To You

I’m trying to find words to write poems again,
Yet my fingers refuse to ink paper
And my mind keeps going in different directions.
I try to pinpoint what exactly it is I’m getting at,
But it gets lost in a mix of unsaid words
And broken phrases.

I get a sense of confusion when I look at you.
When I try to write poetry
Your face forms in my mind
And I try to rip it out of the folds
In my brain
But you stain my heart
With your transparent eyes,
And I’ve come close
To stabbing myself with this godforsaken

Why can’t I write one single line of poetry
While you’re a living poem
Your metaphoric lips sing praises
your fingers extend out into emotional
To walk in tandem with your footsteps
Is to walk in tandem with Oscar Wilde.

I’m trying to find words but my mind is under construction
But you have no road blocks, so you
Constantly write.
And you constantly breathe life into words,
You breathe life into life
You inhale the toxicity of the human race
And exhale a pure dust of newborn kindness.

I’m a walking potato sack
Who writes bad poetry because
Writing a book turned out to be
Too much effort.
I’m helplessly trying to structure words
Out of the dark
But you’re blinding rays
Soak up my night
And I stay awake
To the soft thumps
Of intimacy with the stars.

I’m bleeding out poetry
And it’s killing me.
I’m bleeding out love
And it’s killing me.
I’m bleeding out reasoning
And I’m bleeding out
And it’s bleeding into ground
And now the dirt has a better understanding
Of who I am.
Maybe I’ll grow into a tree.
A giant that you will one day
Rest yourself under,
And the shade that I provide you with,
Will soften your eyesight, so you can
Take one good look
At the world,
And distinctly remember
Who I was.

To You

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