I thought would lead me to - you -. Instead, it led me to a you - one that was overwhelmingly underwhelming; one that taught me that words mean almost nothing; one that showed me that complete breakdowns fraught with tears, justifications, and empty promises are nothing but a B-grade actor's (one that almost fooled me) attempt at putting on his best show. I was desperately waiting for someone to toss me that lifeline and pull me out of that wreckage. But the sad and undeniable truth is that they probably just thought I was part of the wreck.
I read the first sentence of this prose under the comments section of another poem. Gave me some inkling of what I wanted - or needed - to write. Utterly confused as to if I am still waiting for that lifeline or if I have already pulled myself out of the wreckage.
  Jul 2018 K
em
recently
I got a little older,
learned a lesson or two,
like how loving someone
could never be as poetic
as I wanted it to.
like how nothing
would ever be as poetic
as I wanted it to.
how can I accept
that the miracle of love
isn’t really a miracle at all?
how can I wrap myself
in someone’s arms
when I know
that there isn’t any sort
of poetic loving involved?
how do I unlearn
the romantic thoughts
that taught me
about the fireworks,
the butterflies,
and the fluttering fingers
in the dark.
and accept that
maybe kissing
won’t be as spiritual as I thought.
maybe it’s really just a mouth on mine.
how do I unlearn my innocent heart
who lulled me into a false sense of hope
for a lover who would call
the way my body moves
art.
a lover who would feel
the poetry
in every word
I spoke in the dark.
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