"politely" poems
Man Woman
He Smiles Curiously She Blushes Coyly
He Approaches Asks her name She shares it Asks the Same
Mr Right Love at First Sight Her Smile is a Delight
"Meet for Drinks?" hmmmmmm "Pick me up at 8?"
He knocks - 1 rose. vase, water Her perfume - sweeter.
Politely, opens car door for her The night keeps getting better
At the restaurant She sips her red wine
Conversation so easy She feels she's known him forever
"Would you like to dance? "I don't dance very well."
"Indulge me, just want u in my arms." ~Just a smile~
One hand at her waist, one on her back.
They become one, all others disappear.
Peering into each other's eyes.
No words are needed.
Their bodies
say
it.
© 2012
Jul 6, 2012
Jul 6, 2012 at 11:07 PM UTC
There is one thing that ought to be taught in all the colleges,
Which is that people ought to be taught not to go around always making apologies.
I don't mean the kind of apologies people make when they run over you or borrow five dollars or step on your feet,
Because I think that is sort of sweet;
No, I object to one kind of apology alone,
Which is when people spend their time and yours apologizing for everything they own.
You go to their house for a meal,
And they apologize because the anchovies aren't caviar or the partridge is veal;
They apologize privately for the crudeness of the other guests,
And they apologize publicly for their wife's housekeeping or their husband's jests;
If they give you a book by Dickens they apologize because it isn't by Scott,
And if they take you to the theater, they apologize for the acting and the dialogue and the plot;
They contain more milk of human kindness than the most capacious diary can,
But if you are from out of town they apologize for everything local and if you are a foreigner they apologize for everything American.
I dread these apologizers even as I am depicting them,
I shudder as I think of the hours that must be spend in contradicting them,
Because you are very rude if you let them emerge from an argument victorious,
And when they say something of theirs is awful, it is your duty to convince them politely that it is magnificent and glorious,
And what particularly bores me with them,
Is that half the time you have to politely contradict them when you rudely agree with them,
So I think there is one rule every host and hostess ought to keep with the comb and nail file and bicarbonate and aromatic spirits on a handy shelf,
Which is don't spoil the denouement by telling the guests everything is terrible, but let them have the thrill of finding it out for themselves.
23.7k
I met her once
a little, blind girl
who had let me
inside her wonderful world.
Yes, she couldn't see,
the girl with eyes bright.
Yet, she loved her world
like she never lost her sight.
She heard the music
of the breeze that blew.
The love for her world,
it only grew.
She acquainted me with
that music she heard,
from the buzz of the bees
to the chirping of the birds.
Yes, she couldn't see
the wonders of life.
Yet, she smiled
without a sign of strife.
She had beautiful eyes
filled with wonder.
I stood speechless and thought
how could God make such a blunder?
She danced and sang
with a graceful twirl.
How she loved her life
the little, blind girl.
She smiled and laughed,
her face filled with joy.
With wonder in her eyes,
she was serene, yet coy.
She felt her world
beneath her tiny fingers
and on me left a mark
that would forever linger.
Yes, she couldn't see
the life that she felt.
Yet, she never showed
the sorrow that she dealt.
Her world was dark.
Yet, she saw
the Earth's true form
pure and raw.
Yes, she let me in.
But I couldn't overstay.
So, I excused myself politely
and quietly walked away.
I had met her once
a little girl who couldn't see.
Yes, she was a child
but the happiest there could ever be
Oct 23, 2014
Oct 23, 2014 at 8:13 AM UTC
The comic convention
has cardboard cutouts of
all of the main characters of
Harry Potter.
Harry,
Ron,
Hermione,
etc.
All motionless in a river of people,
glossy but worn down,
bathed in cold white halogen.
And one by one,
the cosplayers—
the Harrys
Rons
Hermiones,
etc.
Have their pictures taken
with the cutouts,
one cardboard cutout cut out
and replaced with a real human being.
Being human, we
crave companionship,
fear solitude,
crave solitude,
fear companionship.
We try to avoid becoming cardboard
cutouts of ourselves, but sometimes
a retreat into inanimacy
is what the animus needs.
The cosplayers continue to shuffle forward in line
each waiting to pose for a selfie. Each
politely smiling at the living Harry Potter characters around them,
but not striking up a conversation.
