Quasi-honest Poetry on Young Love

Look

Do not make a sound.

See how you mirror galaxies and wrap them the world ’round

You chart the map of time for me

I have made you my sea

(If that makes me a selfish one then selfish I will be.)

 

See

The jump in my veins.

Look, your beauty pumps my drying blood through all the worldly pains

You gift the kiss of life to me

Although we’ve never touched

(You are the fairest lifeline my dead hands have never clutched.)

 

Stop

Tell me not your name.

To ruin your enigma, that would be a crying shame.

You are the Northern Lights to me

You are the god of war

(To give that life a human name would make you a right bore.)

 

Tantrums

Adults get what they want by throwing tantrums

Like how a child might pound a fist.

Just that the fists are nuclear bombs

And that they know too well the risk.

 

Adults get what they want by throwing tantrums

Like how a child might scream and shout.

Just that the shouts get brought to court

And that they end with no time-out.

 

Adults get what they want by throwing tantrums

We’d best get on it if we could

And learn the ways of grown-ups, but –

My parents taught me to be good.

Trophies

They set off bearing glim to scour gold

And to the chase, their hearts forever sold

But shoot me if the glim of gold could fill

A hollow gaze sat by the windowsill.

 

The night comes light with mountain’s whispered breath

A creeping formless guiltless shroud of death

Remind them, please, a truth so old and cruel

A trophy as a cup is never full.

 

A floating speck reflects the smile of dawn

But they arise to stretch their limbs and yawn

Although that mote of dust would surely thrill

A hollow gaze sat by the windowsill.

 

Then treasured treasure comes and quickly goes

The glory made, it likewise ebbs and flows

Unwinds like poorly made and knitted wool

A trophy as a cup is never full.

 

Without the gold the flaky flake some more

The gilded ties between the false grow sore

And when the wind arrives, what’s left to kill?

A hollow gaze sat by the windowsill.

 

And though our best and brightest beg so true

To differ, in the slightest – yes, they do

No matter what they push or whom they pull,

A trophy as a cup is never full.

Sometimes

It gets lonely sometimes, up in my headspace

So many loud voices, but none of them yours

So many rat-racers; they run in this place

They run to hug mirrors –

They hug room-less doors.

 

It feels empty sometimes, up in my headspace

For here live no lions – here be only roars

Without any meaning; none that I could trace

And even their echoes

Are raging in wars.

 

It seems deathly sometimes, up in my headspace

We breathe in the numbers – and breathe out the scores

A frozen white valley, machine-like in grace

Where only the longing

Is burning like sores.