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Andrew Pierce Poem
Beauty, like most things, is subjective
Some people prefer a statue, marble,
Crafted at the enervation of the sculptor.
Others prefer smoke, thin and intangible,
Dancing in plumes to an atonal rhythm.
Call me crazy, but I prefer neither.
I admire you in your skin in clothes
Shorts and a tank-top, as you move
So exotically your hips to a drum in time.
However I don't find beauty in arousal,
Yet in a connection seen in eyes,
Held in hands, and know, I find
Large amounts of beauty in you
I could sit with you and die.
As we all do now, sad and alone, yet
As soon as proximity is reached
Between us, dying becomes more.
It becomes the tobacco between
The fire at a cigarettes tip,
And the filter, that sweet sin
That has so enticed you before.
However, that's just me,
As beauty is subjective.
Copyright © Andrew Pierce | Year Posted 2012
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Andrew Pierce Poem
A small torrent of moonlight breaches the space between
The window and curtain, giving light to nothing less
Than herself who lives viciously. She's scared,
Not by any spirits, but by demons, an incubus.
Forced to never sleep in fear of dreams, and
Never not tire, as an exhaustion falls over you.
Always falling over, like the splash of rain you've been wanting
Copyright © Andrew Pierce | Year Posted 2012
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Andrew Pierce Poem
you where to hold my hand
and look at me, my heart might
skip. I would look away, say
“The sky is lovely.” Yet there
are clouds covering the sky,
like I cloud my words meanings, for
in truth, I don’t think anything of the sky,
nor trees, nor flowers when I’m
with you. Only you. Therefore, I think
I need you, and like the
infamous poets before me, I will
attempt to immortalize you in lines,
and woo you with verse. If that should, however,
fail, I lose you to the wind, and men
yet to come, and without
you, I’ll be of the trees Orpheus
sings to, with somber branches and
lost leaves. I will talk and write of your
eyes, an electric, endless brown.
Of your voice, drifting in
the air and stopping at nothing
to please. Of your figure and grace,
destroying wills of men like the Sirens song,
yet thicker and more potent,
lingering like cigar smoke in the air.
Eventually, yes, my mind will move on,
but frozen in time would be my
emotions for you in these lines,
and if ever you need to feel loved,
you need only read.
If it where to work though, the
story takes a different path, which is
one I leave to your imagination.
An obscurity found in most love
stories. ‘They lived happily ever after,’
would, could, be us, where you to
dip your fingers (what gentle,
beautiful fingers), into the well
of my palm.
The choice then is yours then,
my lovely R------, what’ll it be?
Copyright © Andrew Pierce | Year Posted 2012
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Andrew Pierce Poem
Forlornly are wedding bells here chiming
Within ears of this lonely man, forsaken
By fate, who now sits and writes words, rhyming
To find solace from his mistress, taken.
A girl whose eyes would glare with such greatness
Beauty's standard would drop when she would blink
Her hands so soft, her touch was like a kiss
Her raw beauty, strangely, rising at wink.
No longer will she call my lot her love
For she has wandered from what was our home
Yes, far from my cage has flown my sweet dove
She has left me waiting, crying, alone
They say: if you love her, let her go free
Yet they know not the joy she brought to me
Copyright © Andrew Pierce | Year Posted 2011
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Andrew Pierce Poem
There, at the heart of it all, at the center-fold,
We talked at the table we always did, and left
No tip, but a note saying, "The best things in
Life are free." Once I wrote the waitress a poem
About life, because it's hard. The next day,
She came to me and kissed me hard, then said:
"Fifteen percent of a free water is nothing,
Eleven lines of prose are worth nothing, until
They're read, then they become a medium for
All the emotions too worthless for verse, my
Emotions. Life is hard. Life is hard."
Copyright © Andrew Pierce | Year Posted 2012
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Andrew Pierce Poem
Call me that house on your block.
The one with the open doors and closed windows.
The one only the old widow knows about
But refuses to tell about.
Shingles falling off, and crows
Moving in to their long lost home,
Nature reclaims slowly that house,
Green veins of life climb their dead brothers,
Violet an red buds that would've bloomed,
If only the wood rot hadn't gotten to them
You're all waiting for it to fall.
Call me THAT house on you block,
Call me: A Lost Cause
Copyright © Andrew Pierce | Year Posted 2012
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Andrew Pierce Poem
Until drippings of light cease from the days hallow hole,
A veiled moon veils spirits, love carries all our might
Through the bleakness, for what happiness may come
From the wars beating drum in the middle of the night?
Greet death with happiness in this time we should be sleeping.
Greet the morning in death's dreams, sleeping rather than weeping.
Copyright © Andrew Pierce | Year Posted 2012
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