I like the texture

of burned burdens

that no longer check her.

Trembling cheeks and ribs,

tendered.

She had once left her heart for scrutiny;

liking the vulnereability

without fear of ignorance.

But now she likes texture.

#micropoetry #poetry #growth #pain #prose #love #lost

I was not ok this year.

My mind was in a horrendous place, and I was having horrendous thoughts.

And when I wasn’t ok, you were the one person I thought would notice.

I thought we had that. I trusted you that we had that. I trusted YOU. too much.

And we obviously didnt.

And looking back on how much I loved and admired you, I feel humiliated because none of it was real.

and that fucking hurts.

chase my trust

faster than a bullet made of fear

made of trees

bark and branches

woe nor he nor she never did not plead

the fifth

the bullet

chase it

#peace #prose #deepthought #poetry #micropoetry #blurry

And written on your face was ectasy

Drawn by the baths of an architect-

Calculated. Maneuverable.

In this bivouc of will,

Your smile, your teeth-

Golden.

Warmer and yet not tender;

To have been remarked as a certain type,

Wicked and mad.

Blithe in happiness

Opposite of any matter to be

Ordinary.

#poetry #micropoetry #freeverse #excitement

I could love you,

but I don't. 

And I could fall for you,

but I won't.

And it's all there,

but I can't;

It's all there-

a seeded plant.

Everything would be lined up 

for us.

And everything could work

between us.

But I can't love you-

not right now.

But I could.

I used to be able to relate to people, and songs, and quotes, and poems that complained about how awful the world is; war, hunger, prejudice- I was so remorseful for all of it. I didn’t understand why I had to grow up in this generation where I was learning to be numb and apathetic at the sight of injustice. I could look at a dead body and no emotion would stir inside of me- that's horrifying. All I believed was that the world was this dark, terrible place and by me complaining, I was better because I could address every flaw of society, and could say that I knew about the problems of today... But, maybe that's just angst. And maybe, I’m meant to live happily. I knew how to criticize everything that was wrong, but I couldn’t do anything about it- and maybe that's why everything seemed so hopeless to me. This angst; this existential teen crisis where you believe that you are meant to fix the world... Well maybe, I won’t cure cancer, and maybe I won’t save the melting ice caps. But, I sure am doing nothing by sitting here and waiting for some impending doom I believe the earth is destined for. Maybe I don’t need to save lives, but I sure can learn to live happily and meaningfully. Because it’s not blissfully ignorant of me to stand around all day and not focus on the terrible tragedies that happen every day, all around us; maybe that's just me surviving. If I were to cry and mourn for every wrongful deed on Earth, surely I would die. I would just die of sorrow, and then what have I done? Nothing. But if I choose to get up each morning with the purpose of making each day count, and if I choose to smile and love the ones closest to me, then maybe I've already made the world a better a place. My refusal to not be defeated is not a sign of a lack of empathy, but truly, a raw sight of bonafide defiance. And when belligerent acts of violence and inequality call to us, we still get to live. We still get the chance to have another day, another week, maybe another year. And we get to decide how to spend it.

Armed in rouge and a baroque persona, She - ever calculated- now had dressed in deceitful love.

And he was deeply in love; hopelessly deep...

And hopelessly loved. 

He was the stunning superlative of a natural inamorato; graciously touched and admired in whole. 

He was the muse of light, feathered consciousness in the sphere of doubt.  A virtuous spirit, he had once not felt the blossom of seduction.

He was in love. And she was dubbed Fate. 

She, dubbed Fate, and her brilliant poison was a fickle-hearted demeanor. 

She did not obliterate the hearts of grievous forbodings; 

in fact, quite the contrary. 

Twas Fate and the kindred of affection that melted a lover soft and unwary.

Her bluff- he could not convict.

Forsakenly rough and tried in passion, Fate had clamored high-headed; unparallel to the despairing betrayal.

Beds were nights, and nights were spent in beds. She did not deem one as her own, and his bed was not hers. 

He was a flower- acutely rooted in unquivering color.  

And she, a pollinating bee, quested succulence in honey. A bee unsatisfied died, but she was Fate, and she was thriving. 

Loyalty; his tragic flaw. His nature of imperfection danced around her like tease.

She was damned to be locked in the arms of his safety, but stupid, she was not nor never.

Startling vividness was the covenant of Fate, and startled she was no longer.

At least not in the arms of him.

She did not feel selfish in temptation, neither in cheat.

She was compelling and craving;

She was Fate.