Not a PoemI will not write you a sad poemNot a Poem by lleonard5902
Sad poetry seems to be all there is anymore
I don’t know what changed.
Roses were red and violets blue but then the free verse came
And peeked into the spaces between the lines and found…
Then sad poetry was crafted ever after.
But I won’t write you a sad poem.
I will not write you a sad poem.
You deserve something better than false similes
About the aching of hearts
And the vastness of the stars
There are no stars here
Nor are there beautiful vague lines to make you weep.
There are your hands, too big by far and rough with work,
Constantly stained black with grease and oil and a bit of god-knows-what
As though you’ve been worrying a newspaper between your fingers all day.
But it isn’t ink, you don’t read after all.
Don’t worry, I don’t hate you for it.
Instead it makes you stranger to me, more precious.
This creature with dark eyes, muscled arms hammering metal out
Beating it as though it were all
BurnedThere's a sound made when something is burned.Burned by lleonard5902
It's a hot white whisper of a noise.
It's the sound of receding footsteps down a hall.
It's the sound of everyone you ever knew, trapped inside a memory
And begging in a fountain of sparks to be allowed to live.
But you know that simply can't be.
Pages of a life crackling away, made black and then turned to ash,
So unlike how they began.
A mountain peak overshadowing a valley,
A blue sky as you swam in the sea,
A face, a voice.
And then you try and think,
How many mountains have I seen reaching over valleys,
Was the sea as blue as I recall,
was I even in the sea at all,
And then there are many faces and many voices
And they all seem so familiar as though you saw them yesterday,
And perhaps you did,
But they are so unlike how they began.
You try and remember those times
Despite the ache behind your ribs
Because nothing's dead if there's a memory.
Is it better to not remember.
Is it better if it had never bee
Another EarthThere's another me.Another Earth by lleonard5902
She lives in a world of glass and clean edges,
She has my face.
I can trace the lines around her eyes,
And touch fingertip to fingertip.
She has my eyes.
I can see into them,
And imagine what she's thinking,
And yet never know for sure.
Because I can't bring myself to believe she's me.
She looks sad,
Like I must.
But I don't know why.
I wonder if she's made the same mistakes I have.
I wonder if this other me is a better me,
Than the me I am.
I hope she is.
And yet she has my face.
The same scars that I have.
She hides them,
With the same clothing I own.
This other me.
I want to meet her
But I can't bring myself to speak
Would her mouth mirror mine?
Or would she wait for me to finish,
And answer back,
Has she made the same mistakes I have?
Or is she better than I am?
I hope she is.