"describes" poems
There's one thing
I have to tell you.
I can't stop uttering,
anything about you.
Whether its about the midnight rain
and how it describes your voice so well,
or the way you won't stop singing,
till you're satisfied and sewn me to sleep.
If I look at the dark orange spotted afternoon,
or the satin red leaves of autumn.
I'll know its been a while since I've thought
of you.
If I hear the chalky barren concert of concrete,
or the uproar of the arid wind.
I'll have forgotten what your voice
sounds like.
If I feel the reticent tremble of winter,
or the cold bitter piercing destitute bed.
I'll remember why our adulation had
my heart in a headlock.
I cannot give you the world
or my name.
Because I do not own them.
All I can give you is my love and lungs,
that is all that I have and hold.
All I'll ever ask of you is for your voice and love.
You make my head lighter with just
some notes you sing.
Sep 23, 2011
Sep 23, 2011 at 1:09 AM UTC
this isn’t going to make sense
cause it’s not supposed to
and if I’m being honest
this isn’t for you
it’s not even for me
I’m stuck
I’m trapped
I’m lost
I’m every other word that describes people who feel at a dead end
I’m typing on a ****** phone
That’s connected to a ****** connection
That could possibly be a metaphor for my life
I’m writing
Because I don’t know what else to do
I’m writing
Cause that’s what they told me to do
But they also told me that what I think isn’t always true
That I’m special and I just don’t see it
But that’s the thing
I don’t see it
And if I don’t see it then why should it matter if anyone else does
And if I’m thinking something why should it matter if it’s true
What matters is that it’s in my head
What matters is that it’s always there
But here I am
Stuck in the same place
Back to square one
No progress made
The same questions, whether true or not
Will I amount to anything?
Do I really help?
Am I really worthwhile?
Do you actually care?
I see these people
When I’m online
They smile and post
They edit and pose
I can’t help but wonder
Do you really smile, or do you just do it to look happy like me?
Do you really feel happy, or are you trying to lie like me?
Do you understand what I feel?
Or is it just me?
I’m not trying to be selfish
I don’t want a lot
I just want to be happy
And I want others to be happy with me
But neither is happening
So instead there’s a poem
That doesn’t even ryhme
That makes no sense
I’ll try harder
Jul 4, 2018
Jul 4, 2018 at 3:18 AM UTC
i can't seem to find a word
that best describes you
because you are so many things
you are my angel
you are my demon
you are my sparkplug
you are my love
i can never sum you up and
i adore you
Dec 20, 2014
Dec 20, 2014 at 9:12 AM UTC
Bombs and guns are just toys,
The signs of bravery for boys
Immature brains with violence fed to them,
Make them all completely numb
But what about the country men?
You see them crying now and then
Does that make you immune to violence?
Well, that just describes your height of ignorance.
Feb 15, 2015
Feb 15, 2015 at 1:01 AM UTC
I guess they love you
Because all the poems I’ve written are
About you
I guess they love you
Because every single love song I hear
Describes you
I guess they love you
Because In every passing face
I see you
I guess they love you
And I’m not quite sure if all the writers and poets fell in love before
With you
Sep 10, 2019
Sep 10, 2019 at 1:51 PM UTC
With a body wrapped in a crimson dress, she bears a violent temper.
Shining daylight, raging bewitching, captivating cunning.
You arrive with starry eyes and cheeks flushed like a ******
In her curly hair, autumn curtains hang—roaming rays hot.
She glows in the night like a pictorial wall with hieroglyphics concealing madness.
You step elegantly, but you're a dangerously stealthy predator.
Grassy hills in floating flames burn beneath a voluminous haze.
Her look describes fabulous waterfalls, endlessly flowing and shining in the coming dawn. You associate with robbers and kings, but they do not understand, and no one will save you.
Lovely eyes sprinkle enchanting rays, her lips intertwined like a rose petal.
Her heart enticingly calls with her fruit to be drunk.
You hide in the nightlife, dress up, and do your love magic.
Neck fashioned in autumnal garments, wearing scarlet ruby earrings.
Her pink skin smells of perfume, inviting like a grape on a vine.
You invite visitors with your charm to carelessness, forever forced.
Her lips are flowing bewitching rivers—intersecting strokes of crimson. They bring a dream to taste her deep soils and her artfully carved forms.
You are determined to captivate without marrying— you stay lost in rebellion.
Sep 25, 2023
Sep 25, 2023 at 6:19 AM UTC
He describes me as a snowflake: whimsical and quickly lost.
