I once thought I was a poet, but my words are far from poetic,
As melodic as the strangled cries of a bird shot from the sky.
A lump of flesh and bone and feelings, I'm nothing but pathetic,
A weeping comet that thought for a fleeting moment I could fly.
It's funny how flight is so often associated with freedom,
For I soar the highest when my sincerity drags me into sorrow.
I would gift the endless skies to you, a magnificent floating kingdom,
And I would know that you won't remember me tomorrow.
I excel at self-sacrifice, offering pretty plumage and sweet marrow,
Letting my precious efforts be consumed in a single breath.
I'm fulfilled in my suffering, shattering my own ribs with an arrow,
Because I can never believe I deserve more than a chilling death.
Affection is futile, so save your mercies for the faerie and the angel.
A sparrow is good for nothing but a night meal and a small pleasure.
Their wings reflect the perfection of their hearts, while mine is a mangle.
Don't think twice as you break me. Sink your teeth in just for good measure.
Though I long for the stars, I've earned nothing but the knife,
Because the worthless are meant to sustain the worthy and wonderful.
You are nothing but beautiful, a being that blooms beyond strife,
So take everything I am and know I'll be happy knowing you're full.
My heart is fouler than the rotting fowl left in the dusty cupboard,
My sentiments soured by the selfishness that tainted my good intent.
But please, tear me apart and find something you would like to hoard
Because, in my last breath, I can find in your eyes an infinite firmament.
YOU ARE READING
Rose, Prose, Poetry
PoesíaExploring topics of love, limerence, grief, and everything in between, this is a collection of 100 poems written over a year. The works both reflect inner emotions and outward connections, attempting to capture the interconnected nature of the worl...
