Blue-Grey Iris

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Credit: Isaiah Stephens

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.

 

She Goes

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Credit: Monika Luniak

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.

Risqué

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Credit: Ale3andra Chan

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

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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.

Her Aesthetic 

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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.

 

Press My Lips

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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.

 

Under the Moonlight

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Dance with me,
spill your
darkest secrets.

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

An Old Kite

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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 lover,
another new held hand,
an old kite

 

 

Strangers on the Subway

Across from each other they’re apart:
two different worlds,
two different stories,
and two different paths.

For what brings
them together in:
this exact moment,
this exact time, and
this exact point of their lives
is a guess.

Fate? Luck? Destiny?

Maybe it’s nothing,
nothing at all.

What if told you
they were perfect for each other,
but him too nervous,
she too shy.

As he got up to leave,
it was his stop, he left her

the two never saw each other again.
Two, perfect strangers, on a subway.

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Camouflage

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He hides behind a new sea of camouflage
shades of green and brown colors
similar to the terrain he fights on:

it’s what he breaths now,
it consumes him
it’s his new norm.

He’s killed a man in cold-blood
and strangled another until his last breath.
He won’t let it be told
nor will he ever tell his family
or seven-year-old daughter;
he doesn’t want her dad to become the enemy.

He sits there alone in the desert,
under the stars as his camouflage colors
turn into shades of greys and blacks
for he is a man who has lost himself, behind army lines.

At home, he imagines
his daughter sitting on the window sill,
waiting for his return and running
down the front stairs and into his arms
before he can make it to the door.

The image shoots warmth through his veins
into his heart not for if
his moment will ever happen but when.

She doesn’t know it, maybe never will,
he stay alive for her
she is his hero

Nothing Remains

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Don’t push me from behind
and think that’s okay;
I don’t need help,
I’ll get there
on my own.

See me now,
take a mental picture,
never again.

Now, I’ll be
where I want to go
and when I get there
I will make it
where I want to be.

For my memory,
nothing will remain
except this note
posted up on your door