lleonard5902

I will not write you a sad poem 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… A void. 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

There's a sound made when something is burned. 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 al

There's another me. She lives in a world of glass and clean edges, Perfectly framed, A reflection. She has my face. I can trace the lines around her eyes, And touch fingertip to fingertip. Identical Reversed 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. My eyes. The same scars that I have. She hides them, With the same