He describes me as the first raindrop: fast to arrive, yet just as fast to leave.
He describes me as a scar: carefully placed and forever to stay.
He describes me as a hand written letter: unique and rarely found.
He describes me as many things:
but never "His."
Nov 24, 2014
Nov 24, 2014 at 10:04 PM UTC
A populace filled with totalitarian tranquility
The supposition that the world is in a harmonic homeostasis
Blissful ignorance that leads to careless calamity
Amid the uproar of the most populated of places
Therein lies the seed of humanity’s deceptive destruction
A solitary host housing a virulent virus
Infectious disease that proceeds crisis and corruption
Hope only stands with the powerful and pious
Prognosis describes communicable cannibalism
Rabid outbursts show signs of voracious violence
The harrowing pandemic leads to ceaseless cataclysm
Cities and towns suspended in systemic silence
Habitations riddled with gratuitous gore
Hope fades in the wake of the crimson carnage
The pestilent hoard feeds to a glutton’s galore
The Author of humanity publishes the final page
The closing verse rains down a rapturous recompense
The high cost of a dense population paid at humanity’s existential expense
Oct 31, 2018
Oct 31, 2018 at 11:06 PM UTC
Crazy, dumd, ugly
Give me another word to through in this poem
This **** describes me
This **** defines me
Don't you know?
Haven't you heard?!
Disappointing, unworthy, AND useless!?!?
Okay....
(Schizophrenia, learning disability, drug use etc.)
**** I guess I found an excuss for almost every defining, outlining, "description" about me!!!
Oct 21, 2015
Oct 21, 2015 at 3:41 PM UTC
There are 1,013,913 words in the English language, and not one of them describes how I feel about you, about us.
I used to say you were my strawberry jam, my little preserve that I would lay and spread on the table each morning, and I would lick my lips and say 'my God isn't she magnificent'.
I was your hero, your savior, your Christ that you had at Sundays Eucharist, and thank God you did. You dissolved in my mouth like that little piece of bread called a body but you tasted of everything instead of nothing, and **** me for thinking of you instead of God, thinking of you as my altar as I said 'hail Mary' and I worshiped you like a school girl with an orange full of candles in her hand, and for that God will **** me. He will **** me to hell but I don't care as the Universe lives under your tongue and everything I had ever dreamed of was right there in the right hand corner of your mouth.
You were my Wendy, darling. You stuck a thimble on my heart and said now you can never hurt me. But you did. We did. And the never of Neverland drifted away like a ship sinking into the sky, enveloped by darkness, smothered by a torrential rain of tears that washed away your fears that we were perfect, as there's no such thing as perfect when you can see your heart in the mirror with a target fixed to its center,
There are no words to describe how I feel about us. I still lift up my shirt and see your name inscribed on my chest, I still wake up and transcribe the words you wrote on my breast. I still touch myself up and think of you bribing me to undress. I still think about us.
If I could re-write my world to involve you in it I would. I would leave a piece of the jigsaw for you to carry around in your pocket so you knew you always fit in the world some where. I would make the sun rise each day through your window so you knew that life was worth living, that life was worth living when you were so what I am saying is I am forgiving. I am forgiving those days you swore at my reflection, and that day I slept on the sofa till three in the morning chain smoking till I was choking, remember? You said 'what are you doing' and I said I was in a smoke straight jacket and I was dying. You went back up to bed and I started crying. I am forgiving myself of those days I lay in bed just sighing. I am forgiving us for not trying.
But most of all, most of all, I am forgiving us for lying.
There are not enough words in the English language that can say I'm sorry like I am.
Or that I want you to move on. But I don't want you to move on.
Or that I want you happy. Because I want you happy.
I want you happy.
Oct 27, 2013
Oct 27, 2013 at 8:50 AM UTC
In childhood, your father’s name is DAD
Now grown, maybe with children of your own
But his name is still DAD
DAD, the teacher, the consoler, the advisor
Admonishes: “Drive safe” and “Save your Money”
Today he’s the bard
“This is like prison,” DAD laments while rolling his eyes
Tubes like thin plastic chains tether his deflated body
to blinking panels; paintings (factory printed ones)
pretend the hospital room is more than just a sterile space
Today, DAD’s eyes cast a faraway gaze, projecting
And I see the characters in his story
I see the 10 year old boy he describes, who snuck to stash a set
Of English Composition Texts in the boy’s bathroom
To escape Mrs. McElroy’s Fourth Grade course in Morose Poetry
I see the thin, sandy blond, 6 foot 2 high school rabblerouser
Who broke into the Vice Principal’s old Fiat
And buried Stilton cheese in the dashboard
All done on a sweltering May school day
The anecdote is punctuated with a smirk and a: “Who would do a thing like that?”
