Wishing
waves
wash
against
the
waves
wash
against
the
To be a poet is not to write poems
No,
Most anyone can do that
Most anyone has done that
For school,
Maybe
To be a poet is to see a tree
And not just see a tree
In the quiet hush of dawn, The weather begins to change, As winter's icy grip unclenches, And spring has come into range.
My darling,
My love,
Your beauty is startling
And your hand fits mine like a glove
I know we are young
But I know this is real
In the ladder of life you are a rung
Autumn
Leaves flutter
Sunbeams filter through
The treetops
Setting the foliage on fire
A glow spreads
Across the forest
Light is lobbed to the leaves and they cradle it
In the evening they throw it back to the sun
whose tendrils collect it
then go home
The flower petal was from a lily,
It was white, light, and innocent.
It floated on the top of loathsome water,
It appeared lonely, slowly deteriorating there.
There's this banging
On the bars of my chest
like xylophone bones,
Just waiting to be played
There is something waiting to
We feel in such a deep way,
flooding our veins throughout the day.
Some let themselves feel,
then move on, as if it wasn’t a big deal.
Some cling onto their emotions,
causing commotions.
Some push it away,
In the still of night,
Shadows dance and play.
Soft moonlight fades,
As stars begin to sway.
Silent whispers of
Darkness start to fade;
As first light of dawn
I should know better
Because you being gone
Will save me
Even while you remain in my mind
Sometime soon
My heart will forget you
To make room for a girl
A girl named Amelia
Playboy
That’s what I should call you
Manipulator
Heart breaker
Emotionless little boy
Convinced me
All the world was in your eyes
Told my heart to you
Tore my insides out