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
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.
Credit: Faustine Badrichani
I crave her,
her imperfect past,
and makeup-covered scars.
I crave her stories of being
lonely and afraid,
under cold tear-stained covers.
I crave her bottled-up emotions
and unspoken words,
from her dark red quivering lips.
Come to me flawed
I’ll swallow your pain,
divulge in your being, with you.
And, before you’re mine,
I hope you reciprocate the favor.
I’m like you; I’m flawed, too.
Remember me as I was:
blood, bones, insides, and
splattered dried-up ink,
dripping into a puddle beneath me;
regrets buried skin deep,
my soul creative soul dying to escape.
Credit: Jason Hochman
Written here, on this page,
I speak in a soliloquy.
Share my words,
keep them under covers, or shout them aloud.
Promise me, you’ll hold these words near,
in the darkest of nights.
Sleep with them,
speak back in whispers,
ignore them altogether
or curse them in response.
Read or tossed aside, my spoken thoughts
are shared, exposed to the world,
never kept in (my) mind.
I write better in ink,
words are dangerous.
Some words burn deep, others
speak of love in whimsical ways.
Air pushed through lips, softly,
can speak the harshest of curses
or the most beautiful of melodies
in rhyming lyric
and coherent thought.
As for me, I’ll drench my emotions into letters,
press my lips firmly against yours, and
refrain from dangerous, spoken words.
White her dress,
black her mind,
open her chest,
red her hands.
Running black mascara
a once alluring-like face.
Her dress swirls behind her; her heart is ripped.
Blood trails and footprints follow.
Gone, damaged, free.
Dance with me,
Grab me by the hand, intertwine our fingers, whisper in my ear empty your soul, and tell me every one of your flaws.
Hold onto your sweet-nothings, your perfect smile crystal-blue eyes; I don’t want them.
Expose yourself, inside, I need to know.
I promise your secrets
are safe with me, here
in the dark, dancing under the moonlight
Credit: Giuseppe Cristiano
Never would I dumb down my words,
take off their clothing,
add double-layered context, hidden messages,
and poetic flow on top of their naked beauty.
Love, flowers and smiles
are fiction, readers enjoy them.
Blood, pain and desire
is non-fiction, readers shy away.
So go ahead, criticize me
for my pure emotions and opinions;
honestly, I don’t mind.
I write reckless.
I edit nothing.
I am uncensored, raw, me
Her lips drip with sugar-like poison
catering to every need, lust, and fantasy.
One kiss captures her essence,
her being, her ever-lasting taste, and
one way trip out of reality.
She’s a man’s desire, woman’s too.
My darling, my femme fatal
Ink flows inside his veins
rocks of similes, metaphors.
A pen connects at the fingers and
transfers ink from his mind through
translucent veins lines on a page.
Blue and black his blood, white his page
the rest is a river of imagination.
Credit: mathilde henriks
If you’re a racist, shed me of my color.
Sexist, go take my gender.
Perfectionist, strip away my flaws.
I’m left with an empty heart,
lifeless body, and nothing,
nothing at all.
Instead of words
authors should let their tears
drip onto a page and tell their story.
Authors should cut their wrists,
bleed out their insides,
and show readers their unfiltered,
honest, human response.
Tears and blood
are the true emotions behind
Authors, keep your words.
They are nothing more
than a muse for emotion.
Show me some blood,
cry me your tears,
show me the truth,
so I know your story is real
and not a work of mere fiction
wrapping in and out
of fingers, held tightly by hand.
The same hand
held by past lovers
and all the others.
Each breeze, current, flow by the ocean side
point a new direction, new journey to go.
A kite inevitably follows.
A kite is paper-thin.
A kite isn’t meant to last.
As a breeze turns to storm,
the kite slips from hand,
out to the ocean
into the hand of another.
another new held hand,
an old kite
the delicate imperfections
differ from the norm,
and it’s why
we’re afraid to look without staring.
In our minds
broken is taboo,
broken is frowned upon,
broken starts conflict.
I’ll be damned
if broken is anything
Together, we can give voice to the voiceless,
sew a broken soul, and tell
stories in minutes.
We’re missing a heart, but we
have fingers and a voice.
Not artificially, no,
the words aren’t our own nor
will they ever be, but
strum us together
and let us
tell unwritten stories
through the melody of music