"And Then, I Have Nature And Art And Poetry, And If That Is Not Enough, What Is Enough?"

I didn’t know this is what love looks like: truth, acceptance, devotion, you were my moonlight. I love like no other, honey gold eyes. My Muse. I wanna steal the sky for you, give you the world. I dream of you and of what it could’ve been. I’m proud of you, though. There’s a lot to learn from you, my muse, the living embodiment of my mantra, but I was too naive to see it. I wasn’t ready for you. At least I was impartial enough to see you deserve better. Low vibrational, I was I was. So brief and short lived by God, did you mark me. This loss is so familiar, must’ve lasted eons,hell how I long for you, I’ll long for you for more eons. To mould our universes into one. Your honey gold eyes forever ingrained in my mind, you were my Frida I see myself in you, my mantra, embodiment of femininity, sapphic love and much more. Forever believe we could’ve been so much more than we could ever possibly imagine. you and I, a statement. A revolution like no other, it tasted like one the very first time our lips met, honey gold eyes. I could swear even Cupid envied us. I envy anyone who is lucky enough to lay their eyes on your honey gold eyes. These are words I never thought I could write, feelings I never thought I could feel. I long for you with every breath I take. My honey gold eyes.

all we need is hope, not war 

children of the world pj

by valentini mavrodoglou

“Just a thought away from being lost in her sway.”

— Be careful what you wish for.

Irreplaceable

I miss you like the plants miss to be showered by the sun’s rays during the night

I miss you like the desert misses the rain during the dry season

I miss you like a child misses their mother in their absence

Occasionally, in the midst of the night I’m able to hear your cries or the sounds of your whimpering when you’d been hurt

I recall the misery in your eyes the day you returned home with blood dripping from your head the voices of agony haunt me when the moon replaces the sun at night

The image of the twinkle in your baby like moonlight eyes will eternally remain in my mind, body and soul

You’ve enchanted my shattered black heart with your stardust and even when it turns to nothing but ashes, it’ll forever remain besotted by you

You are irreplaceable

“To rest and trust; to give your soul in confidence: I need this, I need someone to pour myself into.”

— Sylvia Plath, from “The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath.”

white sand, waves splashing, wind blowing

for a moment i got lost in the ocean’s ethereal beauty and i envied the moon for being able to see it everyday, i lingered in that state of serenity as the moon vowed its love for the ocean wishing i could do the same to you but i knew better than to break my own fragile heart like that as unfortunately the feelings aren’t reciprocal

— my heart

Source.

I listened to Bukowski this morning, and I realized my writing is not raw enough, angry enough, drunk enough; I even drink red wine instead of cheap beer. I detest cigarettes, never served in war, or roamed the streets looking to settle on the bed of some dude’s crude floor. I’m too feminine, too much an inherent believer in the quality of people. My heart is adversely set against his heretical ways. I’ve never been stabbed in the back by love, or if I have, I pulled the prick out years ago, and time and forgiveness have sealed the scar over. I might have even forgotten where the wounds are buried. I never carved mistakes out of people, stole time in self destruction, stared into the holes of another’s deceit. I’m not modern enough to be a true angst-filled American poet. I don’t possess the tongue to squeeze lemon over my open lesions letting them ooze into a glass I pour out as charity for the masses. Come, let me sacrifice hopelessness for the voyeurs. No, I only know to write of the way his lips taste the soft worlds within my seascape, the slant of patchwork light filtering through the hallway window, jewel-toned shells that satiate my harlequin heart. I only know of simple subjects; I’ve somehow been denied the stench or overlooked the cracked places harboring broken bottles and blood-stained lips. Does that make me any less a poet, I wonder.

upon reading Bukowski//

Rhapsodyinblue45

4.8.18