I love you so much!
Every time we speak I must stop those words from escaping my little lips-
I come so close sometimes.
It’s embarrassing and frightening, because I know, one day I will forget to hold back, and then my heart will be in your hands.
Please don’t crush it, just give it back and forget all I said…
I love you so much!
Why would you think I loved you? How dare you assume that you broke my heart! With all the things I’ve told you, and all the torment you put me through… I wasn’t crying. I was thanking God I’ve lost you, and praying that I wouldn’t act on my justified impulses before the clock struck five. You are the reason regret being nice.
Poetry is just atmosphere. A cloudy thing that lets one know all. An archetype, something stretched to incapsulate any emotion on the spectrum of humanity. Words and feelings, that is all there is, but you must let yourself be naked in truth. One cannot hide behind saccharine sayings- and once such nakedness can be achieved, you run! Run naked in the cold night, feeling the brisk nirvana of vulnerability and openness. This is freedom! And after that point, poetry is the covering of one’s self in the quilted comfort of experience and ambiance, lest the soul you exposed somehow fly away. Poetry is that anchor which keeps you from insanity, it is catharsis. It makes you return to the blank slate, without, one becomes a crowded lot of wires and color buzzing with constant distraction. But believe me sometimes it is alright to float up to the heavens. But poems are the wings that help you coast back to the water. Be careful as you plummet. You need the ocean- dive in sweetly, please.
Take two and call me in the morning, with resolutions and penance in hand.
I’ll kiss your sweet brown lips, gently brush the dents in your glowing flesh.
You. You. You.
She tastes bitter, after the love you gave, yet I’m drawn to her by name.
I don’t understand it, and you surely never will- but before I leave again, let me see your amber eyes and falling hair.
She’ll always be inferior. You are my love, but I have to step back, if only for a while.
It’s nearly 1:30. The light of the television flickers as I sit up in bed.Shadows are cast against the mirror- things I cannot see out here in the human world.Over my bed my dead relatives watch, and I pray lest I disappoint them, as I’m sure I often do.I’m going to regret this- being up simply to contemplate, but it isn’t insomnia, and that is one consolation.It’s been a while now, and despite the romantic kindred-ship, I’d prefer not to be hungover this early early morning.Good night gracious earth.
But she’s naive… Of course she’s naive. She is only seventeen- she has lived through things that should make her otherwise, but that would just be giving up. An artist needs to be able to be ready to experience all the new things. Artists aught to be child like. Pristine, and able to let emotions and life permeate into them and expelled into whatever they intend to create, and no callused individual can produce amazing beauty. Thank God she’s naive!
I’m not allowed to laugh anymore. Cold and callused with age, so they say.
It isn’t meant to be, all lost, like dreamcatchers, storybooks, and all the carefully chosen names I once knew so well.
Now sugar tastes less sweet, tart on the tip of my tongue- sickly so.
I suppose this is inevitable, but I never guessed it would come so soon.
Time goes by quickly, it only stays in my vision long enough for me to see, and then it is gone. Vanished.
I can never cherish something so ephemeral.
I suppose this is the way it must be, and believe me: I am scared.
Julia, why, my darling, have you done this to your only sweet self-
Your second chance only lasts a lifetime.
I can never know- I would never ask it, but please.
I would give you parcels of my body in exchange for yours to heal-
You are so beautiful- please allow your scars to heal.
I will speak- Please!