What do I do to prove my worth and show my love for you?
I might ride a mighty raging steed to defend my maiden’s honor.
Well, maybe not. I’m very bad with horses.
I’d just fall off and bust my ***.
It would be a bit absurd.
I could pick you every daisy, rose, and mum; every flower in the world.
And make a huge bouquet.
But that would make you sneeze, I think
and no one else has flowers.
I could bring you down the moon and stars from their home up in the sky.
But where the hell would you possibly put them.
Your closet can’t have near the room,
and it’ll cause havoc in the tides.
I could give you the beating heart from my chest to prove my endless love.
For truth, no—I don’t think I could.
I kinda need it now to live and,
well, frankly that’s really rather gross. I mean…yuck.
How do I prove my love for you and convince you of my worth?
I hold your hand.
I hear your voice.
I kiss your lips.
I give you all my time.
For such a love as you
Life is better if you embrace the absurd, I think. It can broaden the possibilities and sometimes make you smile.
My ex showed-up again today.
Although, she’s not been here for years.
I wish she’d go away.
I feel, once more, that stabbing bite;
That poison dagger in my back
that twists at thoughts of her.
Those certain songs I hear at night,
or in some random woman’s hair
re-lives when love went bad.
But painful memories will fade;
at least that’s what I’ve heard them say.
Time heals the broken heart.
I wonder when that starts.
Let go of hurtful memories (do as I say, not as I do.)
These days I dredge the past
for the kind of pain
that used to drive
my words. Heartache
was the fuel of poetry
and I drove those lines
like a madman.
But, now that tank runs dry,
which, I guess, is a good
Now lucky in love, but wasn't always. So why does it seem so much easier to write good poetry from the bad sh^t that plagues us than to record the good that happens?
I have a universe
in my pocket... and some
lint. The world
at my fingertips,
all knowledge awaits
and forty two cents
in change rattles next to it.
I have a universe
in my pocket and what...? I
use it to watch cat videos
and trade petty barbs
with fellow trolls under a bridge.
Looking into shadow.
That place back there
where light won’t go.
and I see…
A me, I think, not me.
I’m not that thing,
a broken soul that peers back
from the blackness I deny.
I Am Me! but me won’t let me go.
( **** me…?)
“Shadow, won’t you let me go?” I ask. And
But, as yet, I will not hear him speak.
Does a tree dream of running?
Does a lake wish to fly?
A boulder in the woods, I think,
thinks slow and mossy thoughts,
for that is who it is.
So why can’t I be me
and dream a dream that’s meant to be?
I was reading elle jaxsun's "running" when this thought came to me -- what do trees dream?
Do you recall being stardust?
But, that’s what they say.
Elements forged in fusion’s crucible;
atoms born in the hearts of stars.
Do you recall being a comet’s tail?
Do you recall a time in space?
but then, it’s been a while.
Do you recall the lakes and streams;
swimming as fish,
or being water?
Do you recall the plains
when we roamed as beasts,
great and small?
Were you an antelope, a butterfly, a bird?
Were you a flower?
Were you Cleopatra?
Was I…Anthony, or just
some tea in Cleopatra’s cup?
(Did Cleopatra even drink tea?
I don’t know.)
Do you recall when you said
you loved me?
They told me,
“don’t fall in love with stardust.”
But then, what choice did I have?
we are all star dust.