"bittersweetly" poems
Alas!
They so bittersweetly croon in mine ear,
“Thou art as lovely as that morbid Queen Persephone!”
Have I been such a fool, cruel and extreme?
My hollow footsteps do fall here
Bringing forth wintry winds of death.
Alas!
They so eagerly whisper in thine ear,
“Thy lover art as lovely as that dreadful Queen Persephone!”
Hast thou been such a fool, sightless and mad?
Failed to listen for my light steps,
And forgot to feel winter’s dismal chill.
Alas!
They so desperately murmur in our ear,
“Thy love affair is as fair as that of the wraithlike Hades and Persephone!”
Have we been such fools, violent and severe?
Our footsteps resonate here forevermore,
The Lilies from our garden washed pitifully upon the Plutonian shore.
Apr 24, 2011
Apr 24, 2011 at 10:48 PM UTC
Beautiful and bittersweetly
You were fading into me
And I was gently fading into you
May 18, 2015
May 18, 2015 at 10:36 PM UTC
Eloquent april showers kiss her forehead,
Oath-enriched may flowers fleck his cheeks.
& now there’s rosemary bursting from his venus veins---
ashes aligning in those sickly tear-ducts.
( w h y i s h e w e e p i n g ?)
What a coincidence;
her love was her forte
and yet his eyes
were foreign to the music.
My dragon princess is in love
with a sickly raven boy;
and he’s caught a icy cancer. . .
“Raven boy loves his rosemary”
Look, love’s fingers bittersweetly
entwined with death
...are now limp.
The rain is her salvation and his
roots.
Maybe it wasn’t a drought
Maybe it was
a flood.
After all,
there’s no such thing as too much beauty, on venus,
and there's no such thing as too much rain,
in April.
(I'm sorry dragon princess, but not every flower was destined to bloom.)
.
Jun 1, 2015
Jun 1, 2015 at 1:51 PM UTC
And when I die,
surely from sin and dirt and living-
Do not bury me in white.
Do not brush my hair and paint my nails.
Do not shine my heels and iron my dress.
Do not speak of me so bittersweetly.
Bury me in lingerie with frayed lace.
Muss my hair and smear my lipstick.
Scuff my boots and rip my tights.
Speak of me with thinly-veiled vehemence.
Do not love me,
when I am dead.
For none did during life,
other than in the glow of a t.v.
that only played to hide the moans.
Do not bury an imposter
and spin tales of a sweet ******
who died too soon.
Bury a *****
and rage that you were not the one
to finally silence her.
Jun 21, 2014
Jun 21, 2014 at 9:48 PM UTC
Quite a few years from now,
my daughter will be twelve.
And all her friends will start
to think about things like
first kisses and winter dances,
and I know she will ask me
what my first love had been like.
And when that happens,
I'm going to smile
(though it may be bittersweetly)
as I remember
driving around aimlessly with you
singing along to bad radio stations
and exploring our town
to find the best local coffeeshops.
I'll remember nights
in our high school arts building
when nobody else was around
looking at the newest pictures
the photography class pinned up,
and how gentle you were
whenever our lips met.
I'll remember how no matter
how close you held me,
I always wanted it to be closer.
I'll remember exactly the way
that your favorite scarf smelled,
and the safety I felt
when you'd pull me into your arms.
I don't know what else will happen
between today and the day my daughter asks,
but whenever it is,
the answer to that question
will always be you—
so I want you to know
I can't thank you enough
for a story that makes me glad
I let myself fall in love with you.
Dec 15, 2013
Dec 15, 2013 at 5:08 PM UTC
I love children.
Okay let me rephrase that:
I love children that aren't mine.
I have abso-positively-fucking-lutey no responsibilities attached to them.
They didn't leave my body completely wrecked.
They don't look at me and call me "momma"
or any other variation of the name
and I love that
because frankly,
children scare me.
Okay let me rephrase that:
The idea of ruining a child's life scares me.
First off:
I wouldn't think my newborn child is beautiful.
Newborns look like potatoes and I don't particularly find potatoes attractive.
Secondly:
They'd have a name that haunts them in their sleep.
I named my dog Legolas after gorgeous Orlando Bloom in Lord of the Rings so don't try me.
**I will name them Harry ******* Potter without batting an eyelash.**
Thirdly:
I will be brutally honest with them.
When they ask me why the sky is blue,
I will say that I don't know.
I didn't pay attention enough in school to know.
When they ask me why some boys kiss boys,
I will say that it's perfectly normal.
Mommy probably kissed some girls and boys at some point in her life.
When they ask me why the little girl in their 2nd grade class comes to school with
bruises on her arms,
with her hair in two pigtails,
a smile on her lips,
but fear, loneliness, and heartbreak in her eyes,
I will say that some people in this world don't deserve Angels.
They don't deserve to be alive at all.
When they ask me why they don't ever see their great aunt Perla,
but hear her name whispered at family events,
I will tell them to ask the little girl in their 2nd grade class.
Fourthly:
They will learn to clean house, top to bottom,
The way my momma taught me.
They will hate it.
Then they will hate that they love it.
Fifthly:
I will argue with them every step of the way until they can learn to hold their own.
But until then,
No, you may not have $60 to go shopping.
Unless you're buying books or music.
Then you can have $100.
Lastly:
I will teach them to love.
My love for them will be overbearing, smothering, and unwavering.
This is how they will love their children.
But when they finally ask me what love is,
I will smile,
bittersweetly,
and say that love is...
Love is drowning in the ocean,
gasping for air that never quite reaches your lungs,
but when it does,
it hurts
because water doesn't belong in your lungs.
You can't help breathing the water in, however.
You just want it.
Want something to fill you, to overwhelm you.
Love is repeating this, over and over until one day,
the breathing
doesn't hurt anymore.
There is no more water in your lungs.
Just air.
There is water still, all around you,
but you are not drowning anymore.
You're swimming.
You, my dear, sweet, beautiful, hypothetical child,
are swimming!
which is something that I have yet to do.
Jul 21, 2015
Jul 21, 2015 at 12:35 AM UTC
And you could blame it on me
Y'know, if it was my fault
If I had anything to do with it at all
It’d make me happy,
Even if I lost you
To make you happy.
Bittersweetly, that isn’t the case
Because I’m not the instigator
All I can do is be here
To be here, for you.
Nov 9, 2011
Nov 9, 2011 at 2:35 PM UTC
I feel the fabric leave my skin,
and my mind is part of yours again.
Kissed upon my waiting lips,
bliss beneath my finger tips.
bittersweetly wrapped inside your soul
two hands together make one whole.
This urge is one too strong to fight,
The strings of our hearts, bound so tight.
Your eyes are magnets to my lashes,
a hidden feeling, so restlessly thrashes.
Wanting to stay in a moment so small,
We tried our best not to let ourselves fall.
You held me there for a second more,
and soon sleep took us through its door.
morning came to take me away,
I am harshly forbidden to stay...
Mar 1, 2011
Mar 1, 2011 at 1:13 AM UTC