poems by heart

..And I knew I loved him the second I told somebody about his eyes when they asked my favorite color.
—  (via sturzpoesie IG)
Are We Just Friends?

The two of us, we assume that we’re just friends. Just friends. But whenever I look into your eyes, you tell me that we’re more than just mere acquaintances. Our eyes love to acknowledge each other, always wanting to lock eyes. When we make eye contact, you can’t just tell me you look at all your friends the same way as you look at me. Though neither of us utters a single word to each other, I could tell what you were telling me with every glance you made towards me. And I thought I was shy, too bashful to reach out to you, however, you were also as shy, only communicating to me with your eyes. Though you were never the guy that anybody would ever label as unconfident, always loud and talkative with your close friends. But only with me, you were enveloped in your introverted circle. Why does love have to be so complicated? We know our feelings for each other, yet both are too scared to do anything. Nether less, you wouldn’t consider us just friends right? We share too much enigma to just classify us only as just friends. Let’s just label us as lovers with unspoken words. Because we don’t need words when the heart is purely true since love can be heard even in the deadliest silence. 

The Little Flowers of November

I lay upon my bed, consumed by the conscious fatigue of undying love.  And when I close my eyes, I am left to ponder the little flowers of November that sing and dance to rain and snow. The little flowers that dabble with beauty against the tapestry of starry skies and clouds opaque, loneliness. It is all that remains in my mind, the little flowers forgotten, as the perennial trees just outside my windowsill, have now all become distorted into ugly silhouettes with the setting of the sun. There is no grandeur and the air hangs thick on wire strings. Across me, and the wooden plain, a mirror hangs, that reflects a bed, and a desk on a slant; while the vultures peck and gawk at my soul. I can hear a strange voice that possibly never existed, a muse possible, that wishes to salvage the torn bits. A resurrection. A kintsugi heart. And so, as I begin to adore the little flowers of November, I also begin to dabble, in the calligraphy of birds across the sky; in the desperate curiosity of the lingering lilacs; in the brow of the bridge, and the belly of road.

I want to take like the devil takes. I want to feel what the devil feels, I want to feel the eternal recurrence of a thousand pleasures, breeding.

I can hear my heart beat, like a drum, and its drummer boy beckoning the solider to march. So I do, in a child’s awe and imagination, through green grass, down sidewalk pathways, cement hills breathing, full of roots underneath. And as I turn on my side to rest, my once fettered eyes, now see the electric glow, of the weeping woman on my wall, of my computer sitting like Buddha at perfect rest, of pens, standing proud in a coffee mug. It is all beautiful, and if I could do as the patron saint of Petersburg, Fyodor Dostoyevsky, did, and exhaust the human sentiment, with words, laying one upon each other, then I would say I captured, some beauty worth love. That is why I pledge, pledge to supernatural of being, red-hued, in the symmetry of touch. To touch, and be touched, by all that exist, little flowers or not.

I want to gnaw at my chest
until I bleed, because my
head is pounding into the
walls of my bedroom.

and this toxicity is staggered
in the carcasses of my lungs
and my mouth feels tasteless
and my fingers feel numb
and I want to chew and
chew and chew until
I’m myself again.

I hunger,
and I thirst
for the sweetness of honey
to foam back on top of my
tongue and desire to be as
warm inside as the sun that
touches my body.

because these black spots
in the center of my knuckles
have never been this deep

and I feel so nostalgic
because this isn’t me,
and my body doesn’t
feel at home.

because home has
never felt so heavy.
I swear
the pits of my stomach
have never ached for
such a simple love yet.

—  Nostalgic For Home

You say alone,
I read unique.

You say alone,
I read memorable.

You say alone,
I read noteworthy.

You say alone,
I read hopeful.

You say alone,
I read worth believing in.

You say alone,
I read unbreakable.

—  You Say Alone
The worst crying is when you’re lying in bed, with your hand over your mouth so you don’t make noise. The tears are running onto your pillow and your heart’s breaking and you’re thinking of everything that made you cry, and your other hand is on your heart or stomach because they both hurt.
—  (via sturzpoesie IG)
I think you need to fall in love with the wrong person. I think you need to fight and cry and sweat and bleed and fail. I think you need to have bad relationships and bad breakups. I think you need all of that so that when the right person and the right relationship finally comes along, you can sigh with relief and say, “Ah yes. That is how it’s supposed to feel.
—  Anonymous
I fell in love with you not knowing what love really was. I stayed in love with you because no one else made me feel the way you did.I still fall in love with you everyday because there’s no one I picture my future with other than you

You couldn’t look at me.

I was right there, and you couldn’t look at me.

Maybe it killed you to see that I could smile without you, that I could laugh with someone who wasn’t you. Maybe you finally realized that I could breathe and live, and that I didn’t need you after all.

Because at some point I got tired of chasing, chasing someone who was never going to come around. I was a fool, going back and forth playing your stupid, little game. The difference between you and I though, I tried to get through to your heart - I cared, I loved, and you didn’t. You could’ve let me in, you should’ve let me in, you needed to let me in.

But you made a decision, and your decision wasn’t me.

—  c.f. // “game over”