Stop refreshing the screen.
Their name wont show, or be highlighted.
Stop scrolling through the old texts.
It wont bring them back.
Stop staring at them,
They wont look back at you.
You shouldn’t have to beg for attention.
You shouldn’t have to change the color of your eyes,
for them to see you.
You shouldn’t have to increase the volume of your music to drown out the overthinking.
You shouldn’t have to speak in their cøde for them to
End up not understanding you.
Do not be the romantic waltz to their messy tango.
They didn’t notice then, why would they notice now?
You shouldn’t have to
U
N
D
R
E
S
S
For them to see the real you.
Because the real you isn’t just your flesh.
You shouldn’t have to train them to treat you how you want,
Just for you to end up the circus clown.
You shouldn’t have to change your vocal cords just to
Harmonize one note with them.
You shouldn’t have to provide the effort.
You shouldn’t have to,
But you do.
Because that’s what we call
Love.
I hold my heart in my hand,
Waiting for a messenger with whom I could send.
One who's trustworthy, mature, and true,
Who understands the worth of the gift, and the feelings it’s bound to.
But what if the receiver’s not ready?
’Cause we’re repelling—slow and steady.
The world is short of trials...
Since I lost one, I fear I’ve missed my chance to redial.
Trying and trying is all I can do—
People say miracles happen... and I really hope they do.
I remember that feeling—
The pain.
The lump in my throat.
I wanted to cry.
I was so angry.
But why?
New text alert flashed across your phone:
“Thanks for the ride home ??”
It read.
“Love, Rose.”
My heart dropped.
I froze—
Filled with dread.
You lay there asleep,
Unaware of what I’d just read.
My thoughts started racing:
What do I do?
Who the heck is she!?
My head throbbed.
I felt so lost.
And then—I cried.
What does she have that I don’t?
Does he love her?
What are his other replies?
I remember
Wanting to open that message,
Needing to see—
What do they talk about?
Is she prettier?
Does she know about me?
So many questions.
So much pain.
I remember that feeling.
And it still hurts the same.
Obscure poems that stay unread
Words that’re spun in a poet’s head
Never been seen floating away
Seeking poetic light of day.
Words akin to the tumbling rain
Surge in, reciting sweet refrain
Whence the night is dark and timeless
In an abiding quietness.
Poems no one has ever heard
The solitude of silent words
Whispers journeying off somewhere
Celestial as silent prayer.
As stars saturate sky at night
Moon glowing for earthlings delight
Scene set for poetic release
In dreamland playing hide-and-seek.
cursive letters pale
fade into weathered parchment—
they were stories once.
If you knew the weight I bear,
You'd hear the screams beneath my stare.
I light the dark yet feel so cold,
Like a silent tale that's never told.
Of shining silver and glittering gold,
Of a burning past in letters bold.
It has been long, it has been ages,
since a soul has touched these unread pages.
We walk the same road every day
You walking one way and I another
We need rarely to ever speak when we pass
because we can read each other’s looks
What is never said speaks the loudest
We know what is there, and what is not
You poke at me and I play along
I get silent and make you wonder if I am mad
We play this wicked game but laugh under our breaths
But we do complement each other like the butterfly and flower
I have written these feelings down many times,
though, many times have I had to rewrite them.
I need not brag to any friends but keep quiet
about things that two hearts left unread.
I bleed my pens ink
I stab my paper
until I wound it with my pens
I break my diary's back
I torture my art
my writing kills me with all emotions
I let my grief , despair and regrets all at once
while a giant rock moves inside my throat
my breath buried 6 feet under
my eyes stabbed with hopelessness and deject
I bleed tears
I torture myself
only for you to be deprived of the pain
If only we you loved me enough
You would see how I torture myself
I would sell myself
if only you knew how your hands are stained with our blood
the red of love and suffering
the blue of despair
the blue of my pens ink
the secret I have to carry the one you are free from
I created a world for you from blood sweat tears words and ink
only for you to never truly know of it let alone live in it
how is it fair you get to live freely
while I suffer in the world I created for you
Everyone has a story
We’re all unwritten books
Some of us have the same chapters
for what it's worth
we are all unread open books-
Yet different sentences pages and paragraphs
Awe, in and in wonder universe Elohim birth,
all created things inanimate
for what it's worth
we are all unread open books-
and spiritual physical.
All made by God almighty
so thankful we praise the Lord
for what it's worth
we are all unread open books-
4/15/24
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2024©
We get to see you rise, step on the cold floor
When the clock strikes five in the dark.
Your cell goes gaga over nothing, you lie
next to our lot, begging attention.
When the lily in your garden and the mynah
Over the sill shows up, your sleep spent,
You look at the mirror to get a fresh impression of you.
And the mirror sees it all.
Why not use the afternoon, after work?
Give us a day’s read. A day past and spent.
Better in sound than in silence, you think.
We complain non-acknowledgement.
Dates, events, ads, drown in oblivion
As you skim through headlines and
Read columns that interest you.
Why this prejudice? We ask.
You seem not to care.
We are a shadow of the past,
Of today, a piece of paper.
Left to lie, an incomplete existence.
Why is the middle where I put a book down?
My anticipation dies at that half-read interlude.
I lack the discipline that keeps me inbound.
A famous author's endings should be praised, and not eschewed.
Don't worry now about past tense,
It's gone, passe'~ no longer hence.
Forget all those words left unsaid,
moments still waiting, books unread.
The future will come, enticed or not
Enjoy the days time has brought.
My life is like an unread book;
Each day the story’s plot unfolds
While hinting what tomorrow holds.
Like “Peter Pan and Captain Hook”
Each new adventure on the way
Is written as I live each day.
I know the road the past once took
For I have read that part before,
But what comes next? Will there be more?
Today’s a menu I must cook!
The path the storyline will take
Is set by what I choose to bake.
Tomorrow? Turn the page and look!
I know each plot-line twist and trend
But don’t yet know how it will end.
My life is like an unread book
Like “Peter Pan and Captain Hook.”
I know the path the past once took.
Today’s a menu I must cook.
Tomorrow? Turn the page and look.
7/22/20
ode to my book shelfs filled with unread books
My house is filled with books
thousands of books
old books mostly
lots of musty classic books
lots of poetry books
lots of how to do it books
lots of history books
lots of thrillers, SF books
so many books
and they are my friends, these books
calling me to read my books
as if I had the time to read these books
to sit and read all my books
sadly many will remain unread books
poetry super highway prompt to write a poem about something in plain sight
. for public domain
I fear each Winter's ascendency.
I loathe its long and formidable reign.
I yearn for Spring and Summer showers,
Autumn's chilling wind and brutal rain.
Winter's doom, long on once fertile ground,
entombs a broken stem and decaying limb,
mutes leaves of grass without a sound,
hovers our land like a deadly hymn.
Each preceding Season's history,
embalmed by each Winter's dreadful sound
says, "Endure well your austerity.
Words worth hearing shall be once more found."
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