When the words ‘I love you’
are announced from between those lips
of yours, so vibrant red and gorgeous,
dripping with untamed passion,
I realize all the beauty in the universe
exists only at your feet, and where you stand
is the origin of much gracefulness,
which I long to travel through.
There is little left in me
to fend against the attractive qualities
of your physique and mind,
your personality, wit and charm,
being aspects of your eternal beauty
I long to hold within these arms of mine,
whilst I run my fingers through your hair.
Your voice makes love to mine,
exposing my weaknesses
every moment in which we meet,
my selfish desire to have you all to myself
being revealed so easily,
I cannot help but fault my heart
for falling so unconditionally for you.
I am no liar in love,
as I lie semi-conscious
in the endless field of desire,
bleeding on the bladed petals
of the many roses I longed to secure
for you alone. I am tempted by no other
in the harsh existence of romance,
waiting on your call like a meth addict,
awaiting his next fix.
I secretly cry when experiencing evenings alone,
needing, rather than wanting,
to have your body pressed against my own,
the lack of caution presented to me
in my younger years, scaffolding the courageous lust
I produce daily, like sweat, eagerly anticipating,
with anxiety strained limbs, the moment
I meet your Heavenly gaze once more.
With your bosom, pressed agaisnt my own,
the breath billowing through your lungs
existing similarly to mine, as we lie upon my mattress,
seething after hours of enjoyment.
Your flesh is heartier than any sun,
warming my unwavering conviction on freezing nights,
when icicles threatened to appear upon my person.
I cannot confirm if our relationship
is like the others happening right now,
but I can guarantee, I won’t regret having loved you,
even if you leave, for every memory is a banquet,
that ought to be gorged eternally.
The silence spoke volumes
I didn’t know existed
when these undelivered feelings
coursed through me. Though the ending
retained a sense of predictability,
my eyes refused to witness
the brutality of unwavering honesty,
the tender touch of my agenda
restraining the hopelessness
often applied to romance.
Always, I try frenetically
to grasp that which shines the brightest,
only to continuously return
with empty hands and bludgeoned heart,
to an existence
seemingly more meaningless
than before. Though you are a beauty
of utmost arousal, you are a cactus,
whose spines thwart the undeserving masses
with unequivocal poison,
my heart wanting to retain its warmth
than face the solace-less alone.
So, I hide within myself, malcontent
yet absolute, certain this tragedy
will provide a conclusion, better sustained
than what would have been.
With able mind I realize,
I will not risk your face,
so beautiful now,
turn into a scowl
the moment I reveal my feelings.
If this decision renders accusations
and cowardice wrought against me,
then these slanderous remarks
I will regrettably suffer
without dismay, for I acknowledge
my deserving of these titles,
and I own this hesitation.
If only a sign, so subtle,
but immediate and paramount
could be issued, granting me allowance
to whether you were open
to love’s flame,
or wanted it blown out.
Despite the combustion of atoms
retaining less potency
than my love for you,
to some, romance is a horrific poison,
but even so, I would devour every drop
for you alone, if only to spend eternity with.
My ears were once bleached
by the harassing words of heartache,
concerning the abolishment of the romantic
from the society wherein I reside.
Even before this news bruised my cheek,
I had policies agaisnt honesty,
for nobody wants to hear the bluntness of a yearning heart,
craving lustrous affection. But your eyes
deceive the stereotypical remarks made by the mouths
of prior visitors, who complained that truthfulness
was barely bearable. I needlessly halter
my decision to use you as my own confessional,
and leap without second thought
into the midst of feelings I have arranged
so tidily for you, in suppressed linen bags
awaiting the trash receptacle. I have fallen
too many times before because of a pretty face,
but none were ever so inviting as yours,
and due to this, I know you are the cigarettes
I ought to never smoke; you are the hallucinogenic substance
I should not ingest. But my heart betrays
my other senses, readying itself to be executed
by your admittance, that you cannot return
the avalanche of feelings, buried deep within
my unwavering adoration. Your eyes,
like blossoming flowers,
flourish amongst the beauty of your soft complexion,
your lips, with every word
expelled from across your tongue,
urging my own to touch them. Your body, blessed
by a curvature
more sumptuous than any hourglass,
cannot possibly be ignored, my mind having castigated
me, each time I overlooked
the opportunity to admire your artful figure.
