"irks" poems
Can't write poetry well,
haven't ever given it much thought,
really haven't been able to figure out my voice in it,
i guess it doesn't have to be for me,
still it irks me,
I'll still give it a shot,
Like I do with many hobbies in my life,
obviously I should settle on one,
very certain that I'm stretching myself too thin,
everyone has their strong points,
You are definitely mine,
often I find myself laughing to myself,
utterly aware of how lucky I am,
To have someone like you,
one who I can be myself with,
one that is truly a dingus (which is a-okay).
Dec 2, 2013
Dec 2, 2013 at 12:20 AM UTC
I wish to disambiguate
to explicate; expanciate:
I do not begrudge polyamory,
and whatever Love entails
to any particular person,
for I once was polyamorous;
I understand some of the ways
in which polyamory can work.
Usually when single,
or otherwise in an open relationship.
I also do not begrudge sluttiness;
everyone needs some
and some can't resist.
Besides, it is noble
to work such charity.
Who am I,
who once sought such charity,
to demonize it?
I,
who have lusts
and desires?
I do,
however,
take grievous offense
to One in a relationship
who tells their partner
they're soulmates
and who,
instead of agreeing to end
the monogamous relationship,
goes and sleeps around
and cheats on their "soulmate",
moreover if over and over.
It's hard to cope with such deep hurt,
and I wish to convey my apologies
for my rash hybridized expressions
of Anger, Frustration and Hubris.
Perhaps it perturbs me so
simply because it reminds me
of who I once could be and was.
Perhaps it irks me so
because I'm envious.
Again;
Polyamory is not a Sin;
but before you just go **** someone
at least be single or in an open relationship;
it isn't only you
who is affected
by your choices,
and I know
that's hard to see
when you are so young.
Don't hold back
who you really are,
but please;
don't cheat others
in the process.
Not only is Karma a *****
but so can Retribution be;
you never know
what One
scorned
is
capable of;
the next time
you cheat someone
they may not fall back
on mere words;
A few more years
in this World
may teach you
that such Anarchy
doth go both ways,
my dear;
Vigilante Justice knows few bounds:
Don't take too many chances
when it comes to who you **** nor
when it comes to who you **** over.
Oct 23, 2013
Oct 23, 2013 at 7:39 PM UTC
There are three versions of this poem. only one of them is available on the internet. This first version is from the New Yorker in a 1941 issue. It is the earliest version and the one that is quoted all over the internet.
To My Valentine
by Ogden Nash (1902-1971)
More than a catbird hates a cat,
Or a criminal hates a clue,
Or the Axis hates the United States,
That's how much I love you.
I love you more than a duck can swim,
And more than a grapefruit squirts,
I love you more than gin rummy is a bore,
And more than a toothache hurts.
As a shipwrecked sailor hates the sea,
Or a juggler hates a shove,
As a hostess detests unexpected guests,
That's how much you I love.
I love you more than a wasp can sting,
And more than the subway jerks,
I love you as much as a beggar needs a crutch,
And more than a hangnail irks.
I swear to you by the stars above,
And below, if such there be,
As the High Court loathes perjurious oaths,
That's how you're loved by me.
The next version is the lyric of a song from the Broadway musical "One Touch of Venus" (1943) by Ogden Nash, J S Perelman and Kurt Weill. Nash wrote this lyric. It is not on the internet that I could find. I got it from the sheet music.
HOW MUCH I LOVE YOU
More than a catbird hates a cat,
Or a criminal hates a clue,
Or the Axis hates the United States,
That's how much I love you.
As a sailor's sweetheart hates the sea,
Or a juggler hates a shove,
As a wife detests unexpected guests,
That's how much you I love.
I love you more than a wasp can sting,
And more than a hangnail hurts.
I love you more than commercials are a bore,
And more than a grapefruit squirts.
I swear to you by the stars above,
And below, if such there be,
As a bride would resent a blessed event,
That's how you are loved by me.
More than a waitress hates to wait ,
Or a lioness hates the zoo,
Or a batter dislikes those called third strikes,
That's how much I love you.
As much as a lifeguard hates to swim,
Or a writer hates to read,
As Hays office frowns on low cut gowns,
That's how much you I need.
I love you more than a hive can itch,
And more than a chilblain chills.
I yearn for you in an ivy clad igloo,
As a liver yearns for pills.
I swear to you by the stars above,
And below, if such there be,
As a dachshund abhors revolving doors,
That's how you are loved by me.