Aug 3, 2014
Aug 3, 2014 at 8:35 PM UTC
Mr. handsome stranger
He’s coming after
Desperate like a last request
Frantic delusional lunatic
Unhinged fragile losing what’s left
Self serving sadomasochistic
Easy on the eyes but doesn’t quite fit in
Playing it cool in social situations
His intelligent banter he claims as his own
With somewhat smart comebacks he practiced at home
Trying so hard that the sweat beads down
Onto his stressed wrinkled furrowed brow
the stories he skillfully misdirected
Carefully darting unwanted questions
Mr. Indiscreet can’t blow his cover
Disarm the girl of his unrealistic dreams
How quite average and normal he can be
Mr. Stalker walks over to the Girl
works up the courage and talks to her
Strikes up a witty conversation
With his movie star smile and education
Using the words that he pre rehearsed
Says all the right things and compliments her
Looking past his rather peculiar behavior
And when politely asked gives up her number
He rings her up the very next day
With a romantic scenic picnic date
Under the shade of a lush green tree
Upon a blanket with wine and cheese
Playing the part of the handsome boyfriend
Gains her full trust and faith in him
Joking in a effort to make her laugh
To put her at ease and follow his plan
Jealous of her ex boyfriends
Knowing their names and full address
And when he drops her off at home
Tracks and follows her every move
Knows all her weekly kept routines
Threatens and blackmails all her friends
Studies everyday mundane errands
Unaware of his decent into madness
Sep 18, 2018
Sep 18, 2018 at 8:28 AM UTC
"What are you?" he asks. "I mean what are you mixed with?"
He does not mean for the question to be rude. He has never seen someone quite like me, and the question has been bouncing around in his head for at least 2 minutes. So he blurts it out.
"Jamaican, Chinese, and White," I tell the stranger. I smile politely and attempt to mask my discomfort.
He only looks more intrigued. He thinks I am odd, oddly beautiful. Like a rare bird he has found. Not a bird one would ever keep. Just something to look at in awe.
"What are you?" the test paper asks, though in a more formal way. "Please bubble your ethnicity." I hesitate. I think about bubbling 3 different races, but I just end up filling in the bubble that says "other".
"What are you?" I ask my mirror. "Are you a freak? Why don't you look like everyone else? Why do they stare at you?"
"You are not pretty," i tell my reflection. "You are just different. The kind of different that no one likes. The kind of different that scares and intimidates people."
My reflection pauses for a moment. She smiles with kind eyes, forgiving my insult.
"You are everything," she tells me. "You are the sun, the moon and everything in between. You are a scorching hot fire, yet you are cold spring water. You are good and bad. You are you and I am, too. But most of all, you are human. Just like anyone else.
Sep 17, 2015
Sep 17, 2015 at 11:28 PM UTC
There's a Russian fairytale of snowdrops in January
a girl meeting the twelve seasons in human form
who lead her in the middle of winter to where snowdrops grow
I never thought once that I'd live in a land where snowdrops grow in February rather than in April
& where the snowy winter has become a memory
& where in my childhood we weren't able to buy sauerkraut & pickled gherkins done the way we liked
yet which now has become more international
& where people smile & say ' sorry' to you politely
if you tread on their feet
as if their feet were the problem
& where time is measured by the Big Ben & Greenwich
instead of by the Kremlin
& it always rains in summer but there are rarely any thunderstorms
& people holiday in places like Majorca & Benidorm
if they're working class
& France, if they're middle class
& where I went to a public ( private) girls' school
& wore a red uniform
& sang the hymn ' Jerusalem'
believing in this green & pleasant land
with all my heart
until I left & came back again,
this time, an adult, a European
living through the British recession
& shocked at the newly hostile attitude to migrants
yet even now when I see those snowdrops
in February
my heart soars & I'm back living a fairytale
a child in wonder
just as before
Aug 14, 2015
Aug 14, 2015 at 8:51 AM UTC
“I am a warrior, so that my son may be a merchant, so that his son may be a poet.”
