Beating heart
trembling fingers
voices argue in his head;
he shivers quietly.
Dancing thoughts,
self-indulgence.
No escape
until sunrise.
Category: Poetry
Bleed
Bleeding red
in between lines of blue;
the words I never spoke,
always written.
Sitting silent
spilling
intimate thoughts in cursive.
Keep my secrets close,
never share a word,
tell a soul; let me bleed.
Here with you.
Here in couplets and verses.
Seasons
Sway by the shore,
along the shoreline.
Watch the stars with me.
Weather the storm
in the blinded winter night.
Shiver close to me.
Grow among the
new, spring-red roses.
Bloom next to me.
Change your colors
in the crisp early evening.
Fall next to me.
Dream(h)er
At night
I dream her.
I dream her to life.
Sundress flowing white;
her eyes bright,
yellow flower in her parted hair.
A dreamer,
I dream her.
I dream her to life
Watercolor
Soul
Holes in her leggings
tangled blonde hair
color-worn finger nails
pale-white skin.
A torn body,
beautiful soul.
Blue-Grey Iris
If she only knew how beautiful she looks;
how her grey-blue eyes turn different shades
of blue as tears drip down her face.
As much as I want to help,
I can’t comfort her;
I’m selfish. I can’t stand to see
her eyes turn back into a normal shade of gray.
I need her to cry, so I can
write words about her from a distance;
personify her beauty at her darkest moment.
I love to watch her eyes
speak of emotion through color.
Damn, I love her when she cries.
Sway
The way her off-white dress bottom dances
in a windstorm freezes my pass-by.
Both wind and her dress agree to hold hands.
They intertwine at different speeds,
exchange dips on the dance floor,
toss, turn, swirl around to the rhythm,
up until the wind passes on through;
the storm passes, sun peeks out, the next song resumes
her dress dances no more. My day goes back to ordinary.
Caged
Worn on sleeves,
exposed to hurt,
told to never give away.
Through pain
it beats;
through love,
it beats.
Torn,
broken,
ripped.
It never misses rhythm,
sheds a tear,
or finds a reason
to beat no more
She Goes
She dresses in see-through.
She’s opaque and clarity, fiction and reality;
she’s perfection.
She would never look my way.
She knows my flaws; I know she knows.
I can’t compliment her the way she deserves it.
I best express my spoken words
in creative, nonsensical poetry.
Before she walks away,
maybe I’ll keep my
ten seconds of doubt
I’ll approach her,
tell her she’s beautiful,
grab her by the hand,
put my finger on her lips
before she can respond.
All before she goes,
I go, and my illusory mind
wanders off, again.
White Lace
Draped in white lace, she sits
encircled in smoke. Ash put beside
her, burn marks on her shoulder; she
enjoys the pain, buzz.
Her dress lays lightly over her shoulder
shielding, exposing her. Surrounded
by grey-black smoke, wrist on her knee,
a dangling hand; her mind drifts away
inhaling, exhaling
inhaling, exhaling
inhaling, exhaling
the world encircled around her
Fragments
Memories lay
scattered on the table,
like a puzzle,
broken in hundreds;
pushed aside,
spilt across the floor
forgotten and lost
broken in pieces
of fragmented thought
Condensation
A breath of warm air,
creates a canvas of condensation.
A finger, her brush, draws blindly.
Her kryptonite is the sun
to rise and evaporate her
art away.
She will stay drawing,
beyond the morning dew,
creating temporary fantasies
on a canvas of condensation
Risqué
We live buried in fiction books,
fairy tales, far-fetched dreams.
We’re tempted by the devil
guided by an angel, and walk
a line catering to both.
Call me dangerous, call me
risqué, or any word seem fit.
I’m made of
hopes and dreams,
unharmonious lust and desires
walking in a world of
sinless white dresses
and glorified Cinderellas.
I want what is wrong.
I shun what is right.
Color me with black;
call me risqué.
Poetic Love
She fell in love with my words.
I couldn’t compete.
My stories, poetic flow,
and ability to ignite emotion in others
held her a captive to my craft.
My words are my catalyst;
the perfect muse to manipulate her mind,
make her fall in love, with me;
if she only knew of my intentions.
The way I can press ink to paper
made me worth something.
In her world,
she saw my beautiful
letters in-coherence,
stories of love,
and fictional tales
of our future beyond the page
before she spoke real words to me.
Poetry can help land a dream girl, a beautiful one too;
I’m different; most guys don’t write.
And she’ll adore me for my talent,
until she realizes, my ink speaks of non-fiction,
and I’m more than an emotion-soaked white blue-lined page
on the inside.
vinnylanni 