All right, I enjoy love poems mostly, but I don't agree with these American idea's of love. Butterflies and rainbows? That's an elementary school crush, not true love. Real love is a nail that drives into your skull and forces the thoughts of that ONE person deep into your brain whether you want it or not. Love is when you can't breath, your blood burns, and you want them so badly it's a physical ache till you cry. Read Spanish poetry sometime. You'll see what I mean. Well, I have a series of three love poems, kind of a story in themselves, between thinking it "Might Be Love" to when it turns into "Truely Love" then the "Minutes After" the first time you're WITH them. Hope you like!
Could Be Love
Melt the ice
meet me right
slow the heart
raise your eyes
feel my strength
Heal the scars
glaze the real
wounds imagined
blind the pleasure
to your pain
Would you?
release the hurt
embrace the shadows
let me bend the truth
to hold paradise
far from touching
the fantasy, the illusion
that is now, hatred
Truely Love
Fallen in love with what could be
Full moon fire, rescue me
From this face I have not seen
Only words on a glowing screen
A darkling mongrel, rabid dog
Bloodshot, peering from the fog.
Round my neck the chain chokes tight
Lunging forward, knuckles white
Black crouching beast with nostrils flared
Innocence with pale flesh bared
Faltering I lose my grip
And my dark heart gives me the slip
Ravenous beast, the earth I roam
Dragging this lifeless victim home
You are everything that exists
Beyond, below the lightning’s kiss
Black light by which I see
I am you and you are me
Something discovered, something unknown
Horns that show from which I’ve grown
A cut to cherish, claim, and bleed,
Your blood to torture, flame, and feed,
Storms and fire and strange feared source
Freedom lost with no remorse.
Minutes After
The wind stirs the dust of
the red dirt and white chalk that
stains your soul.
inhaling the scent of hot air while
the sun beats down, feel the
perspiration that builds on
your upper lip, hanging on each
icicle hair till my dry tongue
licks it off. Two shades of
red blending your hide into
SORENESS! and BRUISES! on
flesh and legs and lungs and
the look of imprinted weft on
your skin. Cheers being sung, fans
screaming loud, but you still
Hear nothing
from the crowd. You’ve already
interpreted the signs, underestimated
these pleasures and the question
left in the rubble of the aftermath is
always “What could I have done
different?” And it’s inexplicable how
through the memories and stains how the
hurt of this game can still feel
so good.
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