Poetry is getting out of the hospital
when you’re too perfect; unseen bruises.
Poetry is being mugged of pills
...
Door creaks
The sapphire sheets
Level with my eyes
Pillars of figures
...
Hope
Brought life
To my pain
And reveries;
...
Stationary beds
Worn-out fashion
Bland machines
Same cold evening air
...
Unstick
Candle in the dark
Salt on wounds
Distant rush
...
I don’t know what love is
But I leaned in,
Kissed his lips;
...
when exhaled air isn’t enough to get her breathing
when your hopeful touch got her colder and blue
when thirty hand-written letters meant nothing
when she took your honest utters and stabbed you with it
...
I’m not lost, no
directions and maps;
I got it right here
...
slipping away into the evening
she dances on tip-toe like a high minx;
her giggles break into soulful melodies
...