Somewhere in my poetry I can see my demeanor change
I am no longer young and innocent
It has been stripped from me like bark on old trees
Somewhere in my poetry I can see myself fall for you
Hoping I land in your arms
But instead I fall to the ground
Somewhere in my poetry I hope I find healing
But it hasn't come
Maybe it never will
Somewhere in my poetry I can watch me lose myself
Like home movies watch a kid grow up
Instead I grow tired
Somewhere in my poetry I hope someone can see my cries for help
But they won't
Until it's too late
- Will I still be in pain after life?
(6/1/24)
About the Creator
Helen Alarcon
16 years old
I write occasionally
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His Haibun
He does not like poetry; I write it anyway and do not tell him. It's true his face is not a poet's face. It is round and open, youthful; too apt to be compared to the sun. His nose is neat. It is impossible to imagine him smoking a cigarette, terse, full of cheekbones and tension. His warmth burns my fingertips. I am here for his fascinating body, the haphazard freckles I touch one by one; he is here for my eyes, just my eyes. A sunbeam sneaks through the curtains and pierces us both, sizzling the spices of his skin. I inhale and wrap myself in him. He kisses my eyes.
By TheSpinstress7 days ago in Poets
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The birds are chirping, and the sun is shining in a cloudless July sky. The vibrancy promises a beautiful day, but the cooing of the Mourning Dove perched on the powerlines seems to be more fitting than the lively songs of the robin flitting through the trees. The melancholic calls of the dove cloak the world in a sadness that hangs like tattered drapes.
By Alyssa Nicole5 days ago in Confessions
Comments (1)
Oh no, someone will catch you and soften your falls! Great job! ❣️