your eyes could make a romantic out of a cynic
Tag: poets
-
a love most tender. god, let me love you.
what a gift it is to give love. what a gift it is to get to love. to be there for you on your roughest days. to be the one you trust. to make you feel better. to make you food, hold you, comfort you. to be the one you turn to.
god, what a gift: to be someone’s refuge.
i want to be that one for you. i want to be the one you can put the wall down around. god, more than receiving love, i think it’s getting to give love to someone. to see that trust, to see you soften at my touch. to be your safety.
god, what a gift.
-
this world is so cold. I need to warm myself by the hearth of your heart.
two pairs of feet, they peek out of a blanket. their legs, lazily tangled. they graze on one another, they warm themselves. there is safety in this scene. there is simplicity.
it isn’t a scene that is mine. but it replays itself, over and over, within my mind.
why is it that desire
becomes an ache?
I’ve never known a want
without pain.
to yearn:
it’s to hurt.
oh,
to cook for you
while you rub the sleep out of your eyes—
you alone,
my morning sunrise.
coffee in the morning. you on my lap. lazy, slow. we steal minutes we don’t have.
-
there is no greater hunger
than the hunger for love.
and how do i know?
when i became convinced
that thinness
meant beauty
and beauty
meant love,
how quickly
did i shut my mouth,
hoping
my heart would fill.
it was as if
i could only pick one:
a full heart
or a full stomach.
…
we’d sooner starve for food than for love.
-
drowning
in an ocean of want
desire
is a maelstrom—
it grabs my ankle.
down, down, down we go,
down, down, down to the bottom.
i found you there
in the abyss
those murky spots of shame
at the ocean’s floor.
here,
our scarlet letters
catch no light.
and here,
our wrongs
turn right.
here. in the shadows.
you alone were my Sun in the pit.
-
sometimes poetry is freedom
sometimes it is barbed wire.
sometimes it is liberation
sometimes it is ruin.
sometimes it is truth,
often falsehood.
sometimes it is truth
wrapped in falsehood,
sometimes falsehood
wrapped in truth.
who is to say which?
sometimes
it’s like taking what’s ugly
and making it clean.
sometimes
it’s like taking what’s gorgeous
and making it weep.
sometimes
i lay myself
naked
on paper.
sometimes,
i hide myself
in glamour.
every poem I’ve ever written
that wasn’t about desire
is false.
that’s all i know.
THE CLOSET MYSTIC 