i read
in a poem
a cold piece
of wisdom;
it gave a chill
to my soul
and my spine
and my heart.
it said
love not a poet,
for your love
won't be crimson,
but too many
colours
in too many
parts.
distorted,
like rainbows
reflecting off
mirrors,
like water
that glows
from a pool
in the dark;
disjointed,
strange angles,
like blackness
but dimmer,
like a photo
with contrast
too deep
and too sharp.
it's broken
and twisted,
like shattered
stained glass,
telling
too many stories
all mixed up
and wrong;
it's rushed and
it's careless,
it's too
fierce to last,
like the
twice as bright candle
that burns
half as long.
but
who else
could show you
the colour
of starlight,
describe how it
weaves through
the curls of
your hair?
and who else
could capture
the breath
of the night,
just to tell you
your eyes
and the moon
do compare?
to love
not a poet
is simply
a waste;
why love not
a being
put on earth
to love?
for poets
are made from
a tender
embrace,
twix heaven
and earth,
from some god
high above.
a brain made
of chaos,
with too many
thoughts,
souls made
of paper
and hearts
tied with string,
each word a
reminder
of battles
once fought;
such beauty
comes only
from once
broken things.
irony,
bittersweet,
here in these
verses,
told by a
poet
i'm warned
not to love;
yet words
filled with
wisdom,
irresistible mercy,
it seems to me
you think
that you're
not enough.
yet you
fill every inch
of this forsaken
place,
your spirit
spills over
the rim of the
glass;
you're lost,
but that's all
just a part of
your grace–
one day you'll
be found
and these dark days
will pass.
·𖥸·
for flowerfrommybones,
a lowkey shitty poem i wrote a while ago, inspired by one of yours. but here it is anyway.
i was thinking of you whilst i wrote this.