The third is from the book "Marriage Lines: notes of a student husband" It was published in 1964 and contains a revised version of the poem with a much different ending. This too is not on the internet. I got it from the book.
TO MY VALENTINE
More than a catbird hates a cat,
Or a criminal hates a clue,
Or an odalisque hates the Sultan's mates,
That's how much I love you.
I love you more than a duck can swim,
And more than a grapefruit squirts,
I love you more than commercials are a bore,
And more than a toothache hurts.
As a shipwrecked sailor hates the sea,
Or a juggler hates a shove,
As a hostess detests unexpected guests,
That's how much you I love.
I love you more than a wasp can sting,
And more than the subway jerks,
I love you truer than a toper loves a brewer,
And more than a hangnail irks.
I love you more than a bronco bucks,
Or a Yale man cheers the Blue.
Ask not what is this thing called love;
It's what I'm in with you.
Feb 14, 2018
Feb 14, 2018 at 2:51 PM UTC
Never tell the girl with messy hair and wide eyes that when her father sexually abused her they were, "fooling around." Fooling around is a consensual act between two lovers, friends, or strangers in which both gain pleasure and to make her feel as though that is something she did is degrading and destructive. She's already been through that once.
When I got that anonymous question asking me "why is it when you fool around with your dad, no one gets in trouble, but when I do it I'm a ****** I almost snapped. The smell of cheap beer formed under my nose and the entire contents of my stomach almost fell to the side of my bed, however, I had not eaten enough to push all of my mental instability out of my mouth. I could feel my father's hands around my wrist, pulling, pinning, calloused hands scratching my nine year old skin. I could hear my young cries for help, and the tears staining my cheeks. I could feel the air on my ear as he whispered. "Tell anyone and it'll be worse next time." I remembered cleaning my own blood from the carpet that afternoon.
And I almost replied with a defensive remark, but I stopped. There was no need for this private matter to be put on display on a social media forum, because then who's the girl that "fooled around" with her father?
But then the question, it irks me to my very core, the reason my hands are so swiftly typing this poem between waves of hurricanes in my eyes. It's as if my dignity has been stripped from me again, no more layer of scar tissue to protect even the deepest layers of my darkest secrets. Nothing was safe anymore.
And when I showed it to my boyfriend, the look in his eyes terrified me. It was as if someone had just dropped a match on a mile long pile of bone dry trees doused in gasoline. But someone had. Someone had dropped a match on me, just as fragile and capable of burning up completely.
Never tell the girl with messy hair and wide eyes that when her father sexually abused her they were, "fooling around." Fooling around is a consensual act between two lovers, friends, or strangers in which both gain pleasure and to make her feel as though that is something she did is degrading and destructive. She's already been through that once.
Feb 5, 2016
Feb 5, 2016 at 8:59 AM UTC
this is the problem, you see. i hate orange flavoured things, but don't mind the fruit or the colour itself. i despise chocolate flavoured items as well, but will never complain if a whole bar fell into my lap. i cannot decide if it is the simple idea of disliking the watered down version of the original thing that irks me the most, or if it is something more. perhaps it is the very thought of a half truth - an illusion, if you may - that disgusts me, because these things will never be as good as the real, original item to me. you are the same, i have realised; years of sporadic vanishing and reappearing have not wavered my feelings for you, and all the people i have tried to replace you with pale in comparison.
i might be capable of lying to everyone around me, but i cannot do it to myself or you. the funny thing is that you know this, as much as i know it too. for we are vulnerable as we are broken, and somehow deep down in the darkness where we sink we are guided by the same light, which always brings me back to you, and you to me.
-
"how have you been?"
*i miss you in ways i cannot even begin to describe. i miss you the way sleep lingers in our eyes as the dawn breaks, and i miss you when our song comes on. i miss you the most when the storms arrive or when a joke is made and i turn around expecting to see your accompanying smile, but meet empty air.
the truth is, i'm lost. i miss you completely, terribly, unbelievably so, and it eats at me every single day.*
"just fine."
i put on the biggest smile i can muster and walk away.
(A.H.Z)
Nov 20, 2013
Nov 20, 2013 at 8:43 AM UTC
My pain irks me,
Sends me flying into my bed.
Under the cover of darkness.
As I cry myself awake,
Unable to sleep.
I ask myself..
Why?
Why am I such a ***** up?
Why do I make mistakes,
Knowing my parents will be angry?
My tears intensify,
My claws take my skin,
Leaving ****** marks...
