Half Dead Flowers

Let’s dance to Joy Division

And kiss to Morrissey

Listen to music and lay with me

Until your scent is on my sheets

 

Bring me half dead flowers in the morning,

And trace my smile with your

Cigarette tainted thumb

As you kiss me on the cheek

 

Whisper coffee-kissed nothings

Into my impatient ears

As I watch you forget to lock the door

Every time you leave

Black

What does it mean when

your favorite color isn’t even

A color at all?

But merely –

A lack of everything or

The absence of nothing,

All at once,

Mixed together in a cloud of mystery and uncertainty.

 

My favorite color is the color of

darkness;

The color of your dilated pupils that swim through your ocean blue eyes,

The color of the inside of your mouth as it collides with mine –

The color of the space between our bodies as we lay in my room;

The color of sleeping next to you.

 

My favorite color is the color of

Space;

The infinite vacuum in which my entire existence is based –

The color of the lightyears which separate the stars

And of of selfish, destructive meteors;

The color of creation, destruction, and starting anew.

My favorite color is the color of

Silence;

So quiet that you’re overwhelmed with noise –

The color of the moments between thunder and lightning,

Where everything seems to stop –

The color of the space between every heartbeat or breath within my body.

My favorite color is a contradiction,

A romanticized paradox.

My favorite color is nothing and everything

All at once.

Photo Album

I think in some alternate universe

I’ll be trapped forever inside these

Deep purple walls,

Looking outside the window and watching

The boys in their jumpers

Racing eachother on shiny new bicycles –

Two wheeled memories that will someday only be a metaphor

Of nostalgic comfort and

Wasted youth

 

He told me to smile more

But he didn’t realize that the only time I ever smiled

Was when we were apart,

Polaroids featuring my fleeting grin decorated the walls

None of them taken by him

And his selfish hand that only loved my smile

Because of the way

It reminded him of

The other girl

 

His name is forever immortalized in my

Leather bound photo album

Whose pages are

Tearing at the seams so much that they

Can hardly even hold

A note taped to the back of a photograph

Of a girl who had no idea

What she was getting

Herself into.

Broken Soul from Apartment #4

While I was writing this poem, I was singing it in my head and ended up turning it into a song because it just seemed to flow that way.  So, needless to say, later today I’ll be busting out the guitar and putting some music to it.   But for now, here’s the poem!~

 

Vintage records are playing loud

To mask the sound

Of  your despair

As teardrops soak the only sweater that you wear –

 

And you wonder what went wrong.

 

The candles have all burned out

And every rose has wilted now

You’re left alone in the dark with nothing but the smell

Of a love too headstrong to ever go well

 

And your boyfriend’s hanging out in bathroom stalls

While you

Drive past your best friend’s house

But she’s not there –

She never will be;

You’re simply hanging on to a memory

That’s slowly fading but is still so bold and beautiful

For now.

Meet You In The Spring

I want to meet you in the spring,

When the snow begins to melt

And with it my fears

Of things that have already happened

And things that just might happen

Someday,

If the stars align in just the right way

 

I wish to see you when I’m happy –

When my eyes light up a bit brighter

And my mind isn’t so dull;

Why can’t I stop thinking?

Building molehills out of mountains

So I can pretend

To be okay

 

I want to meet you in the spring;

And when I do, I’ll meet you like a stranger –

Shy hellos and awkward smiles cover

The memories we just can’t forget.

I want to meet you in the spring,

So that maybe then, we can begin

All over once again

Metaphor.

My bones were a frame,

My skin stretched over it like

A canvas;

Blank.

I gave  you a brush

And with it the freedom

To turn me into whatever you so

Desired.

I began beatiful

Empty

Pure

But was soon polluted by

Images of pain and sorrow

That still reside on my body

As scars –

Little raised spots of skin that

Are hard to see but

Impossible to forget.

Your colors, once vividly splashed across my flesh

Are faded,

But still there in the form of

An everlasting bruise –

Pain that you forget  about until you touch it again:

And then come the memories of

Fists to walls and

Walls crumbling to floors

But the walls aren’t real –

They’re only a metaphor,

And that’s when I realized that love,

Our love,

Is nothing but a metaphor misinterpreted

Long before we read it.