My mind wanders at will
chasing brushstrokes
and watercolor sunsets
art in words
My mind wanders at will
chasing brushstrokes
and watercolor sunsets
Holes in her leggings
tangled blonde hair
color-worn finger nails
pale-white skin.
A torn body,
beautiful soul.
Call me your full moon.
Pull me close. I am your gravity.
Let’s crash along the shoreline
dip and dance to the rhythmic tides,
sparkle in the moonlight,
reflect in puddle-filled faded footprints,
and tangle amongst the seaweed.
We’re the water
the salt
the reflection
the tide.
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.
in her aged skin,
midst her lips,
branched around her eyes.
Her body an hourglass of beach-like sand
washed along ocean end;
smoothed to the surface by a midnight high tide;
reflected waters’ perfection
in morning sunrise.
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 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.
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
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.
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.
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,
love them,
personify 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
streams down
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,
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