confessional
i would love to say that i'm not one for confessional poetry
but considering that i've doused my words in every ounce of
reflection, i'd have to then say that i'm one for oxymorons as well.
which, you know, i am.
and i guess you could tell me that i'm wrong - that this is prose,
not my heart - stop me in my tracks and i'll forget all the pieces
of thought rummaging their way through my mind, desperately
trying to find a way out, to tell you that they love the way you
smile with your eyes but not your mouth and that when you
speak the world goes quiet for a few seconds because
your voice moves me to another plane of existence
where it is ok to simply exist, to be for a few moments
until you stop and i lower my feet the the ground
and the world gathers its bearings once more.
i want to go on and tell you that you're beautiful,
more beautiful than the sunset in the summer on
the day before the leaves fall and golden light
touches the forest floor. i want to tell you that
you're clever, more clever than the silly jokes
we share and more brilliant than the moon
caressing lakeside sunfish when there is
no one to watch them shine.
i try to conjure memories from the-best-day-of-my-life, only
to remember that it's you and the sun setting and the moon
rising to the occasion and opportunity to look upon your
self, to see if the universe had lied about the luminescence
that follows you.
i want to (and will) riddle your being with cliches and
smiles and happiness and moments of silence that
never fall flat, dancing between our bodies like
stardust.
i've never considered myself a confessional poet,
no, not until you.
[a/n: unedited, different style i tried. ]
YOU ARE READING
mortals
شِعرi will shed myself of humanity and hold it within my aching chest, as if it will stop the burning. [ © jude rigor two-thousand-&-thirteen ]
