It’s True
I’d be able to write more poetry if I weren’t so fixated on figuring out how to get you to read it!
This Was The Epitome Of My Low…I Had No Idea What I Was Writing Or Feeling…
But In Retrospect…
It Was Beautiful And Worth ItPerhaps Still Is
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Handwritten Sentiments
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Just To Feel Her Again…
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Burn Baby Burn…
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Just Writing
So I am supposed to be writing to you although I know you will never read this
I mean even if you were here right now; you would not be staring over my shoulder.
I can see you on the phone –paying attention to some other aspect of your busy life.
Me filling in as the much needed iota of passion you crave every so often
And because my lack of self-preservation has always been skewed I will take this gesture
I will run with it –I will find a way to make it my oxygen and water and then
Well you will be gone.
And I will have just enough notches on my belt to sulk in despair for the rest of my days.
For My Lover…How Our Symbolism Creates The Most Romantic Of Sounds
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Never
I know you will never read this. But my fingers bleed. My heart pours out love. My eyes…they do cry. I know you will never care. You say you do. You say you do. My lung holds no air in this hour. What is it to gasp? Be breathless. Hopeless. Confessed…I am an utter mess. I know you will never come back. I dream of you. I see you there. Kissing me. I know you will never love me. You say you do. You say you do. I know you will never love me. You say you do. You say you do…never.
Deeply
In a frame of thought that no one has ever heard of before. Without schemes that tear or get tore…I am above all of this and yet, smothered with it…deeply. About my face lies puddles of salt; still searching —> Found —> Never to naught. Waves of blinks shutters at my expense. As they explode, crashing down all over the reef’s sense. As in time or placement or else those ticking aways. Standing among knee-length grass that the wind does sway. It is now, that I see, and miss this the most. The deep, entrenched thought that I cried to boast.
So it has been planned that Here I lay among those same old waves…recounting and crying of those lovely days. The ones where grass is all but too short. And lust serves quickly as a passing port. So deeply it was that my eyes were closed; that it never occurred to me…I suppose.
Sorrow Let Me Loose Of Myself (Writing-Thru: Kahlil Gibran’s “Song of Love”
eyeS, and the spirit’s
nOurishment. I am a rose.
My heaRt
The viRgin kisses me
UpOn
beauty. When youth
forgets his toiL,
Whole lifE becomes
poeT’s elation,
I aM
sacrEd
My fuLlness pursue
claim Of the vOice.
hiS
I rEvealed myself
WisdOm From
I sMiled at Helena and
she destroYed Tarwada;
like the ageS –
crEates and ruins;
a vioLet’s sigh;
GiFts alone do not entice me;
