"yarned" poems
The darkness drew close an the end drew near
He looked into my heart and saw fear
Heart racing... Lungs burn
Darkness torments at every turn
Dinking deeper into an eternal void
Darkness robs my soul of its joy
Colors flashes by, I say his face
My body yarned for his warm embrace
Engulfed in darkness, fear, and lies
So scared of love passing me by
Thinking of heaven, don't wanna die
On my way to hell, God knows I've tried
Reaching out to take his hand
The distance grew, the void expands
Pulling me further, faster into the ebis
I grabbed for his hands, once again I've missed
Lost in the silence all alone
The darkness turned my soul to stone
He spin me around and around
Can't keep my feet on solid ground
So afraid to take a stand
I kept holding on to his hand
Don't know if its dumb luck or faith
But one day, well meet at Hell's gate
La Vida Love
Oct 7, 2016
Oct 7, 2016 at 9:28 AM UTC
He often asked me if I believed in love
I often answered if love believed me
see he was willing to fix the flame
that no longer burnt when the sun left on rainy days
he saw the flaws that I let escape
I saw the love that he yarned to give
so I soaked my heart in his treasures
never fully understanding the meaning to
Love
So who the **** was he kidding?
Thinking I could be open to love
Let’s reminisce
my heart was done when josh burnt his bridges
maybe when jose told me he never viewed me as
His Women
or maybe when I laid beside a man who never called me
He
told me he loved me
just to undress me
only to finesse me
just to say he sexed me
In mind he next me just to move on to the next me
you know the shy girl with the heart of gold
often eager to please that she misleads
in ends up
on a broken rode
So I often asked could he see his self loving
after his heart was left in a
disaster?
He just said
Disaster aren’t final destinations
May 10, 2018
May 10, 2018 at 4:44 PM UTC
i.
We've seen armchairs yarned in factories
as they take away great grandmother
with cancer of the lungs, a string of long
fluid woven into her assembly
apt for a tapestry, a long room
that is woven of her memorized thread of choice.
A Volta television swamp floats until breath emerges
gentleman like, heated from its length of rope nerve.
Six looping pythons in one belt
4:44, a tilted mirror and
a bookshelf.
Feb 25, 2012
Feb 25, 2012 at 10:28 PM UTC
She'll kiss a word, covered in blood,
She'll dignify mediocrities aloud,
She gives me motive to blossom,
Into an entity I've long despised.
She isn't much of a salesman,
Though salesmanship is her passion,
Nearly driving herself to oblivion,
I sedate her with words that are preprogrammed.
Like a *** of water and salt,
A patch of Leather and with a yarned lace,
A cup of oil and a splash of vinegar,
We go together as if it's a curse.
To make sense of it would be senseless,
Since senselessness is it's meaning,
A shadow covering a timid silhouette,
It's passion for construction that seems most logical.
May 2, 2017
May 2, 2017 at 6:08 AM UTC