Some say that love is blind and
That they write their poems in Braille
For me love transcends all languages
So I put mine in action and not words
I don’t write love poems but let me think for a second if i were to write a love poem
Would i write a love poem or a poem of love?
Would i write it to those who have my heart?
Or dedicate it to love as a form of art?
Wait, did i just made this rhyme?
That for me, love is sublime
Enough with the rhyming
Love should be written in a free verse
It cannot be planned
For example how can i explain falling in love
When everything around me is crumbling down
I’ll try my best
That at the touch of your skin mine melts instantly
How sometimes i can barely look you in the eyes
Because i am afraid you’ll see for who i am
How there are other times I can’t stop looking at your eyes
Because they are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen
That just by looking at you I smile
How every time I have sex with
I want to get to the front of a boat and scream Im the king of the world
How I learned every curve in your body
That I notice all the quirks you do
How i know that there should be a beginning and an end to what I write
But my love for you is endless
And this poem should also
About the Creator
Clinging to Childhood
The playground is empty, as it should be past sundown. There is a warm breeze, and I can see everything despite the late hour. What time is it, anyway? It could very well be past midnight. I can never keep track of time, especially in the summer. A prickly piece of popcorn hides like a stowaway in the left cup of my padded training bra. I stuffed the tissue in last minute— a decision I’m beginning to regret, based on the events that are unfolding rapidly before me. To my left, laying non-chalantly on his back, is my date for the evening. He is two years older, could probably grow facial hair if he wanted to, and drives a secondhand Honda. He may as well be a Man. I, on the other hand, feel like a fraud with my too-short short-shorts, sparkly lip gloss, and makeshift push-up bra. I keep my arms pinned to my sides as I feel the dreaded circles of sweat beginning to manifest on my brand new Abercrombie top. I cup my elbows with my hands and stare down at my hint of cleavage, praying that the tissue doesn’t pop out like a white flag surrendouring my lack of womanhood.
By Marti Maley7 days ago in Fiction
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