I scream in my head,
Rocking to the beat of my music,
That sings in my ear bud.
Evanescence,
Rascal Flatts.
Plumb.
Crossfade.
I cannot find peace..
All I feel is that pain.
That has ****** me over for,
Five years.
I'm only a teenager,
I only can take so much.
Until Its over.
I've already tried once...
What makes you think I'll try again?
Dad,
What makes you so ******
Taking it out on me,
Because I don't listen?
Why can't you and my step mom,
Just realize..
That I'm only Seventeen..
And so it says,
My title will always stay.
Lone wolf forever..
I cant be perfect,
It's just not my style.
My life is so different,
I cry even harder.
Mistakes,
Promises broken.
Two faced liars..
God,
Why aren't you here?
I need you..
And I need you now..
As my pain intensifies,
All I see is the cascading shadows.
Watching my every move...
My music doesn't help anymore..
Jul 15, 2014
Jul 15, 2014 at 11:29 PM UTC
An open letter
to those poets
who align
to the center:
*When prose sits in the middle
it resembles gift-card drivel.
It cheapens your work;
your use of italics irks.*
Choose a side.
I don’t care if it’s
left or right,
Or center-right
or alt-right
(whatever that is).
The indecisive
have a lot to answer for
us being divisive.
Did that centered
poem you wrote
distract you from
casting a vote?
Stop fence-sitting
in-between
and enjoy a
splintered 2017,
from one side.
Jan 4, 2017
Jan 4, 2017 at 9:22 AM UTC
Grief of a love lost, has no timeline sometimes its just you with yourself fighting to find solace between the raging momentary whisks of anger and pointless sedition of your soul that irks to find the once long lost peace, You wish it has an end and rebel against the never ending !
Dec 14, 2021
Dec 14, 2021 at 11:44 AM UTC
It never ceases to amaze me, how every day, children die.
And here, we don't seem to mind.
It always irks me, when people look in the mirror and complain about their extra pounds, while babies starve before their first birthday.
Yet everyday, we throw away pounds and pounds of food.
Tell me a story that ends happy. Spin me a tale where everyone shares. Because no matter how naive it makes me, I believe we should live in a world where everyone has enough to live by. I believe that every night, a little boy or girl, should had something more than dirt to eat.
I guess I'm a dreamer, but why not be? Why not dream up the world as a place where people live in harmony. Everyone says that with enough effort, your dreams can come true.
So what surprises you? That there is child hunger in the world? Or that more people aren't trying to stop it?
Jun 25, 2012
Jun 25, 2012 at 3:49 AM UTC
Your perpetual state of tired
Irks me, because I want you
To be better and happy.
Your inability to fall asleep
Weighs me down, just like
Your tiredness does to you.
Your jerking body, sleeping
Restlessly, makes me wish you
Were awake and away.
From your nightmares
Which have become
As much my enemies
As yours, by now,
But which I do not
Have to experience.
A never ending loop of either
Tired-and-nightmared, or
Day-haunted and hallucinating.
You just want it to stop and
I do too, but I don't say a thing
'Cause you're having enough trouble
Sleeping, as it is.
Jan 28, 2014
Jan 28, 2014 at 12:46 PM UTC
There's no one who bugs me, irks me and makes me mad.
There's no one who hounds me, pesters me and irritates me.
There's no one who angers me by forgetting special occasions,
or forgetting to call,
or gets unsalted butter rather than salted at the grocers.
Only You.
There's no one who makes me roll my eyes
with his twisted philosophy, illogical excuses and faked innocence.
There's no one who makes me purse my lips in disagreement,
when he comes home from so-called overtime work,
smelling of cigarette smoke and whiskey.
There's no one who makes me bare my teeth with exasperation,
when he doesn't talk when I want him to,
when he seems to not listen when I think he needs to.
Only You.
There's no one else who knows to buy me tulips,
when he's trying to ask for my forgiveness.
There's no one else who sings "Wonderful Tonight" off-key,
when he sees me in my most tattered pajamas,
with my hair standing on end
and my cheeks and neck crawling with rashes.
There's no one who cooks a meaner chicken soup,
when I'm sick and force-feeds it to me in bed.
Only You.
There's no one who kisses me in the sweetest,
most breath-taking way in the park,
in the rain while we're jogging.
There's no one who makes me laugh
with his spot-on impression of my favorite comedian,
while watching a home video on date night,
and sharing a big bowl of buttered popcorn.
