Email Poem

Your IP Address: 18.218.99.99
Your Email Address:
To Email Address:
Subject
Personal Note:
Poem Title:
Poem
To be clear...  
I’m not asking you to love this.  
I’m asking for you to meet me  
where the words land hard—  
where syllables ignite  
like the last coin  
burning a hole into your palm—  
spent, but still cursing  
what you could’ve claimed,  
what you’re still pretending to chase.

I know...  
you didn’t ask for this.  
The ink staining your thoughts  
like the memory of a tattoo gone bad—  
the weight of metaphor,  
that friend who never knows when its time   
to leave even after you’ve abruptly shut the door.  
I’m not here to make you believe  
in anything more than the obvious:  
the moon still shows up unabated,  
the sun fades to an overhyped memory,  
the world keeps spinning  
because who needs a break, right?

However...
allow me to offer a word,  
dew tap-dancing sweetness
against humbled slabs of rubble—  
the way it burns like  
that spliff smoked  
in the backseat of a car  
with no apparent destination.  
You don’t need to love it—  
I’m not asking for your devotion  
just your pause,  
your ear tilted toward the rung  
of what might mean more  
than either of us can say.

I’m not here to sell you  
on the holiness of rhyme,  
or to argue that a line can be  
both prayer and weapon—  
something churning in your soul  
as you disappear into a crowd  
too loud to notice.  
I only want you to see  
how language, this worn & battered thing  
is the closest we’ll ever get  
to a mystery worth chasing. 

It won’t show up in the ding of a text,   
or tucked between constant notifications  
buzzing like mosquitoes  
too thirsty to leave you alone.  
This talk won’t beg your consent  
only your presence.  
It hangs in the air  
like incense refusing  
to dissipate from sheer obstinacy.  
You’ve spent too long  
bulldozing its remains,  
lost in the whirl of your own doubts.

So let’s meet—  
in the space where words  
aren’t source guides or Google maps  
but the body’s struggle to speak;  
the pulse you feel in your fingertips  
blushing on the page.  
I don’t need you to love this,  
but I can show you how a sentence  
becomes a river you never meant to cross  
but can’t seem to stop wading through—  
how it pulls you under  
and still,  
somehow  
manages to let you breathe.
CAPTCHA Preview
Type the characters you see in the picture
Required