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Leya Moore Poem
I waited hopefully
in wildflower fields
for love
but a mist settled over the buds
and the monarchs
have already migrated
I had to burn the fields
to keep myself warm
otherwise
I would’ve frozen under
the suffocating snow
but now
a bunny
hops into my field
it heard about the
endless stalks of
sunflowers
I search for uncharred stalks
but he couldn’t be saved
he died of hunger.
Copyright © Leya Moore | Year Posted 2025
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Leya Moore Poem
my hands are cracked and bleeding
I gag as bone protrudes
but the show must go on.
my hands are tightly bandaged
once i disappear behind the screen
and light illuminates my hands
I look perfect.
I steady my tremors
and put my focus
into my performance.
I wish that someone
would peer behind the screen
kiss my hands
and hydrate my skin
with tears
but instead
I watch others puppet shows
at the slightest mistake
I waste no time
I rip the paper
but there they stand
soft, unscarred hands
I’m forbidden form their theater
for ruining the show
I learned to stop letting
my insecurities show
but I always worry
that others
struggle the same
almost to a fault
but instead
I hide behind the curtain
bandaging my broken hands
Copyright © Leya Moore | Year Posted 2025
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Leya Moore Poem
is it in my head, us?
your hand grazes mine. twice.
your eyes find mine
while we cower over books
you’re the only guy with all us girls
if it’s all in my head how come I’m soaked?
how come you’re
the only person who cares?
my sweet london how would I know
I promised to stop giving everything up
I will stop at your bus station if you
give me the ticket
Copyright © Leya Moore | Year Posted 2025
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Details |
Leya Moore Poem
my soul plays a twisted duet.
the chords are off
and the melody is frightening
my melancholy fights for dominance
“it’s not my fault! I swear!”
always apologizing
mouth taped shut
in shame
but she shares a bow with
my irrational side
bubbling with anger
and distrust
confusion
and doubt
quite the opposite of her twin
she blames herself for everything
and takes it out on everyone.
they struggle for the melody.
my wooden exterior cracks
my bridge sits askew
and my tuners are awry
but the duet doesn’t end
until someone wins
or
the cello snaps.
Copyright © Leya Moore | Year Posted 2025
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