How Am I To Write Of Things So Beautiful By Themselves
how am I to write of things so beautiful by themselves
there are yellows lights outside and blue fluorescent lights
there was a man on the bus who was so obviously an addict
he's found a teenager's phone by his seat and told his every move to a woman he didn't know for
"he's had too many problems already to steal anything really"
there are yellow nights of laughter and blue strangers who weep in churches
there is a part time job of mine at a flower shop
and I can't explain how throwing out stem cuttings makes me the happiest I've been all week
the world's poetry writes itself and I feel useless in my craftsmanship
"poetry in breathing" - zero (me)
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"til death do us part"
the statement upsets me dearly
for it assumes there is no love after death
why would I stop loving you so early
my feelings won't stop right with my breath
so if there is anything after this form, not long enough nearly
my sweet oblivion, let me take you to the altar
first time possibly, hopefully the second time
and I will promise you to hold your hand and never falter
for loving you only on this earth would be a crime
- zero (me)
what is a poet if not writing
what if not dead then
my hands ache when I grip a pen
but I refuse to let go
if there is pain there's something to cling to
then there is something to write about
if my hands break from the strain so be it
I will use them until I can't use them further
so may the ache never stop
so may the poets never die
so may the fire burn
so may I still try
• old bandages - zero (me)
there aren't any words in which I could put the purest act of your love that is sitting with me at night and listening to me complain about writing poems and songs
I hope you realise all the love in them is for you
everything is changing and it feels like spring came too quickly
it's sunny and bright outside this weird February
and everything seems to be changing so rapidly
and I've come to realise everything is dependant on a perspective
when I saw an angel from a weird angle
the bright sun making it's features distorted
and lately I've been cold in more ways than just one
and today I felt like crying about everything
and I did when you held me at a bus stop and told me you're grateful to have me
and we talked about the future
or the lack of it
in the time we had until your ride home came
both decided on a silent life and nice cafes
I need you to know you're a good kid
and I know you're going places
• places better than this one - zero (me)
(on friends who hold your head like they're afraid of hurting you in any way. on having no future but still hoping for at least another summer. I came back home with cold finger tips and this poem scribbled on my hands. I told you about my ideas for my poetry but now you're in one.)
around the dinner table
comes a story not so old
that they think does not
resonate anymore
about crooked floorboards
and cold water for months
and saving all your money
in order to save yourself
and when it ends they
hand you some cash since
these times are past us
but you know you're wise
and so put money in a jar
hidden from everyone
you have to save up
in order to save yourself
the times have never and
will never change
• savings jar - zero (me)