Welcome to The Poet's Home! This blog will be a collection of poetry and other musings... Original content will be tagged as such (#originalcontent). This blog is based in Portland, Oregon.
I’ve grown tired of passion
flaring with only the slightest
breath of air, stoking the flames
with shallow, greedy gasps—
burn my hands and then burn out;
that is the destiny of you and me.
let’s stop thinking of love like a fire
and start seeing it as crimson fate;
your veins have tangled themselves
into the world I weaved called life—
we never needed to scorch the sky;
just stay and keep hearts beating.
It’s not that I don’t love you. It’s the sound I heard when I was 9 and my father slammed the front door so hard behind him I swear to god it shook the whole house. For the next 3 years I watched my mother break her teeth on vodka bottles. I think she stopped breathing when he left. I think part of her died. I think he took her heart with him when he walked out. Her chest is empty, just a shattered mess or cracked ribs and depression pills.
It’s not that I don’t love you. It’s all the blood in the sink. It’s the night that I spent 12 hours in the emergency room waiting to see if my sister was going to be okay, after the boy she loved, told her he didn’t love her anymore. It’s the crying, and the fluorescent lights, and white sneakers and pale faces and shaky breaths and blood. So much blood.
It’s not that I don’t love you. It’s the time that I had to stay up for two days straight with my best friend while she cried and shrieked and threw up on my bedroom floor because her boyfriend fucked his ex. I swear to god she still has tear streaks stained onto her cheeks. I think when you love someone, it never really goes away.
It’s not that I don’t love you. It’s the six weeks we had a substitute in English because our teacher was getting divorced and couldn’t handle getting out of bed. When she came back was smiling. But her hands shook so hard when she held her coffee, you could see that something was broken inside. And sometimes when things break, you can’t fix them. Nothing ever goes back to how it was. I got an A in English that year. I think her head was always spinning too hard to read any essays.
It’s not that I don’t love you. It’s that I do.
Remember when you loved me?
I was beautiful to you
The type of beauty you couldn’t resist
I kept you up at night
You wanted in my heart and mind
I gave you nothing
You bragged about our connection
You were annoyed at the thought of someone else capturing my attention
Notes here and there
Depends on who you are askin
Yeah I remember, but now all you have is my words.
And words only get you so far
She is not “my girl.”
She belongs to herself, and to all of the world. And I am blessed, for with all her freedom, she still comes back to me, moment-to-moment, day-by-day, and night-by-night.
How much more blessed can I be?
Avraham Chaim, Thoughts after The Alchemist (via avraham-chai)
Fyodor Dostoevsky (via stxxz)
They say we spill blood
as if it were an accident,
and shed tears as if
they were a burden.
Now you play dead
as if it were a game
that you could win,
but you fell down,
surprised as if there
was some other way