My government burned this week,
The fire has long been lit,
But it finally took off,
Swallowed in flames,
Our fears realized,
As we now walk scorched streets
Of an authoritarian regime,
Wondering how long it’s been like this,
When exactly the illusion wore thin,
Leaving us woke to the knowledge that,
Things are worse,
But they always have been.
Tag: poem
This Wanting You
You are illicit,
And that only elicits more feelings from me,
I shouldn’t want so much,
But I do, and I stay here awake fantasizing about
You,
You who are always out touch,
But the memory of your touch never wanes,
The wanton heat alone of need makes this almost pain,
But I wouldn’t stop it if I could,
I love you
I want,
I won’t,
And oh!
This wanting you,
Feels so god damn good
What Stars Think
Love,
Do you think the burning stars look on in pity
Of what became of their stardust brethren,
Who aim bombs at each other over disputed words?
Who sacrifice innocence over their idolatry?
Or do you think they see the quieter explosions
Of love,
Like ours?
That make living any existence worth while?
I hope they do,
I hope they see the love and dream of when they too
Are only dust particles in the universe reconstituted into life,
Conjuring that which is love.
Flight
Here we are,
Prepared to fly,
A feat our ancestors dared not imagine,
How ordinary the deed has become
For simple humans,
Who hurry to their terminals,
With worries of time and mortality,
Overlooking the impossibility that they are breaking,
In flight like angels taken to the heavens,
Higher than the birds and bees,
Far above the maple, oak and evergreen,
Being Gods in their own right,
Using mind to engage in
Flight.
Not Just a Memory
You are beautiful.
I see you in my mind when I can’t touch you,
I ache at the thought of your hands,
Your shoulders,
I am lost in thoughts when I shouldn’t be,
The curve,
The swell of your behind,
I am lost,
The wetness of your mouth,
I am breathless,
The thick firmness of your thighs,
I am captivated by an image I can’t touch,
Wanting so much to feel, taste, kiss the things I see,
But alas,
Were it not just a memory.
For Me
He played a song
For me,
A song he said was mine,
Written surely
For me,
He confessed,
And I saw in his eyes a tenderness,
I had not seen before,
That read of love, and hurt,
and fear,
That said he had before wept tears,
And that those had been for me,
Over me too.
She of Letters 