Poems

Habits (part 2)

Maybe I am not Icarus,
but the wax that burned him.
Perhaps you are Icarus,
and I, a helping hand to the sun.

Perhaps my story is not one of heroics,
or a warning of a fall.
Maybe I'm doomed to a horror;
cursed to a massacre of heat that melts me and never solidifies.

That is a heat unlike yours;
That is a heat that wears my durability.
Washes the blues and purples from my writings and leaves a dull yellow in its place.

Your heat is not one that dulls,
but one that adds.
You melt and add strawberry and specs of green, and reshape.

I think if I am the wax, I'd like to reshape the myth.
I do not wish to see you fall.
I wish for raindrops to water your ivy,
I wish for the universe to wrap you in a bed of stars to rest.

You deserve to rest.
I do not.

I think poetry is a good medium to tell a story.
You can write about anything, or vent your frustrations to the paper.
I could explain in so many words how you're a heavensent,
but I've made this mistake before.

I could tell you I loved you.

But I don't want to.

If I tell you, you might leave.
I don't want you to leave.
If it wasn't for you, I would've never tried to fly.

I don't think I'm Icarus.
Maybe I fit Orpheus.
Detailed writings disguised as a melody for the ones I love,
only to lose them to my own doubt.

I think comparing myself to Greek myths and heroes is a bad habit.