Belle Violet

Belle Violet Poems

Don’t read my work
and claim to see
something that there may not be.
Don’t shred my words
...

I've grown increasingly needy
and that's so unlike me.
Usually it's the boy
that winds up needing me.
...

Cupcakes are meant
to be savored.
Devoured.
Loved and
...

I wanna be your
Wrangler jeans.
Clinging,
to those legs.
...

5.

Shoe polish, nail polish,
ravens and crows.
Squished ashes and cinders,
and arachnid foes.
...

If we're dating let me
start by saying,
this better be worth
my while.
...

Weld, cut
Bend, melt.
Measure, merge
Angle, curve.
...

I guess it became
our winter.
Passion born to us
in a foggy-windowed Ford.
...

My love,
I do
apologize
for looking deep into your eyes,
...

I've managed to collect
this feeling in me
that swirls and manifests
in the pit of my stomach
...

There's one word I'm leery to speak,
and it's spoken by a woman each day.
'My husband, my husband' she'll giggle or groan
because heavy on him her life weighs.
...

I'm not a college entrance exam
or an SAT test.
I don't care what your GPA was,
or how many A's
...

I wake up
to the scent of him.
His mouth near my neck.
My back
...

He-Man, Hulk or
Hercules;
it doesn't really
matter
...

Oh, be quiet, brain,
I just want you to sleep.
I'll write everything down
If you'll give me some peace.
...

16.

I’m not craving chocolate
But
I’m listening
to love songs.
...

Today it seems
the oddest thing;
I think my heels
are made up of
...

I wanted to write
for you tonight
but I can't think of what to say.
The days are getting longer,
...

I look forward
to clear skin.
when my chin
isn't rested
...

20.

If Zeus
were a person,
he'd look just like you.
He'd have tussed-up,
...

The Best Poem Of Belle Violet

Between The Lines

Don’t read my work
and claim to see
something that there may not be.
Don’t shred my words
and break my prose,
and pick through for
what you think you know.
A writer doesn’t write for you.
A writer writes like flowers dew;
Overnight, or through the day,
we perspire what we need to say.
It trickles out, we collect those drops,
arranging them neatly
in an intangible box.
And when we find
we’ve found enough,
we take that box
and empty this stuff.
We carve into paper,
or parchment,
or screens,
the mind's imagery,
or worries
or dreams.
We speak in a voice
our own soul will know
and you mispaint us with ignorance
as philosophical pros.
We are not
just
fluff.
A writer’s pen is like her heart.
Her scrawling script
is not just art.
If eyes can be windows
and hearts can be doors,
a writer’s utensils
are what brings her forth.
Between the lines
there's nothing to read;
those are only the spaces
where we stop to breathe.
Go ahead now;
analyze me.

Belle Violet Comments

Terry Dawson 23 January 2016

Here is a poet Unafraid Who knows what she wants And needs. Earthy and wholesome... So refreshing to read. Highly recommended

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