Stories of when he spotted a shy brunette at the dance and knew
Knew he was to marry her;
Stories of when his own DAD grasped his infant grandson’s dimpled hand
Before giving in to complications of a heart attack
The bard stops and exhales a sigh
He cringes in his crinkled skin
Sunken eyes squeeze close “I’m sorry”
the nausea interrupts his tale “These drugs are…”
“It’s okay. Take your time” I console, trying to comfort the pain in the room
Now I’m the consoler, taking on the job to ameliorate
Now this man, vulnerable in his suffering, is no longer DAD
Now mortal, a child, a brother, a lover, a patient
A man chained by the body’s sickness
He is distilled by chemo
reduced to a soul, who, through affliction,
Forgets
As his children remember
He is as helpless in this life as we are.
Jun 17, 2016
Jun 17, 2016 at 12:38 AM UTC
Favorite word: “nymphet”, but no!
Halcyon, a kind of drug, you know.
Searching through the pages’ mist
And imagined deeds
Of poets’ needs…
I found my favourite word,
As asked,
Neither sacred nor profane
That describes the Venetian rain
In my beloved’s eyes
And the Florentine sun upon her hair:
“Auburn, russet, mythopoeic”.
Oh, it is not fair,
To liken an object
Of my lust and love
To anything as mortal as autumn air!
Nor “October’s orchard Haze”;
She had her own
Inscrutable, premeditated ways!
Rather let me say that she was perfect,
Though her eyes, pale and myopic,
Her shuffling gait and
Graceless limbs, to them Grace lends
Fey charm, the power to mend
My suffering and
Delusions of a poet’s end
As anything but pathetic,
(Her mother’s fondness for vague emetics)
And I left softly hanging,
On a girl’s new taste,
A tang of russet apples on her face,
But no, not that, the sum
Of my love, My Lo!
Then her bleak demise, partly by my hand
That none of you brutes could understand;
The pure love,
So sadly consummated,
Between a lover
And the one she hated
Yet loved once with inexplicable delight,
On one stolen, frightened night…
In which the two of us agreed
To satisfy a simple, yet maniacal need,
And then depart…
But I could not,
You see;
She was my life,
My love, my heart.
Humbert Humbert 1950
Sharon Talbot ca. 2005
Sep 9, 2017
Sep 9, 2017 at 11:11 AM UTC
My African culture
Uprooted from my ancestors
And pused on from generation to generation
My African culture- might seem
wied sounds funny or looks like a
**** but these carry alot of benedictions
My African culture tells the story of were we
came from and most probably were we are heading
My African culture describes and names itself
there is really no need for a heading
My African culture the one source of pride and
Joy
My African culture hard to replace yet easy to enjoy
My African culture oh my beautiful culture
my soul screams in joy from the energy of my
people and from the rythm of the African drum my
heart beats
movements degin within my feet
my inner voice telling me to move
in a fleet
I dispiss and dislike a person who
malingers or derides his culture,such
a beautiful thing,such a precious
, Special thing
My African culture tells the true
tells of fallen legends, of great worriors
And of most celebrated heros though
it never varies the tall in the telling
Now that's my Wonderful African culture
Sep 26, 2020
Sep 26, 2020 at 6:13 AM UTC
I believe in a universe where a sleepy eye opens existence...
a slowly drooping eyelid ushers it away.
I believe in a universe where Indra and the other Gods
churn the cosmic milk...
where Shiva does the eternal dance.
I believe in a universe where light is separate from darkness
and mankind is molded from a ball of divine ****
a breath, Be and it is.
I believe in a universe where Gaia watches as Cronus
devours her children until she gives him a stone...
and hides Zeus away.
I believe in a universe that expands
from a singularity of infinitely dense potentiality
less than a speck,
to our cosmos immeasurable in scale.
I believe in a universe where Lao Tuz hands a guard
a little book of wisdom
before disappearing into the mountains
where the sages go.
I believe in a universe where Siddhartha contemplates emptiness
and feels the winds of eternity
whistling through his soul.
I believe in a universe where E=Mc2.
