"What an odd man..."
StrangerHey there, stranger.
You're not really a stranger, I guess.
Not completely, anyways.
We've spoken, and shared quick smiles,
Almost silent 'hello's.
I've passed you in the hallway before
And I always tend to steal a glance.
You were always surrounded by so many people.
How would you act if it was just you?
You seem nice.
I think we would be good friends.
Maybe we would be the kind of friends
Who are really close, but promise it's platonic.
The kind of friends who would run around the neighborhood at night
And dance around in the freezing rain.
Who would run through sprinklers in the summertime
Despite being fully clothed.
The kind who would make ice cream sundaes
And pop a little whip cream on each other's noses.
One day, sometime in the future,
If we take certain steps,
I think I could fall in love with you.
I could love you and your laugh.
The way that you trip over your toes if you walk too fast.
Maybe we'd get married.
Maybe we'd grow old together,
Hold hands while sitti
BraveMaybe Bravery is more than I thought.
Perhaps it's more than
Killing the villain
And getting the girl?
Could it be more than
Shooting a gun
And hitting the target?
What if it's more than
Saving a life
That was almost wasted?
I think Bravery is more than that.
Being the sidekick
And protecting the hero?
Could it be
Shooting the ground
Instead of the unlucky bystander?
What if it's
Saving a life
And giving up yours?
Bravery can be small
Bravery can be large
And maybe Bravery
Is found in places
We'd never think to look.
He doesn't write poetry anymore.He doesn’t write poetry anymore,
even if he still collects it, reads it, saves it, treasures
faded verses from his wife the way connoisseurs
savor vinyl over metallic rainbows on disc.
I don’t mind not knowing, but I can’t stand not asking.
The record needle hits the groove wrong;
he stumbles over words that aren’t there,
rummaging for an answer he doesn’t really have.
He doesn’t write poetry anymore
and his confusion is strangely endearing.
But there’s a lyricism to his words that I love,
poetic lines inserted between the daily grind
of character names and who said what;
voiceless boys in white and draymen carting the dead to saltwater lakes,
elegiac undertones that haunt historians and forlorn painters.
He doesn’t write poetry anymore –
except when he does.
Is that supposed to be insulting?"Lesbian!"
You say that like it's a bad thing
like it's something i should be ashamed of.
But why? Because I happen to fall in love with the same gender?
That my interests are out of the ordinary?
That I dye my hair wacky colors and wear clothes that don't fit your normal?
I see nothing wrong with that.
People really suck at insults.
I'm writing for the first time tonight;
When the love is strong,
And the stars are bright.
Writing for the future...
Writing for the past,
Just to see how long it shall last.
A whispering presence
Of company beholds,
Grasping the words and within they mold.
By the gentle strokes of the pen,
Portraying hurt, but no sin.
Resting at Nightmare's Inn.
Waking up to everything, but still wondering why you've been, where you've been.
Fore love has grown,
The mystery ebbs away and the darkness is gone.
Yet passion is extravagant,
Bursting from the roots.
Life is so much sweeter, when you've found the golden loot.
So for the first time tonight
The writing came to me,
But it is all because of thee.
Thy may not write the swiftest words,
Or speak the chosen sentences.
As Influence has minor and master keys.
Confusion must unravel
To see the beauty within;
Of a poets words, Of a blind mans thoughts, together in a den.
Forever this may withhold,
2P Romano Hetaloid x Reader (Part 2)“talking”, ‘thinking’
Despite you pleads Flavio kept undressing you, leaving you only in your (color) frilly undergarments. “Frills definitely suit you my bella ragazza but I wouldn’t mind taking those off for you too~” “NO!” You quickly avoided his hands as he was reaching for the clip of you bra, and since beggar can’t be choosers you picked up the first piece of clothing you got your hands on. “Aaww~ Alright mio amore you can still wear it but only if you put on that dress you got” “Fine, I’ll be back” You went into your room and locked the door to change only to realize what dress you have picked out. It was a short (color) maid dress that you bought yesterday just thinking you could wear it for fun while cleaning the house.
‘Dear God why!? …Maybe I can escape through my window and-’ “(f/n)~! You done? Don’t make me go in there~” “Fuck my life”
Old SoulsDoc says I’m an old
soul, with my postcards
and letters, and waste-no-words
policy. Doc says old souls still make eye
contact instead of playing with iPhones,
mirrors that stare back, and tell
us who we are by knowing
who they are.
Doc tells me I’m an old
soul in a young body, taming
wild Internets and bringing my words
to heel like a triple score
in a game of Scrabble.
That I was born in the wrong
decade, that I was meant to punch
typewriter keys like a boxer,
that the twenty-first century
wasn’t made for old souls like mine.
Doc thinks I’m too old
to be twenty-three, constantly forgetting
the barriers of my few years.
Like that I never wrote about myself
until he gave me moments
worth writing down, and cared
about the person behind the words.
That I learned who I was by learning
who he was, and drew a timeline
of intersection points where each
node became a poem, and each poem
became a stepping stone.
Doc unearthed an old
soul in my notebook.
Old like a favori
The Rumour of IcarusIcarus
there is a rumour that your father killed you, that
he bent your wings until they broke and then
told you, "Fly."
If this rumour is true, then it lives in the throats of
those fragile boys who wear your death like Cain's mark,
whose tender hands split like swollen tomatoes when
they pluck strangled seabirds, whose
arms slump beneath the weight of their father's genius.
And this rumour lives on
the under-skin of their eyelids so that when they die
or simply sleep
they dream of their fathers
or maybe just of Daedalus, standing with
his hands full of feathers and wax,
their blood-flecked down under his fingernails.
your face is gone, icarus, you are a warning & a tragedy &
the patron saint of boys who will not listen but also you are a god, icarus,
a god to these boys and still, when you fell
said Bruegel in oils, Auden and Williams in verse
no one gave a damn.
they also say that your father strained the sunlight into an amphora
and told you, "Dri