THE POET

I no longer trust a man,

Using his words to magically write, yet never mean anything

To exist on the surface of the ground

Yet never willing to fly

Words creating magic for others

But me

And all I’m left with is the weight

and the irresponsibility of his presence on my skin

Words left in my ears and on my flesh

Making the way into my heart

Yet never deserved to be loved by me

Just the false sounds from the auidence

The voices of them clapping but never existing

that was him...

Presence of him like an oak tree

Yet inside like an autumn leaf 

Changing colours so rapidly 

While swaying  from side to side 

That made me question

Perhaps I was as tender as the autumn leaf 

Creating circles of dance around the oak tree 

Waiting to be held 

As I took a  deep breath out not in 

Struggling to catch the air  that was chasing me 

Yet I couldn’t even seem to trust the air holding me ..

 I wish that I was just left with his books in my hands, instead of

his hands thrusting me

How do you heal without allowing to feel?

Yet, You remind me of the wind and the ocean .

Combining the waves and the dust

Competing yet comforting

The waves continue just like the wind

and you seem to be lost in between

When I am listening to you, I stop wondering about the sounds of the melody

Everything vanishes, except the depth of your voice

...the heat of your breath.

The continuous sigh between you and I

Can’t tell whether it is yours or mine

But just the combination of the two

Trying to catch the wind 

Some days there is no pain

And my goosebumps left by you from the night before

help me lift myself off the bed sheets

And some days

The heaviness of the memories of your breath left in my ears

Keep pulling me back inside the bed sheets.