John Quincy Adams, 6th President of the United States
<>
a bad weakness, mine, mess with the perfect of others,
unsure what to add that will addictive illuminate further,
but as homage, a tribute, a salute
got to
got too,
no middle class delayed gratification for me, none, whatsoever,
read the words and my own hands choke me
as if to pull out, to free
the upsurging words in my chest-forming,
to uplift me up, from the floor where I am roiling in
wonderful wonderment at a prophecy come true
my recent family history,
about 400 years worth, got it written down someplace,
escapees from a Spanish Inquisition,
a Roman one before that,
meandering Jews who found a respite, a small welcome
in a small village in Germany
(the irony does not go unnoticed)
from villager to merchant, from tiny town to big city folk,
we went, warriors if any, kept secret, best unheard,
attract no attention, but do what survival doesn’t
always politely request
here I am child of the proverbial wandering jew,
fancy me a poet with, at best, a very small p,
one of three children, historians, book writers, scholars and even
poet~traders,
and so a President’s words, hammer my cells
upon an anvil for human skins,
the future shape of me foreseen
and I think to myself,
alone and out loud:
This, This!
is what makes America great,
welcoming the stranger,
even predicting their
possible pathway to a peaceful existence,
giving their descendant’s generations liberty,
liberty to become poets,
free, who can stand upright*
Jun 25, 2019
Jun 25, 2019 at 1:47 PM UTC
The power of music
and friendship
heals dead connections;
a well-meaning member
of a jam session
offers me a guitar.
I politely decline,
embarrassed by my disability,
and they shrug. Your choice.
The familiar curves
beneath my arm
like a woman
from my past,
my amnesiac left hand
reaches for the
muscle memory
of fifty years' practice.
After an agonizing minute,
the G chord miraculously plays,
as I played it at five,
the three big fingers alone
strong enough to hold it.
The switch to C impossible;
so I play a variation.
Doesn't sound bad with the group.
My God, I might play a D7
by the next time it comes around
in the song.
The gang is playing old standards,
Ohio State music;
three chords and a cloud of dust,
which suits my present skill(?) well.
I almost cried when a few tunes later,
we sang A Horse With No Name
to my accompaniment.
Beethoven was deaf, yet heard the Ode To Joy.
Hawking is paralyzed, and travels the universe.
I have three good fingers,
and no good excuses.
Sep 5, 2016
Sep 5, 2016 at 11:45 AM UTC
To the niqab girl whom I met in Cagaya De Oro City
You were in front of me as we waited in line for hours
We smiled first politely and then we began to talk,
We Shared different insights in almost everything:
Your face veiling practice in Islam fascinated me
My headcovering as Christian piqued your curiosity
Conversations turned to fashion, extremism, and Filipinos,
You saw my face and I saw your beautiful eyes
Yet we never asked each other's names or Facebook accounts,
We were different yet somehow we mirrored each other;
Different religions yet linked by passion to serve God
Different ethnicity and language yet tied by nationality.
It's been weeks since the Marawi siege and I think of you
Hoping that every niqab girl I see in Iligan is you
We were strangers that rainy afternoon of June 2016
Yet I grieve for your loss - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Words are not enough to comfort you sister of the stars but
May your Allah guide and protect you in these times
May my Jesus cover you with His precious Holy blood,
To the niqab girl whom I met in Cagayan De Oro City
Perhaps we'll never see each other again in the future but
Thank you for letting me see the beauty of cultural diversity
And that coexistence is possible if we have open minds
And living in harmony is attainable if we open our hearts.
Jun 6, 2017
Jun 6, 2017 at 6:04 AM UTC
Imagine my disappointment when,
on discovering a tiny door
in a hollow tree,
locating its miniature key
beneath a buttercup,
unlocking and opening it
I found not a world of tiny folk
not Tir-nan-Og nor Avalon,
but a spectacled man in a white labcoat
holding a clipboard
and making notes on my reaction.
"Initial shock", he jotted,
"followed by anger and suspicion.
"Likely to require counselling
"within a year."
I closed the door as politely as I could
and went back to my books.