I believe in a universe where an old man lights the first holy fire
and describes the war between light and goodness
vs darkness and evil.
I believe in a universe where the earth and moon,
and all the planets go round the sun...
in a galaxy carrying us
dancing a waltz
we can only catch glimpses of.
I believe in a universe where "Know Thyself"
is revered as a deep truth.
I believe in a universe where
an unexamined life is not worth living.
I believe in a universe where the words of a carpenter
are a true path.
I believe in a universe where an illiterate man is commanded
Read!... a burning coal upon the lips.
I believe in a universe where every God and Goddess
exist, each in their own heaven...
each in their own hell.
I believe in a universe where there are no gods or goddesses
only the relentless laws of matter, energy and gravity.
I believe in a universe where everything is mathematics.
I believe in a universe where everything is holy
I believe in a universe where everything in profane.
I believe in a universe where everything is a simulation.
I believe in a universe where everything is ****** in nature.
I believe in a universe where everything is stimulation.
I believe in a universe where the hoochie *******
is what its all about.
I believe in the universe.
Jan 6, 2018
Jan 6, 2018 at 2:19 PM UTC
Mixed emotions
Unclear notions
I'm in roller coaster mode
Do I hold on?
Or do I simply just let go?
Honestly, I don't know
I'm not 100% sure of who I am
I'm growing, still learning
And constantly yearning
For a deeper understanding
Of this womanhood business
It's a very complicated existence
For instance
Society describes what a woman should be
So faintly
All of the descriptions I hear are nothing at all like me
And since I don't quite understand what I should be
When I make mistakes on my womanhood journey
Society ridicules me
But why? I don't know what I'm doing
And since I don't, shouldn't someone show me?
How should I conduct myself?
Why hasn't anyone prepared me for this womanhood test?
Society shouldn't just expect
That I should already know how to be
Independent, submissive, loyal, loving and trustworthy
Especially if no one took the time out to show me
I only had society to mold me
And clearly
Society doesn't know what a real woman should be
I couldn't learn how from TV
Those people, those images are nothing but deceit
So what's a girl to believe?
Oh, society you don't know either?
Fine, well when you find out
Maybe you should teach me
Aug 5, 2014
Aug 5, 2014 at 10:33 AM UTC
To think i actually cared at one point.
It's pathetic, you've always been that.
Like a child scraping their knee, talking about booboos for days.
To say i loved you at one point.
It's pathetic.
The word i love most because it describes anything we had once.
The word, who's face so stunningly glorious.
You laugh and smile in my presence.
At the thought of me?
At the thought of someone who actually cared for you?
Is pathetic.
I despise your prensence.
Sickness
The Plague you spread.
Death
The love i had
Caring
The things unsaid
Loving
Never to be done again
You
A Thing i experienced.
You're lost love.
I'm sorry that things went to hell.
Because this Thing that i feel isn't burning desire anymore.
Nor is it hatred.
It's nothing, an empty pit of darkness with one ray of glancing light.
I asked someone how you're doing today.
I looked for you today to give you the mix i held onto.
So **** me?
Maybe you should think about the way you go through people.
The way you go through life
So unsatisfied.
I'm not going to have anymore idiotic "Poem Wars"
I have eyes to see.
You needed
You need
more
love
care
pain
and everything i couldn't stand to give.
My sanity is back.
I realize, i didn't Love you.
Honestly,
I just think.
Honestly,
I just liked your music and your thighs.
Feb 4, 2014
Feb 4, 2014 at 10:34 PM UTC
If I were you
And you were me
I'd tell you all the possibilities
"Take my hand
Let's fly away
We'll go to Neverland"
I'd say
Escape the dark
Escape the screams
Escape your thoughts
Escape your dreams
Get lost in the magic
Of freedom and peace
You may not realize
But your health will decrease
"That's alright"
You say to me
But have you lost your sanity?
If I were you
And you were me
I'd look into your eyes
And see
Laughter, smiles, adventures await
If only you believed in fate
If I were you
And you were me
I'd look into your soul
And see
The flame that used to
Shine so bright
Is slowly burning out
Each night
If I were you
And you were me
I'd look into your mind
And see
Twisted distortions of beauty and love
A self hatred so strong
You could not let go of
You punish yourself
For your failures and words
Regretting your meal
And regretting the purge
There is a song that perfectly describes
The way you feel
And what you hide
If I were you
And you were me
I would ask you...quietly
"How does someone so perfect
Feel so insecure
As to scar her own skin
With cuts and burns
And still want to hurt more?
