As the light began to fall
against the unseen side of
mountains, where dreams
are laid to rest, and where
promises are sprouting up
like trees, I buried my own
heart; longing for the height
to kiss the moon each night,
with the gentle songs of the
morning birds taking shelter
by my roots, I was fading by
the mountainside with only
hope and spare change, and
somehow that was enough.
I’ve reached the crumbled shells
of disappointment rooted inside
your kiss – we’ve reached tattered
remains of lies and discontent in
the hours belonging to truth and
I cannot fathom how we got here.
It’s the loneliest hour as I am found
beside myself and beside the bed,
unable to crawl into the comfort
we had once shared, knowing that
you will not be there. I am hurting,
always hurting and you never saw.
I will myself not to cry, for my tears
will go unheard, with no release of
thoughts or pain, so I simply refrain.
I am the loneliest hour, pounding on
the doors of my own heart to let go;
I know disappointment far too well.
I bled out all my secrets
in exchange for one last
breath, thinking beyond
reason that I wouldn’t be
the one to drown; yet my
hidden truths and subtle
lies were an anchor that
was holding me down as
the words rushed in and
secrets bled out, and my
hope for a final breath to
plead for you not to listen,
sunk with my inhibitions
as I suffocated in my lies.
My words were harboring
at the deepest end, only to
burst on the surface at the
first sign of light – fighting
a losing battle against time
and the currents, making the
words stubborn, unattainable
at the heart, as I was left to
dwell alone in the shallows,
watching with a half heart
as my words were the only
cause to blame, as I lay back
submerging myself in relief
and guilt, as I lay drowning.
I gamble against a fear
of my own doing; I have
loved you once, burned
at the roots with solemn
words of affection laced
in your laughter, yet I love
you still, hardened by the
remnants of our truths I no
longer wish to see, folded
into our history as the sun
still kisses the moon every
night – I play on, dangled
by my roots, betting against
fear, holding only my heart.
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.
In the subtle cluster of stars,
where my hands have danced
along the brightest side of the
moon and have touched with
the gentlest of embraces the
edges of our memories left to
the shadows, cooled down by
time and never ending space;
I still find your heart beating
with every falling star, left to
the hopeless romantics making
wishes on the remnants of love.
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.
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 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.
Storylines in Verse 