poems – Page 2 – the Honest Poet

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.

Wanting (*NSFW)

I want to meet you in dark corners,

Your spit on my mouth

Shivers down my spine

Leave me vulnerable

And wanting.

I want handprints on my thighs,

Your marks on my neck

Bruises on my hips

Leave me raw

And aching.

I want you pounding in my veins,

Your hands on my throat

Gasping your name

Leave me powerless

And owned.

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.

Nemisism

I stare at these crumbling castle walls

The once-mighty stronghold of my heart

Turned to ash and rubble in the wake of my own inevitability

My hatred of myself has torn the stones from their places,

Has felled each turret and hall.

I wander amongst the wreckage

The endless madness of my mind

These ancient ruins, a maze of my own invention

Designed to keep the darkness inside me from escaping

Lost inside my blackened eyes.

I find no solace within this prison

The forgotten fortress of my soul

The church bell tolls its mournful notes for the dead

The blight of my existence resides within this decaying citadel

It has become my final tomb.