Pass of the hand on the cheek ever so slightly
A hand carressing petals blossomed from a rose

Gentle breath, warm and calloused, trembles the knape
The dessert wind whispering a tune of truth to the back of your mind

Sentual scent that enhance the taste of the good life
The aroma of an outstanding experience that hits the nerves like fire

With only a glance, captivated, by the idol that we behold
Unique splender, almost hypnotize, like a startled deer on the highway

The other day,
I went out with a girl called Simaley
I don't know what I metherfor.

Regards Paul

My heart is breaking
Piece by piece
It's not just a metaphore
Not anymore

I feel it in my chest
Right in my heart
These pangs of pain
You said it's for the best

But how can you decide
What's right for me

I can't let you be

But I'll give you that space
If you could just look at my face

I'm sorry I tried to understand
I went too far
Into those walls built from scars

The tears run down my face
There is no light in this place
You are the sun
But you always run

I'll let it go
If I could just have
Things as they were

Not a fabricated distance
That is only another wall

Please look at me
The way you used to
I miss seeing your face

Your sincere smile
I cannot erase
But I fear
I made it disappear

Free verse is great,
when used by great poets,
but it seems that it has more recently become
a way for amateur poets
to be lazy.

To take opinions,
expressed in prose
and convince the world its poetry.
What is the beauty of poetry if not
in seeing how the poet commands
the language?

To write a sonnet,
To write a limerick,
To use iambic pentameter,
The poet must form the language
to fit the structure,
accomplish the meter.

The poet has to find
creative ways of expressing
a thought that fits within the structure.
Free verse does 'free the poet' to express ideas.

There is a lot of great
free verse poetry.
Because it allows
for an arrangement of ideas
without a strict form.

Sadly it also
frees the poet to be,
Well, un-poetic.
Is it a poem, really,
with not a single simile,
no metaphore, hyperbole,
no alliteration, no assoonance,
no meter, no rhyme?

If your not using
any poetic devices at all,
is this really poetry?
Or just prose in disguise?

When you look at a clock
You see numbers, lines, and hands.
Not the kind of hands you're thinking about,
Just long thin lines, no fingers, no feeling.

But when you take it apart and look inside of it,
You see a very complicated thing
Grears, springs, and wires.

Vagly resembeling the insides of us,
A complicated inside.
Full of water and blood and guts

In the core is a heart or a spring if you a clock.
That keeps us moving, pumping blood to all the far corners of our bodies.
Or moving the gears that move the hand that make time go bye.

This is how a body functions,
or a clock,
or what every you want to make this metaphore represent.

I built a wall around me,just to be safe.
Never let anyone to get too close.
Some people manage to break it,
Now they are forever in my heart.
I love kids, I think the little ones are adorable,
Yet I don’t wanna have any.
I appreciate women,
Though I rarely show it.
I like Romantic,
but I rejected it,
when it comes my way.
Music inspires me,
Poetry does too,art is beautiful.
Johnny Cash,Taylor Swift are some of my favorites,
They are both great playing with guitars.
I like to read in quiet,books are amazing,
Romance and Classics, definitely!
I like being alone,
Yet I am dying for a little company,
The right one.
Little gestures creates magic,
And makes time elapse slower.
Don’t believe me ?
Have her palm and play with it.
Stars are dazzling,
Moon is gorgeous,
It always reminds me of someone.
So mysterious,bright and pretty,
And so so far away…
She asked me if I know,
In every year,
Moon it's moving,
Inches away from the Earth,
She was right about that,
Thats why she hated this metaphore,
Now we are forever apart,
The more we get in touch,
The more we loose touch.
Photography,God I love to take pictures!
But never wanted to be seen in any of them,
To seize the moment,
That’s why I’ve got a camera.
I love to take shots of things,
And the people I adore.
Pictures will live forever,
And will last longer than us.
The best thing about a picture,
Is that it never changes,
Even when the people in it do.
I don’t believe in God,
But I hold on into hope.
I love hats, I have just one,
One I have shared it with a dear friend,
I have to admit,it suits perfect  both of our heads.
I dream a lot,about everything,
Tomorrow maybe it will be about you.
You’ll never know.
Reality is not always so nice.
But we get through.
So I love running,
I have a bad heart condition,
But that doesn’t stop me,
I feel more alive when I run.
One day I will go to Paris,
Now I am just imagining it in my head
As I am drawning  it on my paper.
Some drink beers, others drink coffee,
Me ? I am just enjoying a cup of warm tea.
I remember Oscar Wilde once said ;
“Women are meant to be loved not understood”
I disagree with that,
They can be understood,
If we would just listen,
Instead,we put our suits on “Mr. Solves Everything”
And we come up with solutions,lots of them
When a woman all she really wants is a hug,
And perhaps to be heard.
We shall listen to understand,not to respond.
I dont know much about love,I honestly don’t
But I do know this ; Love them as human beings,
And not as some kind of throphy or some object.
She is a treasure which can be easily lost,
If not treated her right,
Be kind and gentle,
Who cares if a woman is running late,
If she is wearing red lipstick,
Just for you.
She is delicate and soft,
Just for you.
Appreciate her,
Cherish her,
Or someone else will.
Men are cold by nature,
Until women melt their hearts out.
We ignore the ones who like us,
We like the ones who ignore us,
We Love the ones who hurt us
And We hurt the ones that love us
We are stupid that way,
So am I writing this cheap poem.
We are still learning things,
You are learning how to love
And I am still learning to write.
Writing is like having ***,
First you do it for love,
Then you do it for your lover,
And then you do it for money.
I am a writer,anything you say or do,
May be used in a story.*

