(Source: obit)
Posts tagged Poetry
Posted 1 day ago
afraid to ask
W h e r e
a r e y o u,
l o v e ?
This is no longer a game of hide and seek,
whispering into arms, scurrying behind backs,
smoking in the dark, stealing kisses
by the dozen, leaving bruises, imprints
of eager teeth on trembling skin.
afraid.
of the rustle of her hair against the receiver.
of size five shoes restless, worn out soles.
of a sigh, half a liter escaping from her stale lips,
apologetic and clear, hesitant
to drop bladed words, unwilling to cut
through the murmuring static of heartbeats faded.
A breath.
(silence. I love you, still.)
and another.
(Source: theremiss)
Posted 4 days ago
I wake up
on the
moon,
my last breath
caught in my throat;
bottled in smoldering lungs,
holding on
to the remaining pocket
of air
you and I
shared
with our last
kiss;
a ghost’s whisper,
broken strands
of summers spent
kissing the sunlight
off your fingers,
nights dreaming
of love
you
could not
accept.
I wake up
on the
moon,
my heart cold
in your hands
and
my last
breath
still warm
on another woman’s
skin.
(Source: theremiss)
Posted 1 week ago
Flash of silver.
I will not
call it
and give you
the satisfaction
of calling me
a liar
It never was a choice,
(on my part
at least)
neither this
nor
that.
Always
you,
whispered
into ears of
etched profiles and
engraved
digits.
Sinking.
suffocating.
buried
in this
graveyard
of wishes
half-granted.
(Source: theremiss)
Posted 4 months ago
I don’t deserve to be loved.
I am rotten inside.
So much viciousness resides in
this fragmented soul.I am a little devil
hiding behind childish acts.I am a liar,
a traitor.I am someone not worthy
of something as pure as love.I am a disappointment to many,
an enemy to some.
I am a nightmare born of hatred.I am filled with angst,
and an envious being.
I am greedy.
I am vain.
I am selfish.I am everything you would not want to be.
And I don’t deserve to be loved.Please, kill me.
Posted 4 months ago
020. downhill.
We were once happy.
Everything fits perfectly.
What happened to us?
Posted 4 months ago
Light touches the wooden floor of my foyer
like you touch me, not the other way around.
When I close my eyes and think of you,
I think of how small you make me feel
when we’re holding each other like we’re
sleeping steady in a silverware drawer.
Your hands are like these poinsettia petals
and I still don’t know how to write you this poem.
— O, only the desperate stay up this late; alone.
January; the moon is moving farther away by the hour
and it’s tied hearts around its tail like wedding cans.
The year has been consummated and the new moon is
paving a road for another year and I can’t help but
wonder if this will be our last.
I’m reading a book that translates directly into the scent of honeysuckles.
It takes me to that night, post-rain, in the summertime,
when moonlight spilled out from streetlight jugs and I wished
that you’d kissed me goodnight.
I still wonder why you didn’t. I still wonder why I didn’t.
There are certain things I’m truing to understand
like why my heart lurches at the end of every poem and why
my heart lurches at the end of every kiss,
but I’m starting to think that they’re made up of the same things.
I’m replicating your touch and making a list of all the reasons
why I like your hands better than all the others but all I can
get to is “You’re beautiful and I’m falling for your knuckles.”
I’m new to all of this. Still unsure of what temperature our skin
creates when we’re sitting on a fallen log and you’re blowing
smoke rings out from behind my ear,
still unsure of what to do when we lay besides each other and
our limbs are having conversations of their own while we
lay silently watching black and white films.
These are smaller than poems and they have
been written by hundreds before me and a hundred more
will tell you the same thing, but I hope you know that
when I ask you where you’ve been in this world,
what I really mean is if you’d like to see it all
with me.
“poems about love never make sense,” S. (via clavicola)
Posted 5 months ago
I’m the lazy poet
Who needs to fall in love
In order to write anything.
It’s a crazy world—
There’s too much beauty
Or not enough.
Either way,
The pain seems inescapable.
Park benches make the best Zendo.
Far superior to black cushions and blank walls.
This is what the heart looks like.
There are people passing through,
flocks of pigeons,
Nannies with strollers,
old men sharing stories in the autumn air,
kids playing jump rope
and on their way to school,
Oak and Maple leaves raining on everyone.
I don’t know if I want to die of happiness
Or sadness
Or just fade away.
I look up.
Everyone is gone.
Time to move on
To the next park.
Find my heart again.
Moscow, Autumn ‘88, Michael Attie
(Source: clavicola)
waiting, finding, losing, smiling.
