"ative" poems
There i s
beau tiful
trans-par-
e ncy in
o u r un-
s po ke n
w o r d s,
no embellished perfection, rather simple contented silence, a deriv-
ative of unhappy places where spoken words were once severing
w e a p o n s,
a n d a n y
h o p e o f
recon- cili-
a t i o n a
a c r u c i-
f i x beam
stret- ched
a c r o s s
our backs,
the weight
o f w h a t
n e a r l y
killed us.
Aug 11, 2012
Aug 11, 2012 at 9:14 PM UTC
My mind folded like the hands of an apostle
Never believed buh always bringing out the best in spirit
My eye sight just a view to what I like
persuasive like a lion never Judah,
A king believed to rule the jungle.
Ative buh yet ablaze Wit the iana
A dale of tales my imperfections
They wouldn't admit its perfections
Altered to my deeper roots
Oct 23, 2018
Oct 23, 2018 at 8:15 AM UTC
It hurts to be loved so much.
Hurts enough to make you cry,
hurts enough to make you want to push them all away.
because
You are you
and
They are them
and
you do not deserve their love.
It isn't that the people you love
who love you too
are without their imperfections. They aren't:
a little too reckless
a little too shy of compliments
a little too talkative
a little too apologetic.
It's that they're kind.
It's that they notice you when you have never been seen before,
It's that they stand up for you;
It's that they get hurt for you.
And perhaps you are selfish
because
You should
Shove them all away so you are left in a corner, arms wrapped around yourself, alone, where no one else can get hurt.
You should
Take their love, only to fling it back at them hard enough to make them run away.
You should, and you should, and
they hug you so their arms are wrapped around your shoulders,
and you should flinch away, and
you almost do -
***But you can smell the calming fragrance of their hair,
You can*** feel their arms wrapped around you, so tangible, like they're never going to leave,
but they will, and they will, and they always have,
but you let yourself take their warmth anyway.
Someone tells you, once, that you, are a good person,
And you shouldn't, should never
believe it
because
people have told you before, and you've never let yourself believe it then, and why should you now?
Except, you're crying because you can't make yourself stop, and, the person you hurt -
by accident, always by accident -
is the one saying it, so
Maybe, you can be, a good person
someday;
But you shouldn't,
Because you are the one,
who tries and tries and tries, and fails,
and tries, and tries, and tries, and fails,
and tries and tries and tries and produces something almost mediocre.
You are the one,
who sees those flashes of disappointment flit across their face,
because you know,
(and now, so do they,)
that you are never, will never,
be enough.
And so you almost hate them,
these people who dare to love you -
because, perhaps you love them,
but that doesn't mean,
that they should love you.
And maybe you should give this up,
but what is the point, really,
when the people who love you are the ones you'd be disappointing?
So you accept it, this thing you
don't deserve, (could never deserve,)
This thing, that makes your chest feel hollow inside, makes guilt creep in and swallow you whole until you can barely breathe
but,
there is that thread, hanging around your ears, echoing,
because against your better judgement, someone's actually gotten you to
believe it, that,
You are a good person.
And so you will
keep trying and trying and trying,
And maybe maybe maybe someday,
I will be worthy of their love.
Jun 4, 2017
Jun 4, 2017 at 11:35 AM UTC