How does someone so loving
Learn to hate herself so much?"
Drawing a picture on her arms with a blade
As if her mind
Wasn't dark enough
If I were you
And you were me
I'd tell you...
"It will be alright-
Just wait and see"
But I'm not you
And you're not me
Apr 20, 2016
Apr 20, 2016 at 10:58 PM UTC
You don't listen to Floyd
So you wouldn't understand that
Wish you was here being our song
Is not really a good thing
But it describes us perfectly
I know, I've listened to it obsessively
Because it reminds me of you
And me, and what we could be
Would be, if we take that leap
Oct 1, 2014
Oct 1, 2014 at 9:19 AM UTC
Holding on,
With the smallest glimmer of hope,
Finding ways to fight, deal or cope,
At 1st it seemed impossible
But slowly the realisation current issues were topical,
Lost friendships, breakdowns , communication errors and lack of self love,
One, two at a time or all of the above.
Dulling out the problems and hiding away,
Some amount of release when decided this way you did not want to stay.
Self belief,
fresh start, the one of new beginnings,
Learning to handle things before your mind starts spinning,
A release, you do not need others glorification to be worthy,
Worthy of love, respect, happiness, self security
A little motivation goes far, a focus just to start.
Look inside,
Reflection, a little self assessment,
The strength you had before
Somewhere inside you this is stored,
Make them changed necessary for you,
Stop allowing the colour which describes you to be the darkest blue.
Sep 22, 2018
Sep 22, 2018 at 4:32 PM UTC
_las mujeres nacen de la tierra en la gloria de la más alta_
dys·to·pi·an/disˈtōpēən/adjective: dystopian:
relating to or denoting an imagined place
or state in which everything is unpleasant or bad,
typically a totalitarian or environmentally degraded one;
_"the dystopian future of a society bereft of reason"_
noun: dystopian; plural noun: dystopians:
a person who advocates or describes
an imagined place or state in which
everything is unpleasant or bad;
"a lot of things those dystopians feared did not come true"
[A dystopia from the Greek δυσ- "bad" & τόπος "place";
alternatively, _cacotopia, kakotopia_],
or simply anti-utopia; a community or society
that is undesirable or frightening; It is translated
as "not-good place" & is an antonym of utopia,
a term coined by Sir Thomas More
par·a·dise/ˈperəˌdīs/noun
noun: paradise; plural noun: paradises
in some religions; heaven as the ultimate abode of the just,
heaven, the kingdom of heaven, the heavenly kingdom,
Elysium, the Elysian Fields, Valhalla, Avalon;
"the souls in paradise"
the abode of Adam and Eve before the Fall
in the biblical account of Creation;
the Garden of Eden/noun: Paradise, Eden
"Adam and Eve's expulsion from Paradise"
an ideal or idyllic place or State;
"the surrounding countryside is a streetwalker's paradise"
Utopia, Shangri-La, heaven, idyll, nirvana;
"a tropical paradise"
bliss, heaven, ecstasy, delight, joy,
happiness, nirvana, heaven on earth
_a ********** who seeks customers on the street_
"this is sheer paradise!"
Middle English: from Old French paradis,
via ecclesiastical Latin from Greek paradeisos
‘enclosed royal park,’ from Avestan pairidaēza ‘enclosure, park.’
_Superficies terræ puella_
Aug 29, 2018
Aug 29, 2018 at 2:28 PM UTC
The river drank gallons of ripened water-the color of aging bananas
mouth gaping wider, fishing for more of a glass half full
tired of the filthy laundry piling beneath the surface
waiting to sketch deeper into the canyon and discover
a cure for boredom
sunset: gazing at the back of the horizon
easy to notice the tiny spit of pointillism
which gave focus to the clouds
maybe there are more finer details
than a ragged pair of sneakers and
eye lashes that tickle ears
hoping that the crisp iced air would help
remind tall lagging legs that the unexpected action
would be to keep 3 extra soft layers waiting for
the dirt encrusted pink toe nails to feel the promise of
making a right choice
thinking perhaps that writing down little
snip-its of the way curls only twist closer to
each other in heat will keep the electricity in busy brains
buzzing just long enough to avoid the bills
but only if someone describes touching lace
thinking even more that there
are better ways for you and I to figure out the word
we
if by midnight strawberry swirls don't melt down my arm
Mar 28, 2012
Mar 28, 2012 at 12:38 AM UTC
2am is when the wolves call for me and I die slowly.
