Tag Archives: poem

Untitled, No. 4

I was always a wallflower,
But I make a pretty good wallpaper too
Back against the wall for so long I’ve become the landscape
Spreading myself thin to seal every crack
Blocking off my only exits
Sealing off the oxygen
Suffocating myself within my self-created prison
Trying to break free feels like losing parts of me
Leaving behind skin and blood
To stain the rocks I crashed myself against
Forever remembering the mountain on my back,
The weight of the world crushing as I stumble,
I’ve forgotten how to stand on my own feet
But I think I’ll spend the next while crawling
Hands and knees, slither like a snake
Seeing what’s below the surface of everything
The new perspective is working for me

Almost

It feels wrong to mourn a love never spoken out loud

Or it could be that it was never love,

But it wasn’t nothing either. 
*

Perhaps it was only stolen glances and too much laughter,

Softly saying your name like a prayer 

Holding my breath until your eyes met mine.
*

Maybe it was just the casual brush of fingers,

How I couldn’t help but stutter when we spoke,

And the softness in your face when you looked at me.
*

I know it wasn’t love, but maybe

In another time, another place, another dimension, 

It could have been.

Untitled, No. 3 (*NSFW)

I was meant to lie between the power of your thighs;

Voice silenced, lips spread,

Face spit-wet

To feel the quiver underneath your skin,

As your white ribbons fall on my cheek

Like a baptismal

Your body is something to be worshiped

It is a self-indulgent act,

A sin I gladly confess to any man who has yet to see

Heaven 

Cosmic Insignificance

I find my cosmic insignificance comforting;

The stars do not know my name

My existence is but a fraction of a lifespan

My life, a second in the creation of planets

And nebula.

My mistakes mean nothing to the universe

Decisions I regret have no bearing on the cosmos

I mean nothing in the great expanse of infinity.  

Untitled, No. 2

I am in the habit 

Of hanging on so tightly that I forget myself,

Dislocating limbs to stay attached to things 

Loathsome and lovely in equal measures,

And better left alone.

There is a variety of sadness 

That makes itself home within my guts

Clinging to my entrails and growing like mold,

Devouring new feelings of love,

And covering my insides with rot.

Leisure

I am learning you slowly,

Taking opportunities to map your curves and edges,

Every dimple, every scar

Reading your body like braille

Until I know you without sight or sound.

I am exploring you steadily, 

Wandering the halls of your memories,

All your joys and sorrows

Seeing the portraits you hang high in your gallery 

Statues frozen in your most vulnerable positions.

I am unhasty in my pursuit of you

That is not to say curiosity does not burn like a wildfire within me

Because it does – you do 

But I will take my time here,

For I think I’d like to stay for a while.

Settling

My love for you was rampant, wild

The raging of the fire terrifying in its force

It blazed in my cheeks when I saw you,

Scalded my tongue when we spoke,

And left my skin blistering, burned when I touched you.

Now

I no longer feel the ache when I look at you,

When you speak of another love;

My longing was a sharp pain, now dulled to a gentle throbbing in my veins.

This love for you has settled,

Made its home inside my chest

Curled around my diaphragm like a lazy cat,

Contented, cozy, and home.

Untitled, No. 1

I didn’t believe in love at first sight 

I still don’t

But seeing you for the first time

Was like an arrow through my heart,

Piercing through my ice and stone,

Flying open my skin and bones 

Until everything was spilled,

Me at my very worst displayed for you

And your brown eyes that drew me in

Looked at my gore and called it beautiful. 

Bookish

I grew up in novellas and thick tomes,

Seeing sunlight filtered through dust particles dancing in the air,

Springing from the pages that held my very essence.

I was well-traveled through countries and eras

Through countryside with wildflower-air

And the musty scents of a busy city,

Accustomed to all sorts of gentlemen and ladies.

I don’t consider myself a romantic;

Fancy of whims belongs to ink and paper,

And I am much too grown up for such trivial things as love.

It was never something solid,

Never tangible unless I held the book containing it in my hands.

Love was just a pretty word used by desperate people. 

But I thought of love then

As I pressed carnation petals between the pages of a Jane Austin book,

Or hid roses in the folds of Oscar Wilde.

I dreamt of love as I read of things I’d never truly understood,

Like an actor reading lines of Shakespeare without comprehension,

Love fell short of its mark.

I don’t consider myself a romantic

I consider myself tragic,

A quality which spills like an over full cup of tea,

Staining itself onto the pages of my books.

I speak of myself through poetry and prose,

But never in a way that can candidly be made sense of.

My love has never been a person, 

But  personified in the ideas I fill my pretty head with, 

Making ladies swoon and gentlemen shake with passionate fury.

My love is in my elegance, 

My eloquence,

And my erudition,

Of which I owe all to the words of dead poets.

Being tragic I prefer being woefully misunderstood, 

Kept as mysterious as the death of Edgar Poe

And maintaining an air of troubled youth.