Mar 27, 2011
Mar 27, 2011 at 7:01 AM UTC
It's like the movie
part of me*
It tells me where I should
go and want to be
**Please note that I will say
Not a dark place
inside my suitcase**
"Robin Red Breasted" suit
Peck and nip and tuck in place
The rainbow iridescent
Suiting her taste wet rain tents
Everyone was Green with envy
**Robin/ Rainbow event lets hear
it for our Army so many
troops**
He was sitting politely
Like a salesman of suitcases
on her stoop
She was mesmerized
Living out of a tour suitcase
She wanted daisies she was
ready for fantasies
Of him in her suitcase
Tumbling through
Another time Postman
Singing birds to ring twice
Birds all in groups
Computer laptops she wanted
to be surprised so mysterious
But ready for love ingenious
He laughed not losing sight
Robin eats like a bird
so hilarious
She packed her sunshine
yellow ribbons
she was ready to feed
Those Brooklyn pigeons
Packed suitcase ready for
the love of God
Going frenzy from her fruit loops
Robin Birdie born traveler scoop
Well nested flying South
fully invested
Rocking her flight cradle
Wherever I go or whatever I do
Traveling packs meet
Mr. Ramen noodles
Getting silly splashing puddles
The Spiritual Zen
traveling boots over a shower
He kissed them high up (Eiffel Tower)
Rome Italy wines in love cahoots
The call I'm ready "Amazon" wild
Let us go, child, another story
But the wildcard fresh air
Oh! Dear
The lightness easy does it
feathering wings the clues fit
Packing my suitcase
Love is a drug of "Europe"
Perfectly fine wine
Always hope with cantaloupe
Aug 6, 2018
Aug 6, 2018 at 9:41 AM UTC
Two people both alike in character
Of the opposite sexes
Sit across a candlelit dinner
In a lovely, fancy restaurant
The room is incandescently lit
With a dimness that balances between ever so bright and ever so dark
Allowing for a gold tinge to envelop the restaurant
But not gold enough to take away notice of the lit candle set upon the White table cloth
The waiter appears and asks the couple
What they would like for dinner
The couple order the food and drink
Much to the waiter's delight the food and drink is expensive
The waiter returns shortly
With a bottle of their finest Pinto Noir
And pours the blood-red wine slowly
Into each of the couple's glasses
And leaves the couple to sip upon their sweet sin delicately
The food is laid out
Triumphant in its debut
A vast smorgasbord of entries
Including frog legs, crab, and delicious ****** steak
The couple prepare their silverware for the battle that is eating
The man stabs his knife into the ****** steak
Cutting it open and spilling the juices all over his plate
He stabs the meat with the fork and guides it toward his mouth
And slowly but surely chomps upon it with the strength of his fine jaw
And swallows the meat into the unexposed mystery that is his stomach
The woman begins to mutilate the frog legs with her knife
Cutting into the once moveable limbs
And stabs the limbs with her fork and brings it to her mouth
And delicately bites the limbs and politely chews
And swallows it into her fine and precious insides
The couple then split the crab legs
Using their bear hands they split the shells open
And remove the meat or **** it right out of the shell
They swallow it whole and do nothing with the shell
Leaving the shell aside to be as still as a carcass
The waiter arrives and asks how the food was
The couple obliged him with their satisfaction
The bill is handed to them and the couple pay it
Leaving a hefty tip
They then leave the lovingly dimly lit restaurant
To enjoy the night that is ahead of them
May 29, 2014
May 29, 2014 at 1:37 AM UTC
Take a few minutes
Each and every day
Stand in front of the mirror
Look at your reflection
And ask yourself a few questions
"How are you feeling today?"
Ask politely, pause for a heartbeat or two
"What's wrong?" With sincerity, mind you
Because no one is as strong as they think
"I haven't seen so-and-so for a while!
It's so good to finally meet up with them again."
Reminisce on good times long gone
Imagine the future he'll give you
"Do you really want to have to go through with this?"
Ask yourself, staring into your own eyes
Put down the razor and the skin cream
Put away the curling iron and the makeup
Give up the fad diet and the guarantees
Stop worrying about what your parents will say
Smile at yourself in the mirror
Wink and lean in close
So close your breath fogs up the mirror
Have a good long laugh
Send a few thoughts up his way
'Cause he's looking down from paradise
And believe me when I say
That God loves all his children as they are
After all, he did make you that way
Feb 17, 2016
Feb 17, 2016 at 9:47 PM UTC
GOD GOES FOR A WALK
God goes
for a walk.
it is the depths of Winter
but, at a whim
he makes it
...Spring.
Because.
He can.
I also, as it happens
have gone for a walk
& am surprised by
the sudden change of
the weather. . ?
...whatever!
He is wearing a yellow
gangster style fedora.
He looks like Marlon Brando
being The Godfather.
He sports the brightest of yellow
waistcoats
which compliments
the purple shirt...purple trousers.
He strides along with His
Paisley patterned Parisian walking stick
whistling the music of
The Spheres.
The World bows
before him.
He is well pleased
with Himself, un-
-til: He encounters me
coming towards him
dressed in a gangster style
yellow fedora
the brightest of yellow waistcoats
not to mention the purple shirt...purple trousers.
I, also, possess
a Paisley patterned Parisian walking stick.
We nod politely
saying nothing but...
He is miffed at me
wearing His outfit and
I also miffed at Him
wearing mine!
We pass each other
God & creature.
And ******* if He doesn't
make it Winter
on the very next step.