There's no one who makes love to me in such a selfless,
most gentle way, making me feel like
I'm the most loved, most special girl in the world.
Only You.
There's nobody else who makes me love him,
who makes me want to keep loving him,
in all his perfection, all his imperfection,
all the things that make him a man.
There's nobody that I am most willing
to brave all the storms with,
nobody I desire to grow old with,
and give all of my self to...
Only You.
Aug 2, 2013
Aug 2, 2013 at 11:40 PM UTC
The Last Kiss
Since Nan died the black dog circles, the scent of grief in its nostrils, waiting, sensing my vulnerability.
Regret sits heavily on my shoulders, for words said and not said, for journeys not taken, for wasted opportunities, for unsaid goodbyes.
Denial prods me unexpectedly, the reality hard to accept, where is she?
Self pity nags at me, an indulgence not to be tolerated, but it creeps in.
Remorse visits me; could I have done more to ease her mental pain?
Loneliness engulfs me in the quiet times, the darker hours; activity and light loosen its hold.
Anger irks me; it arrives sporadically without real reason.
These emotions, relentless, unyielding, almost my constant companions, take turns to envelop me in a dark mantle called grief, which must be worn, sometimes pushed aside, but never removed, a reminder of the debt which is owed, and paid out of love, with copious tears, but hard to bear.
Life is not the same since Nan died, but she is embedded in my mind, where I go she goes, etched deeply is the memory of our last kiss as she lay still and cold.
Apr 21, 2016
Apr 21, 2016 at 6:36 PM UTC
Under a shady Banyan tree,
i am a unicorn, my lone horn is shining,
front hooves raised, set to gallop, to help
dreams and desires to materialize...
:::::
on another day, i'm a silver-haired erudite,
amidst scrolls and volumes of tomes,
pondering on THAT, which ruffles my waters,
and defies what i've known, what i believe in;
i'm challenged, i pursue the topic.....i write,
and when pleasance rules.....verses swell...
:::::
however, when my mind is drought-driven,
and my days fail me, i become a banshee,
wailing my ineptitude...my inadequacy,
warning myself...of worst days coming...
there's nary a line, or a verse to celebrate
when exists, this poverty, in poetry......
:::::
i see a poet sailing on either one of two rivers
one always moves on...wind tiptoes on its
surface, its ripples are soldiers marching on...
the other river is snagged...flows off and on;
but, water always finds, creates new paths,
eventually, it flows....at times, it overflows...
::::::
the urge to write is water to the poet,
touching his/her toes...always reminding,
there's plenty to write, out there...in here...
you suddenly hear rain hitting roof like nails
or, the neighbor's car revving up, the smoke
and noise ruin your morning air...it irks you,
giving way to an angry 10-word....or haiku...
in poetry...bad and good days occur, whether
near, far, or under a shady Banyan tree....
Sally
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
July 4, 2019
Jul 3, 2019
Jul 3, 2019 at 11:43 PM UTC
'As like the Woman as you can'--
(Thus the New Adam was beguiled)--
'So shall you touch the Perfect Man'--
(God in the Garden heard and smiled).
'Your father perished with his day:
'A clot of passions fierce and blind,
'He fought, he hacked, he crushed his way:
'Your muscles, Child, must be of mind.
'The Brute that lurks and irks within,
'How, till you have him gagged and bound,
'Escape the foullest form of Sin?'
(God in the Garden laughed and frowned).
'So vile, so rank, the ******* mood
'In which the race is bid to be,
'It wrecks the Rarer Womanhood:
'Live, therefore, you, for Purity!
'Take for your mate no gallant croup,
'No girl all grace and natural will:
'To work her mission were to stoop,
'Maybe to lapse, from Well to Ill.
'Choose one of whom your grosser make'--
(God in the Garden laughed outright)--
'The true refining touch may take,
'Till both attain to Life's last height.
'There, equal, purged of soul and sense.
'Beneficent, high-thinking, just,
'Beyond the appeal of Violence,
'Incapable of common Lust,
'In mental Marriage still prevail'--
(God in the Garden hid His face)--
'Till you achieve that Female-Male
'In Which shall culminate the race.'
1.4k
Love is a four letter word
ache
bond
cage
dove
evil
felt
gasp
hope
irks
join
kiss
LOVE
mess
numb
oath
pain
quit
rose
sour
tear
used
viva
warm
xyst
yeah
zany
Gomer LePoet....
Apr 24, 2013
Apr 24, 2013 at 1:36 PM UTC
Oh how I understand the discretion policy of political views in professional environments.
