A gentle note
These poems move through heartache and the ache of longing, including a moment of dark romantic hyperbole.
dès vu
(noun) the awareness that this will become a memory.
you walk and I stroll,
hands in my pockets,
never spoke of the man of the hour,
but I do console.
there is God in the gap,
mind if I leave the songbirds wintering?
eyes like a labyrinth,
but I don't need a map.
we share those glances,
in the hidden moments.
the passage of notes
we lost the game of chances.
the goddess of timing,
deems us no good.
written on the tombstone,
'found priming.'
you and your beanie,
me and my will to die.
it's clashing against all odds,
right person, wrong time.
in my head,
i could write us over
make you worry less,
and me, leave my dread.
serpentine in my quest for your touch,
holding on vines.
ivy growing to kill its owner,
i feel our grudge.
but if the brush of your hand,
ignites a fire within my sigh,
would that make us
something under His plan?
ten years down the line,
maimed from smashed love,
and rhythmic beating of our bond,
would an epiphany strike you of your decline?
add your name as a byline,
borrowed blues,
peace-ridden doves,
right person, wrong time.
Is this poetry?
If I write three lines,
and leave the rest of the page empty,
Is that poetry?
If my words rhyme,
I write about men and crimes.
will it become something to read out loud
to become one with the times?
If I dream up metaphors
end with phrases deemed
cryptic and labyrinthine,
will my poetry become alluring?
If I leave behind tear marks
along with coffee stains
and margins with notes,
will my ink arrange itself into art?
If I am verbose,
continue to ruminate
and ramble,
never end verses,
but break up sentences,
and add em dashes —
but no full stops,
with a constant string of conscience,
ideas that lead nowhere
but emotion that counts,
then will it become poetry
when I am no longer around?
if i write in all lowercase
will it be worthy?
OR DO I ENCAPSULATE MY POINT
IN A LONG FIGURE OF SPEECH?
If I am content with my art
does the poets club accept my heart?
Or must I showcase a talent
that I often feel I do not have?
If I write three lines,
and leave the rest of the page empty,
Is that poetry?
Lovers in the Garden of Eden
I am aching for a heartbeat,
That will tell me I am fine.
I am longing for a lover,
Who could be mine.
The stars aligned, Angel,
Will our lives too?
Demon and his lover,
Broken and blue.
Secrecy by the snake,
I took a bite of the apple.
Temptation does funny things to mind,
It makes things unstable.
Lovers in the Garden of Eden,
Adam and Eve,
Inhale the ashes,
Swear of all Steves.
I am pressed in curiosity,
While you have a cross that dangles.
And those metal things with chains,
You call bangles.
I can't apologize for a who I am,
No, I can't make a decision.
Perhaps, this is what brought
Our end in ignition.
Lovers in the Garden of Eden,
Driven by temptation and unholy desire,
I ache to feel you again,
But, Angel, I don't want to be a crier.
