Sometimes I wonder
whether you are just a brilliant illusion
my mind
has created
If so, my darling
I must commend
my own creativity
For if you are a product
of my idle mind
I wonder
what an active one
might accomplish
I could call you an angel,
but why bother
when with your fiery eyes
you resemble more
a devil’s temptation
Perhaps an artist’s muse, you are
but then again
a fool he must be
to let you
witness this broken world
Do you enjoy this, my dear?
watching me
with that infuriatingly knowing smile
as I run frantic,
my eyes tired and crazed
and paint splatters stretched across my clothes
While I try to capture you
in this moment
with the evening sun
like a young bride
shyly caressing your figure
Sometimes I wonder
whether you were a mistake
of creation
An existence
that wasn’t
supposed to exist
For surely
such pure beauty
couldn’t be mine
to behold
Your passion
like a fallen leaf
awaits a gentle breeze (of time)
till it floats away
leaving the nude soil behind
tainted
by your memory
-?????????? ?????
(For more of my poems, please go check out http://awesomepoetry.com )
Categories:
infuriatingly, angel, beauty, devotion, feelings,
Form: Free verse
I stand alone from everyone.
In the dark morning shadow, cast down by a tree.
It's long branches lingering above,
reaching out to touch me.
I wait for a ride, with my hands down by my side.
The breeze comes, singing in the tree.
Sweeping its way towards me.
Its cold.
Yes very infuriatingly cold.
It crawls up my skin and sends...
little prickles.
My flesh freezing to the slightest touch.
Unable to move much.
I feel bitter, for I hate the cold.
It makes me feel old.
For I am forced to remember, the old life I once lived.
The things I had to give.
The words left unsaid.
The long ago snowy starry nights, full of porch and street lights.
Yes I remember very clearly, those dreadful long and lonely nights.
I had my sister to keep me company, but no father.
For he would always be mad.
Mad at me, mad at to whom or what I might turn out to be.
I hated him and with him, I hated the cold.
The cold, that now sinks deep within my flesh and into my soal.
Dedicated to my Bastered father
Categories:
infuriatingly, childhood, father, loss, nature,
Form: Narrative