Poetry

Flower clippings

My heart is not a muscle,

it is a flower

blooming fully to catch every drip drop of sunlight it can

to help me stay nourished and grounded.

 

It attracts a lot of attention

and people often try to measure its petals,

guess what genus it is,

try to deceive it by pushing me into darkness.

 

They clip it, scrape it, startle it,

seek to tint it with rainbows of dye,

yet it refuses to wilt.

 

Yes, its petals may fall.

Yes, it may close at times.

But it will always open again

in the right environment.

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Poetry

Fastened

It’s never too much for you to hear my thoughts.

Never too much to meet me in the gaps of the day,

even though you are pulled around on puppet strings

and often made to dance through the night;

kept away from the family loop no matter how hard you try

to seek a way back in.

I, in turn, will always listen to even the darkest parts of your mind,

caring not what hour it is, even if the witches are out.

What matters to me is you know

I’m not going anywhere,

my feet are sewn to the same path as yours

by my own hand,

a stitch that can never be cut.

Poetry

Words within words

It was clear when we first met,

Laughter from both sides

Over meandering conversations and footpaths,

Voluntarily giving information we’re so used to withholding.

Every time a wall would fall,

Your eyes became brighter.

Our friendship deepened and evolved into simply

Us.

Poetry

A thousand

There was a time when revealing any part of ourselves

to others

was something neither of us

could ever do.

We liked to play with illusions and give them out freely,

a cheap ticket to the circus act

we wanted to emit,

concealing with flare and artful tongues

the decrepit conditions

behind the scenes.

But our painted smiles have been washed off,

scrubbed away

until only our blemished, ruddy cheeks remain.

We’ve gone au naturel,

and now our smiles for each other

hold as much power as a thousand

years could bring us.

Poetry

Wake up call

Uncurling from my core,

I rise up, pushing against my skeleton,

fingers, toes,

stretched out like tendrils,

seeking light and enthusiasm

that eludes this dark hour.

I drink deep chugs of air,

inflating my lungs to full capacity

and exhale with force,

rinsing out the shadows of the night

that sent me clawing at my pillow and muttering

to faceless, nameless

phantoms

until words held no meaning.

Poetry

Your legs are crossed, a solid base

to ponder the long hours we spend apart,

seeking a way to change the shape

of what the timelines hold.

 

You watch the mountains change their caps,

the saplings grow wider,

see the decay of walls

and erection of new ones.

 

Eyes stare back at you,

weary, withered, hopeful.

They think you have the answer.

They think your shoulders are right to take the weight.

 

Inside, you are crumbling.

Inside, the water is building,

pushing ever against the dam.

The clock’s ticking is incessant.

 

One day you will break,

and they will accept how human you are.

Flooding everyone with the rawness.

By then, I will return,

and mend the hurts leaching you away.