Your broken English serenades my heart
like the lyrics of Faye Wong,
your psychedelic voice
I could spend a hundred years or more
discovering you and your culture,
and even then, I would have barely breached the surface.
a mixture of introverted shyness
and spontaneous happiness,
coupled with your family-oriented heritage,
the respectfulness you bestow
upon all others, mirroring a soul of utter kindness,
that may still have thorns should I approach.
Your heart is not transparent enough
for my own to ascertain
whether your love already belongs to another,
and maybe this fear, that keeps me from walking towards you,
will become my eventual downfall.
Had I not been so restrained by abstract hesitation,
there would have been little spared sacrificing,
in order to have you selfishly to myself,
and in this moment of uncontrolled passion,
I would thrust you against the wall,
nibbling my way down your spine,
removing any garment
that dared deter my lips,
from going down on you.
Reluctance would be torn asunder
in the preoccupation of my dream,
and even if I had a thousand life times,
awaiting me like a rallying cry
at the moment of my passing,
one with you would surely be enough,
in which I make love to you every single night,
of that paradise you call a body,
before holding you close,
your bosom pressed against my chest,
your breath upon my ear.
But what luck is there
agaisnt the many barriers, that bludgeon
my conditional hope,
and though the admittance of defeat
is not an endeavor I longed to achieve,
I find any other option, is plagued by crippling doubt,
and as I whisper my goodbyes to you
in an almost inaudible tone, not wanting you
to ever know, from fear of the shame it might bring,
I announce secretly to myself: you, my dear, are perfect.
There is much difficulty to be had
in diagnosing a fractured heart,
no medical professional required
to establish the wrongfully obnoxious agony
that accosts me so. What I would not give
to have a higher power suspend my senses,
and punish me ever so severely
with the removal of all emotion
destined to cause further pain.
Despite the raw potential for unflinching happiness,
dank despair, is as always,
unending in its hostility. I am, as I shall be
for a period of incalculable time, a book,
void of pictures and words, constructed
by emptiness in a broken paradise,
wishing to be inoculated from the love
I once held for you, so I may not grimace,
painstakingly, with tears brimming between my eyes,
after being condemned by truthful knowledge
that your heart beat will never share
its wondrous rhythm with my own.
I am a cosmonaut,
traveling across an aged tightrope
that hovers in an anti-gravity suite
towards the combination of several colors
brighter than this world’s flare.
The fireworks flatter my irises
with unending beauty, refusing to yield
against the dark spaces that hang loosely
in mid air.
Another beginning explodes with the atoms
of this universe taking flight, shaking the heavens
into omission once the new dawn
is birthed. What resolutions shall I bless
my body and heart over the next twelve months,
or should I forget about promises
and instead insist to be entertained this night,
without the poppycock fear of tomorrow?
War and death could evaporate
any chance for wishes made,
and even if I deemed pure love
worthy of administering as my annual wish,
who is to say the possibility
can be traced towards a future, beautiful and true,
when this beacon of happenstance
exists outside of my grasp.
Happy New Year! Wishing all of you the best in 2015!
Thank you for reading.
The list I leave out for Santa
has grown increasingly short
over the years. Where once
I asked for toys and games,
books and television shows,
I now ask for things
that are neither purchasable,
or easily constructed.
It is unlike love to be found
in the aisle of a shopping outlet,
beside Christmas toffees
and beverages. The want
for romantic companionship
is an ask not easily answered,
although obtaining something
so beautiful would be easier
granted than world peace.
When we are young, money
is the sole requirement
for obtaining our heart’s desires,
but once aged, like a fine liquor,
bills and coins become obsolete,
for our wishes can only
ever be granted by other means.