Stef Devid Alexandru ©
29 Noiembrie 2015

Allegorique- You were a star that shined brighter as the night darkened
Metaphore- A sun amongst moons
Metonymie- Your brown skin had won my heart
Synecdoque-The power of love
Hyperbole- 1000volts ran thgough me as you touched me
Pleonasme- This ancient ritual, from long ago
Personnification- Your eyes spoke to me and conveyed your intentions
Gradation- You were dangerous, so dangerous and threatening
Anaphore-  Breaker of hearts, breaker of love, breaker of lives, now you've broken me  
Exclamation- Liar! deviever! Traitor!
Anacoluthe-with all my love, you decided to...
Hypallage- Your beautiful face was so decieving to the world
Antithese- Your mind was with me, but your heart remained elsewhere
Comparaison- You poisoned me, like the apple of Eve did Adam
Inversion- The death of me was my love for you
Question-  Why was it me ? Why was it us ?

It's easy to write
I just type it down
On my phone.

Get it all out, in the zone

And its easy to write
When none of the people reading this
Are one's I've known

And a text that articulates my pain and emotions
Is coated in the atheistic of rhyme, metaphore and power
Makes it so easy to write this down

And let me drown.


Cause atleast it paints an interesting picture
Doesn't it ?

And it makes me seem like I know things
But I really dont
I just feel good when expressing things
Like a song.

And it's easy to write this down
But it's not easy to analyze prioritize and take action.
Its not easy to make things happen.
Its very difficult
And sometimes it seems impossible.

But writing it down
... it's easy

I cast out into the dark
letting the line drag across
the surface of a river
lit by neither moonlight
or halogen bulb and I ponder
the ever increasing presence
of entropy in our universe
and mostly in our own lives.
I haven't got a reference point,
nothing to point to on the
far horizon, no lyric pulled
from an oingo boingo song
and given false depth now
that it can breathe without all
the stifling context it had before
it was excised by way of example.
I've lamented a mouthful of
purpling nonesense and let the
truth go understood, perhaps,
but most certainly unsaid.
I am concerned now with what
happens at the end
because credits won't play
and I've prepared no coffin
in which to finally lay
And I'm tugging so hard at
my beard that my bottom lip
is flapping in a silent mockery
of language and I don't know
what it would say to a lip reader
but it means stress to me.
I've got lives at stake
and mouths to feed
and one thought starts
and sorta then just bleeds
into the next idea until
it becomes a nightmare
of neurotic over think
just like me.
I had my hand on a metaphore
that was, generously, unclear
but the truth is difficult
to parse and I'm not sure
how to start or with what chart-
The sun has gone down
on things I thought
were forever and the
sudden impermanence
was a shock to my system
that is still rippling out
like the water around
the fishing line I've cast
into the dark.
I'm too old for
wait and see
but I reel the line in slow
and what I hope to find
on the hook
out there
in this dark?
Frankly, I don't know.

Last night I started digging.
Tunneling through miles
of dirt and pounds of flesh
and leaving red wine droplets
on mud covered tile in my wake.
I scratched fine deep furrows
into my arms and legs
and wondered at mortality
as I watched 'em bleed for days.
Somewhere inside there's
treasure to be found
buried deep and hidden,
like a secret,
somewhere underground
or perhaps it's metaphore,
to add spice and substance
a tiny bit of charm
to an everyday benign chore.
What, after all, would be the harm
in cutting through the corded
tendon and raw meat
of the arm or in throwing
fistfuls of moist dirt
at an ever growing mound
and knowing you'd done
no real wrong?
Last night I started digging.
I don't even know what
I'm looking for.
I've put mountains of dirt
over my shoulder
added to that growing pile,
and I don't feel any better
though I'll keep at it a while.
I've spent countless hours
racked with nerves or anxiety
or guilt, an old catholic standby,
and I'm not saying that
I'll find my answers in the pit,
but I just can't see how it hurts
if I just wanna live with it.
Digging for answers
digging for treasure
tunneling toward profundity
on our way through.
I wonder why we think
the process is worthy
when the result is what
we avoid talking about.
The digging is in service,
at least lets admit the truth,
permit us all the option to be brave
we think we're out here
digging for answers or truth
searching for our
reurn to Plato's cave.
We're not digging out wisdom,
We're digging out a grave.
I'll burrow deep into the chest
in search of heartache
and then, weary, I'll rest.
Beyond bleeding or dirt
is purpose and truth
and so much more ******* hurt
but I'm digging, searching
to soothe an old painful need
stop my broken heart from lurching
from one minefield to the next
kisses and smoking craters
old flames and great heaving wrecks.
Last night I started digging.
Looking through blood and sinew
tree root and rocky soil
for the happy ending.
I ain't found it anywhere I been to.
I'll keep going tomorrow.
It isn't over yet. I don't mind.
I'll be searching forever
or until I learn what it is
that I hope to find.