I thought I had your heart,
all this time I was calling it
mine, still believing that our
memories had been painted
on the walls of your heart in
crimson shades of the golden
days when a whisper was all
that it took, more than just a
look and I was yours and you
were all mine – but with days
fading, and the paint chipping
away, I ask myself how long
I shall be allowed to stay…
In the broken night sky,
nestled between the stars
are wishes placed during
those long hours waiting
on the rays of a forgotten
sun, when love appears to
be infinite against colors
reflected off the minds of
the dreamers and believers;
let us be wanderers, left to
the curious and undecided,
with creativity as our guide
beneath the broken shards
of starlight, dreaming of
the love from the moon.
I blocked out words
falling from my lips
in blue ink stains on
the page; where my
imagination was left
to fight back words
attempting to escape,
I sought out freedom
from the truth, all the
while still dreading
the certainty of losing
myself inside broken
verses strewn across
the page, littered in
ramblings and debris
of a story not my own.
In the light of celebration
when musings come out to
play and laughter fills the
outline of trees, stemming
from the tips of flowers up
towards the sky – there is
music found in the shades
of early March; where you
and I are dancing between
the gardens, left untouched
by chaos and foundations,
soothed in gentle melodies
with us reflected in shades
of subtle Jade, set against a
celebration of sound and life.
with the words that used to flow
so fervently from my feeble mind,
lost in a realm of reason between
my thoughts and a blue inked pen,
are the whispers I couldn’t quite
grasp in order to speak out loud,
as though they were victims unto
themselves or casualties of my
own making, as I tried valiantly to
shake them out and make us both
bleed – twice for honesty, once for
a lie only I was caught believing.
down went the words onto paper
I had dreamt of and then ended
up recanting, as though no word
was good enough to share with
you my secrets and desires, and
so instead I sat staring at a blank
page, forgetting that this too was
part of my truth, I hadn’t yet shared.
I lived long enough to see
myself become the villain
in my own narrative; once
the hero, fighting tragedy
at the hands of a happily
ever after, only to lose sight
of my fights, while taking a
bitter sword against myself –
twice for the blushes, once
for a lie. Burning morals
like bridges against those
non believers, reciting lies
with a sharp tongue to view
chances past my cause; left
to put together pieces of my
own destruction with only a
realization that I’ve become
my own target, left to fight.
It was such a gentle cleansing,
with fragments of my former
self, falling in line with the rain;
the wind blowing and leaving
scars of days past, in debt to the
life I left behind, repaying my
sins with a promise of another
sunrise, one lasting chance left
to blow if the winds should shift
so slightly. It was a buildup of
my mistakes falling before my
eyes, dropping from the heavens
to show their past disguises and
remind me where I was headed,
with the passing of the storm.
she had become broken
fragments of hope and
insecurities, reflecting off
the glass of whiskey and
rocks – promising herself
she was always the fighter,
staying rooted in her desires,
yet, with every passing sun
she was breaking off more
pieces of logic and reason,
trailing shards of debris and
rubble in her wake, with only
bits of glass left distressed
without a reflection to hold.
I used to have a guided path
but my light burned out moons
ago, and I haven’t a match to
spark an idea – so I continue
walking, hoping for help from
the falling stars to hold my hand.
The terrain is rough and battered,
but my feet are worn in, so I take
one step, then one more and just
continue walking, waiting to cross
paths with another – holding onto
the idea, that they’ll have a light
to help me find my way home.
they called her a dreamer,
a wanderer, a bohemian
Aphrodite with words that
cut like a knife; her pen as
her weapon, she was carving
sonnets into the eastern half
of the mountains with only
moonlight and a name on
her lips, while whistling
away love on her sleeve.
she was independence in
July, and as soft as the wind
in late autumn – she was an
attraction to be seen, but like
the promise of the setting sun,
she would leave in a haze, in
a dream set in stone, following
her heart to places unknown.
Storylines in Verse 