2am is when I end up sacrificing myself to you, so I can finally be quiet.
2am is when I won't fall asleep because all I have is this window to keep me company.
2am I look and see a tumbleweed in the streets, wandering aimlessly.
"That's my heart now set it free."
2am a song comes on the radio. It isn't familiar, but it somehow describes everything I'm feeling, even right down to its melody.
2am I don't know who I am but all I know is I need a friend.
At 2am I will play this song until my head can't take it anymore. It's a mantra that won't stop repeating itself, and I love it.
2am I look into my sheets. I peer down and see your face. I reach to touch it but it fades away. Transparent you is very rude.
At 2am I will sing this tune I do not know. Therefore it will sound drunken, but I do not care because it reminds me of you.
2am where did you go? You used to be right next to me. Now all I have is oxygen filling the space where you would look at me and say, "I love you."
2am how did I end up this way? I open my hands and see my veins. I hate them. I hate them because you used to run your fingers across them.
2am I grab the weapon of death. I can see my reflection even in the darkness. As my heart throbs of pain, my life is over and I am free, at 2am.
Jun 22, 2014
Jun 22, 2014 at 1:20 AM UTC
I brush my teeth all the time,
But there are days when negligence prevails,
And I can feel it with my tounge,
Something growing,
In between and on my calcium.
It isn't pleasant but I know not a more interesting development,
For I can feel something, first soft, then rigid forming in one of my most intimate places.
And a coral reef grows, in my mouth of all spaces.
Not pink, blue, or any other hue.
I know not what to do,
My mom describes it as "hairy teeth" but I know better,
If I held a fish in my mouth now he would have the warmest of welcomes,
Into my mouth he would feel at home,
A tropical retreat, eggshell white,
My new fish would try and spend the night.
If all these things continued I'm afraid I would lose my job, and my life.
To preserve my fish in his temperate reef, my mouth would never again open, I wouldn't eat, drink, or swallow again,
All this for my little fishy friend.
I would name him Bubbles,
And he would tickle my jaw with his hubby breath.
He would sleep beneath my tounge and wake me with little fishy kisses every sunrise for the rest of our lives no matter how brief-
But this beautiful relationship would end when we grow more and more hungry and our thirst teases us in this reef,
I can only hold so much salt water in between my cheeks,
Surely not enough to last mare's two weeks.
My oral reef would cut me,
And Beal together would we,
Bubbles and me.
Apr 23, 2015
Apr 23, 2015 at 4:24 PM UTC
I have.....
curly hair
autism
a sunburn
freckles
a black cat
a blister! AAAHHH get a bandaid!!! MOOOMMMYYY!!!
I am.....
left handed
long legged
a girl
funny
My ID card describes me as:
caucasian-whats that mean?
female
minor
blue eyes
red hair
All of this describes me
None of it defines me
Oct 25, 2014
Oct 25, 2014 at 9:07 PM UTC
─illustrations on the ceiling
i love the way
the sunlight ripples along his skin
with no complaints
"messiah" the shadow talks
"of course he is" i reply
and i resume to orchestrating my love
─little phobias
i wander aimlessly along his windows,
his eyes;
they are gates to afterlives unloved;
they are oceanic shrapnel
sky imprisoned infinities
a lapis point of view-
that i treasure
his heart is drenched
in my soul-
in a sweeter sickness-
in the liquid measure of my steps-
he mentions i'm contagious
i tell him he is my favorite way
to bleed
"september prodigy" the shadow babbles
"why?" i rasp
**"sun at long last
kisses away
all the ghosts
harvesting from
the heart of the moon"**
and i broke out into stars
─my serendipity
i love the raw
music of our conversations,
and how his voice
undresses me
and my monsters
so delicately
in fabrics of the dark
i love how his laugh
makes all the other planets
look dull;
how his smile
is the first step
to curing the blind
so the blind may know
what i know
"the symphony of seams"
i love how he is the shocking
philosophy
of turning suicide notes
into paper cranes
of picking fights with death
so i may remain
i love the phoenix tucked in his soul
how it defines-
the altitudes-
the limits-
our existence he describes to me
"reincarnation?" the shadow asks
"every morning he wonders" i answer
and the fever invests it's time in me
"what is he to you?" the shadow murmurs
"*besides broken flowers,
and ink blots shaped like rain
he is my favorite stairway to heaven.*"
Apr 25, 2017
Apr 25, 2017 at 10:32 PM UTC