poetry

Just two lovers sitting in the park.

We’re just two lovers sitting in the park,

Waiting for the end of the world.

We do not rush-

No, instead we linger,

In earthy stillness,

Just to see if love never truly ends.

We watch the grass dance with bumble bees,

And the wind play with shadows;

All is quiet, until I lean over and whisper in my lover’s ear:

‘Bury me beneath that tree.

The one covered in green, green ivy’

That way it’s roots can fill my veins

And I, too, will become overgrown,

Filling in the lonely parts of us.

My heart will swell with rainwater,

And my soul can drink in the wind.

poetry

Flushed

Whatever gets you through the night, babe.

Sure, I’ll tell you you’re handsome-

‘I can’t decide if it looks better off or on.’

Yes, I can pretend you’re the only one-

‘The only one for me.’

 

‘…Babe?’

Just don’t expect me there

In the morning-

‘I told you I was destined to leave.’

It’s not you,

It’s just the lights,

They have a habit

Of flushing out the lies.

poetry

Once

Once we shared paradise,
Childlike and wide-eyed,
but your heart paled
and in a hateful fever of lies –
In a storm of sorrow-
You left our love out to
Die-
Dry…
I meant dry.
It’s not dead
Only dormant.
I know because
I still love you.

poetry

Is That Called Love?

You’re turning
Black and white to colour,
Ripping through shreds of paper
To find the truth.
You won’t find it now
It was burned long ago
But the ashes still exist in my chest
If you’d like to rip that open too
And see for yourself.
Go ahead,
Crack each of my ribs
And leave me bare.
I dare you,
Wear me like a glove.
We both know
I’m going to let you.

Is this called love?

poetry

Prince of Atlantis

Leaves are plucked

And sown like dust, light and free,

The colour of cinnamon,

Hazel and cherry,

Sprinkled were the water laps,

Smooth and blue,

Against the setting sun.

 

A sky aflame, bloodshot,

Clouds blushing scarlet overhead,

Dyeing the island and its long, lost city,

The colour of wine.

 

His hair grows fierce like the sun;

Fallen leaves press upon his skin

Turning pale like the sand.

poetry

Dear Diary II

Dear Diary,

I feel the sun on my skin again.

My God, it feels good.

I hear the sound of my laughter again.

I smile because I can;

For the sudden rush of life.

I can breathe in the air again,

And it fills my lungs,

Strokes my wings,

I feel alive again.

Warm, present-

Within myself.

It is me standing bear-foot

On the driveway,

Not a stranger knocking at the door.

I can feel the stones beneath my feet;

The concrete, the weeds,

The world is filled with colour again.

Green grass, a blue sky,

Rich, inviting,

I can reach out

And feel inspired again.

I can write about the forests

And the skies;

The oceans,

The sun.

I can sing about life again.

I can hold books and fall in love,

I can feel goosebumps on my skin.

I finally see a point again.

poetry

Fantasy

Is it cold in here

Or is that just me?

Is it the ice from my heart

Spreading down my limbs?

Or it is the chill of your breath

As you talk to the room?

I am too caught up in your fantasy,

I forget how to truly be me.