I sit at the top of the lecture hall and become queasy.
I retch at the sarcasm spewing from his lips.
I try only to tune in on my notes and disregard his personal views
How difficult it is, when the person that irks you the most, is the person that will grade your term paper.
How pitiful it is, when a newly found acquaintance is gone after realizing there is no reasoning with him or her.
Oh how I now understand the discretion policy.
Jul 21, 2011
Jul 21, 2011 at 12:57 PM UTC
When your conscience's clear like crystal
You set them off-balance,
For when they see you, and try
ever so hard to find faults in you,
All they see is themselves.
Because you are clean fresh dew!
Pure like sunlight; you act as a mirror
for the soul of the onlooker,
And so, as they peer into you looking
for deceit and dirt,
their own face stares right back at them,
ugly truth gloriously unfurled.
Your open goodness
irks them, agitates them, provokes them
to claw at you, use their might, to
destroy you and all that's right,
but little do they know that you-
are Invincible. Beautiful. Resilient.
Birthed from struggle.
Tempered by truth.
Chiseled by principles.
Challenged by adversities galore,
haven't you always conquered them all?
So shine! Shine with all your brilliance,
and no one can break you,
for your conscience is your greatest wealth,
for your conscience is your Kohinoor.
May 10, 2016
May 10, 2016 at 2:14 PM UTC
I stand still to think one day
"Am I dreaming?"
This question irks
my illuminant soul.
Quickly, I pinch myself
I feel no pain,
no sorrow, no joy.
An emptiness consumes me.
In the depths of mind
I wander around
slowing creating a
world which does not exist.
A world full of chaos
and peace. In a flow
the ocean crashes
against the giant skies.
My world is unstable
unending unbearable
to those who enter the
caves of my mind.
Wandering wishless
in a world of my creation
I put this question forth to you
"Are you sure you're awake?"
Dec 3, 2011
Dec 3, 2011 at 10:24 PM UTC
I thought of my desolate air fresheners, of all shapes, sizes and scents.
pick the little one shaped and scented like a rose.
the sweet, cloying smell that irks your sensitive nose.
nobody knows how it happened, but
your breakfast goes (out).
pick the green tree, the one that smells like pine.
maybe you should wash it down with some wine.
the sharp scent reminds you of grandma's house, and suddenly you taste brine on your face.
maybe you should take the one shaped like a lemon, with a whiff of zing.
suddenly I remember how you didn't even blink
with your acidic words when you said you were leaving.
nothing seems to be able to mask the sad, musty smell of loneliness;
but maybe with a gentle caress.....?
Jun 27, 2015
Jun 27, 2015 at 11:58 AM UTC
M’lud
I stand before you
Contained within this dock
The night I was arrested
I can tell you
Was a shock!
Because? … I do NOT write in metaphors
Because?… I say it as it IS
This is the crime
I’m guilty of
By the …
Poetry Police
Another one that irks them so
Is because I write in rhyme
They think that they are clever
That extended is
Divine
I would like to
exercise
my
freedom
Wield
my
pen
Just
as
I
please
M’lud
Take pity
On this soul
Who pleads
On bended knees
For … there is much room in the pantry
For us all to get along
For … there is much room in the pantry
To sing our different songs
Songs of different cultures
Songs of unrequited love
Songs of just plain nonsense
Songs yet to be dreamed of
M’lud
I now beseech you
Appeal for your support
Pay credence to my musings
Throw this case
Straight out of court
For the greater man
Will walk alone
When his backs against the wall
The greater man
Will stand alone
In any port of call
For he has the inner knowledge
He has free rein of his mind
He understands complexities
Eyes are no longer blind
Blind to prepaid formulas
Rules they set in stone
Please protect poetic liberty
For … I will never be a clone
CASE WAS DISMISSED AND THE JUDGE SANCTIONED THAT ALL POETS FROM NOW ON WILL BE PROTECTED BY THE POETIC LIBERTY ACT 2010
Nov 1, 2010
Nov 1, 2010 at 6:59 AM UTC
Hisses delusions
Jumps to conclusions
Causes confusions
With no real solutions
Twists and tangles
Slashes, mangles
Breaks and shatters
All that matters
Nothing works
It just irks
Muscle spasms and jerks
Just a jumble of feeling
To scrape off the ceiling
Jan 16, 2011
Jan 16, 2011 at 8:45 AM UTC
Defeated
in neither hope nor
expectation
shall I ever be,
so thru the ancient
purpose
will vague dissatisfaction,
grief
that irks us,
and suspicions of rivalry
be
left without resources
to that industry.
