I step into the shower.
If this was a book, the almost-too-hot water would be a metaphor, for the emotional warmth or passion or intimacy I’m missing.
Maybe it is a metaphor. Maybe it’s just cold outside.
Either way, the water sears my skin,
But god, at least I’m feeling something.
For realsies though, why is it so cold
The cycle is always the same.
Two parties claim that the other is to blame
and soldiers without names, who think they’ll gain fame,
The reasons differ, but peace
is sure to be one.
Tell me, please,
how you can say you fight for peace,
when humans are falling to their knees
And all I can do is write a poem.
All I can do is leave traces of graphite on wood pulp.
A poem will not change the facts.
or make up for empathy we lack,
or bring the dead back.
We must make friends out of foes
to slow the blood flow
before all that we know is
My attempt at slam poetry. I realize now that this is kinda hard to read, but ¯\_(ツ)_/¯
I am not afraid of Death
I am not afraid of death because we can never truly die
Our memories, our faces, our names, live on in the minds of those who love us and hate us alike
Even decay is a form of life, in bacteria and fungi and insects
Our rot will become the plants that feed our children or even another of our own lives
Life becomes death becomes life; in this, we are infinite
I am not afraid of death I am not afraid of death I am not afraid
When I say
that you are my Sun,
I don’t mean that you are
Or even the center of my universe.
I simply mean that
I cannot look at you
blinking in the night sky
“is it a star?”
i tell my sister yes
The poem is supposed to look like a star, but it only kinda worked. Oh well.
I was tired of the suns
that had left me burnt.
They shone so bright,
but in the end, they just hurt.
But you are the rain,
so calm, so clear.
All I see is color
when you are near.
But literally, I am very pale and am tired of sunburns pls help
“Love is a feeling!” they said to me then,
their eyes all a-twinkle, their mouths a big grin.
“You’ll feel flapping in your stomach, like the wings of a dove,
and that’s how you know that it is true love.”
“Love isn’t real,” they said to me after,
tears on their cheeks, and lives void of laughter.
“I guess it’s not something you feel in your gut;
they tell you they love you, then choose to give up.”
“Love is a choice,” I’m telling you now.
It’s not about the what, but instead the how.
It’s ok to choose that it’s just not right,
but remember: you must also choose to
What is love, really? Does anyone know?