I brought only wildflowers
lost to the softest shadow of
a rose, expert in their travels,
knowing little of the leisurely
kind of love and less fragrant
than a promising heartbreak,
those wildflowers were all I
had – vibrant and yet hidden
behind thorns of another love.
I watched them wither away,
just like every dying rose, as
though no love could be saved.
Bleached in the grains
of paper were the words
I could not write, the lone
verses lost between space
and a hardened emptiness
of emotions, where lurking
behind the daze of summer
the truths could not spring
about, falling in line to the
repetition of abandonment
between ink and parchment;
my freedom buried inside
the softest touch of autumn,
where the troubles of defeat
can smolder in ash, leaving
behind my heart in ink stains.
As the night progressed
into the gentle falling of
rain against the windows,
my words washed away
into memory, drifting by
the outskirts of streams,
in downcast symphonies
set to rhythms and blues;
with the winds twitching,
mumbling the remainder
of my thoughts, I am left
to drown in the hopes of
love in silence, hardened
against memories of soft
jazz, flowing like the rain.
Somewhere in the transition
of my love for you and being
allowed to love you once more,
I lost my voice – gone were the
words that flew so easily from
my pen, left instead to the blue
inked stains smeared across the
pages, crossed out and repeated
twice more until love itself had
become this illusion and I could
no longer convey my affection
without the promise of bleeding
my heart on the page, and in my destruction, my voice withdrew;
leaving behind thoughts I could
not put into words, strangled by
time and longing, as though upon
its death, the truth could be free.
I crave delicate droplets
of poetry falling in rhythm
to the whispers of the wind,
where the simplest patterns
of emotion and honesty are
left to haphazard conditions
caused by the writer’s pen –
where storms can break out
in agony, tearing readers at
the core, or washes away all
sadness, starting over once
again, where the delicacy of
words fall like droplets in the
wind, carrying my feelings
with me, until the very end.
It was her words that held
on to me through the night,
in delicate whispers falling
sporadically like raindrops
to cleanse my beating heart
in reassurances of affection;
I feared the coming storms,
darkening the sky in littered
debris and crashing through
the shadows in far too close
lightning strikes, as I wept –
holding on to every whisper
of her delicate voice trailing
through the black and murky,
waiting for the moon to shine.
We were only as good
as the lies on which we
would break, subtle yet
piercing as truth would
surround itself in cloaks
and daggers, shielding
away the innocence and
hiding from the strands
of pain and discomfort
that break with the day;
we were only as good
as we could pretend to
be, losing ourselves in
the reality that our lies
had become the truths
that we would never see.
I once knew how ink
bled from my loosely
strangled ideas into
scraps of feelings left
behind, burned across
the page, where desire
whispered against the
frailty of my own truths;
I had known the depths
of roots, as they were
bound like shackles to
the ground, where my
limitations had become
the soil in which I grew.
I crave the pain that seeps
from my blood into poetic
trails of blue ink found on
the page, where light and
verse are clouded behind
lines of memories and the
subtle hues of white space
are begging to be branded
with the leftover outcries of
my mind and heart; I crave
the light of pain, when I can
shred through the darkness
in poetic upheaval, emerging
victorious, with pen in hand.
Truth was shredding
through the darkness
like the sun kisses the
stars awake, blending
shades of words into
wisdom and feelings,
cutting through edges
of blackened dust by
the fiercest of kisses;
truth lies in the dark
shadows, softened by
a denial of the unseen,
where words can hide
emotions and actions,
destroying any hope
of a peaceful recovery.
Storylines in Verse 