Playing With My Poem-Heart
We were strangers once, yes,
But poetry wove us together.
I wrote lines of friendship, philosophy, life, hypocrisy,
Joy, sorrow, struggle, identity, anger, and art—
Then you wandered into my side
And eagerly devoured each verse and stanza
With praise and constructive criticism.
You my treasured editor, me your favourite poet.
Poems that used to come monthly
Came weekly then daily then hourly—
And you were always ready to love my dirty shitty drafts.
Soon I started to write of the sun and moon dancing in the sky,
The fragile existence of a lonely flower and fleeting hummingbirds,
The want and need tangling in each other.
I couldn’t stop giving you my poems just to see you smile,
Crooning under my woven words.
I wanted to give flowers and kisses,
Whisper verses in your ear and your ear alone.
I realized too late I love you.
Then, on a monotone night,
I saw you in bed with another,
Who gave you pleasure upon pleasure
On your sweet and soft body—
Something I couldn’t give or be able to.
I ran away,
And I wrote this with discarded tears
Of a broken bleeding heart.
Bows and Arrows Are the Perfect Love Poems
Only a wound carved from arrowheads
Are the most reasonable metaphor of love.
A careless aim,
A impulsive shot,
Then you are unable
To move your arms and legs
Like you used to.
A random target,
A chance moment,
Then your memories are forever marred
By rose petals.
An unstable string,
A wobbly balance,
Then it seems you cannot exist without
The pain and the passion.
A single last kiss can still leave you bleeding.
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