When you apply my old jacket
to your person, and the fabric
caresses your arms the way my hands
used to, does an image of our time together
flock into your mind,
or is this jacket no longer a conduit
of memory, and just a piece of degrading leather,
fit for the trash receptacle?
That word, love, it has lost
its once proud poignancy,
tortured by over-usage,
until it is abandoned by basic dialect,
and fulfills the last dying oath
of any treasured word,
and becomes an unhealthy cliche.
This is the length and breadth
of the relationship we shared,
the image of your face, I once cherished,
now haunting me, making my every sense
tremble with delirium,
until even the thought of you
is poison in my veins.
I’m always back by breakfast
after I have dreamed the night away,
serenaded with the thoughts
now fossilized in history,
tarnished by regretful inaction
and the hope I may redo the broken promises
to myself, in order to find
a resolution. The darkness
though, offers little delicacy,
only charcoal residue, which paints the world
with decadency. There is no safety
or security to be had, however,
if it were possible, I would wish to become
hollow or stone, but to be camoflagued
with invisibility would be a substitute
my happiness would willingly accept.
I question the application of such stimulating imagery,
like that which falls upon my eyes
this night, the moment a gram of romanticism
flourishes within my unequaled passion.
Why is there never a chance to see
a beautiful woman more than once,
and why is there no opportunity
to relive the prospects of an adoring fantasy
over several evenings, but nightmares
are only ever too happy to return?
Being alive may be a gift
that nothing can be compared to, but it comes equipped
with the pains of treachery and betrayal,
and never can one request a rebirth
with the acquired knowledge from a former life,
in order to do everything right the first time
over. But dreams can offer friendship,
though even this is fleeting, when the regrets
of life push through the barricades of the mind,
and force themselves to be confronted
by the unconscious spirit.
If only the world found within those sleepy pastures
was equaled in the realm I regretfully return to,
I would never worry about the comfort
my heart does not abide. If I could sleep
forever, I may miss opportunities,
but then, the pain of the outside would never traumatize
these irises, nor the feelings which swell
behind them in the confines of my soul,
and perhaps this alone defines what beauty truly is.
Fine art is a conduit of untapped beauty
many willingly risk their existence for.
So how much strain must I allow
upon my mortal life, to ensure a line
of poetry is deserving of reality,
amongst the works of other poets
orbiting around my own?
The solar system
of creativity is vast and limitless,
and how else to ensure remembrance
is cast upon the shadows presented by the words
I use, than to make certain the stain
of forgetfulness is never granted opportunity.
But to freely write this point of opinion,
barely begins to touch the truth of circumstance,
actions requiring a mandatory place,
else the promise I make myself
will be turned into transgressionary failure.
What muse, would stem the tides of bleak ambition,
in replace for tears of happiness, and make the hope
I hide inside myself, become as real as breathing?
For years, I have hidden the weakness
I am unfortunate to hold inside my chest,
but this woman of inspiration would set free
the treasures, like a wren from a cage,
and make all that I have swallowed into me
an exterior force for the ears, and if this melody
is proven accurate, then perhaps I ought to write
for the length of time she remains by my side.
As though amplified by a megaphone,
the seed of loneliness calls to me, my name
shouted aloud for all to hear, carried upon the wind
to destinations farther than originally intended,
those who never knew of my birth, questioning
the identity of this unknown, sought after stranger.
It should be sweet, but it’s bitter,
the taste of happiness, and no matter how hard
I try to force a smile, the masquerade
accomplishes little more than nothing
within the frozen swamp that is my heart.
The ceaseless pain fails to subside,
and like a timeless tsunami, drowns my lungs
in froth and liquid, over and over and over.
Perhaps I am not trying, but my willingness
is certainly not the apex of the problem,
my longing to participate halted by a past,
consumed with agony and deceit, betrayed
and blistered by the throes of life and love.
After so much history, no amount of happiness,
real or otherwise, could surpass the impassable
trials that parallel these footsteps,
so what point is there in trying to force
what cannot dare be done?