He was always
a Jealous God.
Jul 20, 2018
Jul 20, 2018 at 2:08 PM UTC
A panacea,
the band aid word I
slap on conflict
A solve it all
Acronym for nothing and
Diffuser of
All scenarios.
the more politely phrased version of
The mafia's cry.
But no matter how you slant the saying,
It's still salient- and a parched, bleached lie.
Oct 28, 2015
Oct 28, 2015 at 10:36 PM UTC
sticks and stones may break your bones,
but they will also start fires…
the importance of fire safety isn’t taken lightly,
so please take the time to act politely.
now no offense but from one girl to another,
you’re not Adele, Sean Kingston, or the Jonas Brothers.
do not set fire to the rain that pours,
call 9-1-1 before you burn up on the dance floor.
when the heat settles in and you’re feeling dry,
to your candles and cigarettes please say goodbye.
(since those items are illegal anyways,
you’ll be fined if they are caught ablaze).
this isn’t the Upper Room where fire fell on everyone’s head
keep the Holy Spirit’s fire set in your soul instead.
ignore this advice and your world will crash,
as before your eyes Miller Hall turns to ash.
Dec 13, 2015
Dec 13, 2015 at 10:45 PM UTC
Say this city has ten million souls,
Some are living in mansions, some are living in holes:
Yet there's no place for us, my dear, yet there's no place for us.
Once we had a country and we thought it fair,
Look in the atlas and you'll find it there:
We cannot go there now, my dear, we cannot go there now.
In the village churchyard there grows an old yew,
Every spring it blossoms anew:
Old passports can't do that, my dear, old passports can't do that.
The consul banged the table and said,
"If you've got no passport you're officially dead":
But we are still alive, my dear, but we are still alive.
Went to a committee; they offered me a chair;
Asked me politely to return next year:
But where shall we go to-day, my dear, but where shall we go to-day?
Came to a public meeting; the speaker got up and said;
"If we let them in, they will steal our daily bread":
He was talking of you and me, my dear, he was talking of you and me.
Thought I heard the thunder rumbling in the sky;
It was ****** over Europe, saying, "They must die":
O we were in his mind, my dear, O we were in his mind.
Saw a poodle in a jacket fastened with a pin,
Saw a door opened and a cat let in:
But they weren't German Jews, my dear, but they weren't German Jews.
Went down the harbour and stood upon the quay,
Saw the fish swimming as if they were free:
Only ten feet away, my dear, only ten feet away.
Walked through a wood, saw the birds in the trees;
They had no politicians and sang at their ease:
They weren't the human race, my dear, they weren't the human race.
Dreamed I saw a building with a thousand floors,
A thousand windows and a thousand doors:
Not one of them was ours, my dear, not one of them was ours.
Stood on a great plain in the falling snow;
Ten thousand soldiers marched to and fro:
Looking for you and me, my dear, looking for you and me.
6.6k
It was when his finger prints left marks on my coffee cup
in that Starbucks he politely gave me my warm hazelnut
I remember how I got a little struck of his height
he made me look at him like I am gazing at the stars
It was his 'hi' that painted my crooked smile
followed by a simple question, "what's your name?"
God, he's so cute in that black t-shirt and snapback
I sounded like a ****** when I speak my name out
It was his vibe and a little of his laugh
that got me re-arranged a space in my mind for him
as he threw compliments with the same amount
of every single thing I like about his consuming eyes
It was a bye-bye that evening where it started to rain
and I counted his steps as he walked away from me
along with the ticking clock for his first phone call
cause he stole my every attention until I stumble and fall
Aug 12, 2015
Aug 12, 2015 at 12:20 AM UTC
Lost
Empty
Apathetic
Varying degrees of self hatred
Effortlessly breaking me down
Making me doubt
Everything we ever were
Asking politely
Let me be
Or learn to grow
Not digress
Existing in solitude is what I do best
Sep 26, 2018
Sep 26, 2018 at 7:57 AM UTC
She says she doesn’t have the strength within herself to write poetry.
Yes, her. The one who so often nourished me with song
til my soul began to learn how to hunt for itself,
whose word carried weight in leading me to pick my own instrument,
albeit one of a different tone,
as the key in keyboard became prominent for the first time
and the sound of purposeful fingers upon it could be considered,
only in the right light,
synonymous to the plucking of strings, just as rooted in emotion.
Yet she's the first to say that she herself can't do it.
Thing is, I suppose we’re politely at odds on the matter.