But still I lie
motionless by
the
need
of my subdued nature,
to the pleasure of
this faulty
constitution.
The justifiable respect
I
have for you
due to the strength I
see in your resolution
-tho the vanity you choose breeds a
serene indifference
which
I cannot undo
by a paltry solution- you
must move me by slow degrees
to believe
that
with a less conservative
self-reliance,
we will
be
honest enough
to admit this
-we already have
a severed
alliance.
Nov 8, 2014
Nov 8, 2014 at 3:55 PM UTC
Is that danger in the distance?
Or do my eyes deceive?
****
Like dark clouds
gathering above mountains.
Like how the young see their futures.
(Though it's not like the world hasn't been ending
this entire time.
In billions of years the sun will explode.
In hundreds, our planet will be just dust and stone,
and the bones of industry.
And at my rate
I'll self-destruct by sixty years of age.
But) what is this thing that sticks and stings
and irks
like a mirage?
Not the flavor of fingers dipped in deliciousness.
Not the freshness of a newborn babe.
Not the scent of flowers.
Not feet in a hot bath.
Not fumbling a lovers face,
frolicking through foxglove fields,
flitting a fiery frevo,
finishing first.
No,
none of that.
It's not a thing,
but a feeling.
Fear
Fear
Fear
And it sticks and stings
and irks,
like a mirage.
-
by Aleksander Mielnikow | Alek the Poet
Nov 19, 2020
Nov 19, 2020 at 4:42 AM UTC
Byron loves to golf, but in the dead of winter, when he has his wood stove radiating heat, he likes to play darts. The board hangs on a door separating the main garage from his store heap of empty beer cans, crushed and bagged. Thousands of them. He also has a ****** stuck on a wall. The **** just flows out to the ground. He always warns us not to dump in his ****** The very thought irks me. Like golf, Byron threatens to “kick my *** in darts. He has a predilection for my posterior in the most unthreatening way. In fact, he may be homophobic. He throws a dart like an Amazon pygmy. Fatal to success. However, golf is never far from his mind during the raging snows we get. Although I helped with the spelling and small stuff, Byron penned the following. I came up with the title.
Intimations of Fairway Play
I'd rather hit the links today,
Take an eight on five;
Blame the wind or shift of weight,
Than shovel out my drive.
I'd rather search under trees,
Twigs, leafs and water;
And curse the squirrel that thought my shot
Was food for winter fodder.
I'd rather have a downward lie
On pock-marked naked ground;
Than sit and watch Keegan Bradley
Get it up and down.
I'd rather have a green fringe putt
That lines up with goose droppings;
Or see a fine three footer lip
Than hear the snow plough coming.
I'd rather shoot a ninety-nine,
And pay for rounds of ale;
Than sit in front of my wood stove
During snow and sleet and hail.
I'd rather shank or stub my ****
Yes, get a double bogie;
Or miss a hole-in-one by inches
And put up with Francie's stogie.
Francie can card seventy-two
And make an eagle putt;
It matters little what he does,
I know I'll kick his but.
Yet still I languish near my fire
And watch the Pros play golf;
At Pebble Beach or someplace warm
I wish they'd all **** off.
Jun 9, 2014
Jun 9, 2014 at 2:30 PM UTC
If I see you
—walking down the street in the arms of another,
staring at them like they were the blessed mother,
holding them like fragile equipment—
I'll trod along, pretending to never have known you were there in the first place
My love, will you let me stay slave to loneliness,
will you continue to shun me in your desparate attempt to move on?
The thought of you in the care of someone else
irks my mind and pains my soul
It punctures my armor scathed
like the claws of a lion that fell itself
The very sight of your iridescent face
gleaming like a multifaceted gem
struck by light in a way it shows
life in glamorous technicolor burns my thoughts
The way your hands are clasped with theirs
Contrast to mine holding my own
together in prayer that you are mine alone
but what I wish differs from what I see
My love, will you let me stay slave to loneliness,
will you continue to shun me in your desparate attempt to move on?
If you see me
—strolling pass by you, trying to catch a glimpse of your face,
admiring you like you are a dancing sun,
trying to catch your image in my memories—
trodding by, just pretend you didn't so it wouldn't hurt any more than I have already hurt myself
Dec 18, 2015
Dec 18, 2015 at 12:02 AM UTC