When you're grovelling for words In discarded love letters
That you threw away for a reason,
You know you’re in trouble.
You’ve always wondered,
Birds become hollow so they can fly,
And do they ever dare dream of falling?
But sometimes, it just takes one wordsmith-
You find your heart in a poem about menstruation
You run with it because hearts don’t come cheap,
And well, you’ve doubted yours since you’ve known what hearts were for.
They say love needs time.
Love grows, cultivates like… bacteria.
Well...no.
Sometimes love is a click away and you don’t even know it.
Because when it’s half-empty and too full in your lungs,
You don’t look for hands to hold,
You look for life support.
And life support works just as well with too many wires in the way.
He is the prince of darkness and a gentleman,
Who palm reads in his spare time-
Pressed suits, coiffed hair and voice louder than summer thunder claps.
You’re not one for exaggeration but baritone deeper than the ocean doesn’t even begin to cover half of it.
He is a novelty-
You’ve only been enamoured with fiction before,
And well, lucky for you, he’s so perfect it’s hard to believe he’s real.
His words are your thoughts, liquid seeping through cracks-
Syncopating in the distance of a screen.
He says, “l will make love to you until we look like a warzone”
And I think,
“Dude, I’d take on a fucking tank for you. Period.”
Your love poems are safety nets,
Catching raindrops on extended tongue.
His are for the non-believers-
Who’ve cut away love as easily as fingernails,
Just to stop them from digging into their palms.
You’re a convert now- blasphemous,
Singing bedroom hymns to pixels,
And how fortune favours the weak-
“Christian”-ity is already a religion.
The poet insists that it be mentioned that this poem is a tribute to Christian Drake, in particular, his poem, Bloodbath, the link to which can be found here.
That you threw away for a reason,
You know you’re in trouble.
You’ve always wondered,
Birds become hollow so they can fly,
And do they ever dare dream of falling?
But sometimes, it just takes one wordsmith-
You find your heart in a poem about menstruation
You run with it because hearts don’t come cheap,
And well, you’ve doubted yours since you’ve known what hearts were for.
They say love needs time.
Love grows, cultivates like… bacteria.
Well...no.
Sometimes love is a click away and you don’t even know it.
Because when it’s half-empty and too full in your lungs,
You don’t look for hands to hold,
You look for life support.
And life support works just as well with too many wires in the way.
He is the prince of darkness and a gentleman,
Who palm reads in his spare time-
Pressed suits, coiffed hair and voice louder than summer thunder claps.
You’re not one for exaggeration but baritone deeper than the ocean doesn’t even begin to cover half of it.
He is a novelty-
You’ve only been enamoured with fiction before,
And well, lucky for you, he’s so perfect it’s hard to believe he’s real.
His words are your thoughts, liquid seeping through cracks-
Syncopating in the distance of a screen.
He says, “l will make love to you until we look like a warzone”
And I think,
“Dude, I’d take on a fucking tank for you. Period.”
Your love poems are safety nets,
Catching raindrops on extended tongue.
His are for the non-believers-
Who’ve cut away love as easily as fingernails,
Just to stop them from digging into their palms.
You’re a convert now- blasphemous,
Singing bedroom hymns to pixels,
And how fortune favours the weak-
“Christian”-ity is already a religion.
The poet insists that it be mentioned that this poem is a tribute to Christian Drake, in particular, his poem, Bloodbath, the link to which can be found here.