She favors poetry that’s sharper, with a cleaner cut,
that’s message is immediate and jarring
as a conduit running from soul through skin,
or a loose-lipped diary finally freed from lock and key.
And when she declared it, I started to consider what my poems seem to me:
Blackberry bushes (but kinder, I hope)
that snag and immerse just long enough
to make me feel I’ve had an effect.
I’ve used writing to expel my most gnarled feelings
to any passerby who’s maybe felt the same.
Like crying in a mirror:
alarming, but oddly refreshing,
and an indefinite reminder that our aches are never only our own.
Still, I'm not sure why it blows my mind
to hear that even the most glamorous hearts,
who wear confidence as a summer breeze that's always in their favor
and who inspire, from beau gestures to sleight of hand,
are included in those who find themselves pacing back, back and forth,
begging curbside at the dime store
for a scrap of the same feed that convinces a heart to pump ink.
But she says that any art that's enjoyed is worth it.
So while she seeks out words that bare the bones,
I’ll stay and make a meal of the marrow,
hollowing them so that the poetry may have a rightful place
to reverberate as hymns in a universal monastery.
But hell, like I’m any old soul.
I dress nicer than I otherwise would,
turn to the mother who told me I don’t meet her lowest standards,
and ask for a critique.
All for the moment when she greets me at the door with a legendary G#.
...Now please, could you spare a dime?
Jun 28, 2018
Jun 28, 2018 at 2:27 PM UTC
all aluminum alloy ammo
bane bat brakes badly basters back bones
come call cthulhu Cristo cuz
dead ********** dominate de download
even elven eternal endowments
fail frivolously flaming for fair fraudulence
grant good goggles give grandiose gratuity
how hella homeboys have how he has
If I ignore I implicate its implore
jack jacks jacks
kay killla kooks krack
LAPD locks la lackeys
maybe mom made mad monoxide
no, no natural nix NOx neutralizes
oh over overt opp only overlay orphic
please protest politely panic pretenses perpetuity
quiet quivers quiet queens
remember rage reaps reciprocity
so sour sits supplanters sat
to tell them to tare trail *** tat?
universal unhappiness underlays under us
victory validates victors vanity
why warble when winners wont waste worry wanting
x-axis x-rays Xerophagy Xanax Xanthorroea
you yodel yonder yet yahweh's yells Yarrish
zero zag zealots zoos
Jun 20, 2012
Jun 20, 2012 at 4:40 AM UTC
She says "I love you"
but what shes really saying is
"you cant have me"
only politely
Feb 8, 2015
Feb 8, 2015 at 1:06 AM UTC
The sunrise greets the morning dew,
to paint the sky with a vibrant hue.
The last night has passed and a new days has come,
advertised perfectly by a morning’s sun.
Alarm clock birds hold no button to “snooze,”
nothing left from yesterday, so now nothing left to lose.
Go hesitantly wipe the sleep from your eyes,
and politely greet the oncoming sunrise.
The blissful sunset that once held the night,
sped off within our starry eyes so fast.
The brilliant, blinding, shining light,
tragically drifted off, lost in the past.
It separates the long days from the glorious dreams,
and divides them into hostile, opposing teams.
A sunrise and it’s rays can always carry hope,
that maybe one day it’s possible to move on.
Either surprise fairy tale, or tasteless joke,
maybe my sense of humour is just somewhat wrong.
So remember to always bless a sunrise,
but never, ever more than a sunset.
Both light up the passing, fading skies,
that cover our shaking regret.
At night, we all strive only to peacefully sleep,
to **** the hours before the sun makes horizon’s leap.
Apr 19, 2017
Apr 19, 2017 at 10:30 PM UTC
once I've been told,
'til these roses turn old
and my earrings tarnish their gold
my hands are what you will hold
since then, gazes went fiery
my palms weren't as sweaty
heart beating like crazy
my eyes were never teary
my poems have seen happiness
oh, dear God, I know I've been blessed
playlists were still sad, but less
calmed my waves with your caress
and in every relationship I've had
I've always anticipated for the bad
but you never made me go mad
and luckily, I was never sad
happiness with you in sight
you made me shine so bright
you embodied every winning fight
still smitten, never something so right
my words cherished you deeply
you might looked perfect, seemingly
my thoughts have suffered politely
made me look dumb intimately
have you realized
that I make zero sense?
because all of these
are written in past tense.
Nov 30, 2018
Nov 30, 2018 at 3:15 AM UTC