Seasons

winter_light_by_annmariebone-d5lta21
Credit: AnnaMarieBone

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.

Blue-Grey Iris

alone-cry-drawing-pain-painting-Favim.com-227861
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.

 

Sway

black-and-white-dress-girl-wind-Favim.com-184635

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.

She Goes

girlwhitedress
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.

White Lace

 

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Credit: Monika Luniak

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

Risqué

art_girl_by_ale3andra_chan-d7vuduj
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

paintedhands

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.