There is a little moth
Dancing on the window
Tiny little wings
Fluttering to flamenco
Turning on it’s own
Stamping round the holes
I think this moth’s a schizophrenic
It’s playing both the roles
Category: Artist
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I’m still learning to unlearn
My hearts too full
I feel a burn
I wander between extremes of sorts
Belonging and abandonment
Torn between the pull and fall
The heart that contemplates it all
The woman that has seen the world
For the man who completes the mould
It’s hard to understand the pain
That doesn’t exist
Is this all in vain?
She closes her eyes and sees his heart
Lovingly torn apart
She knows not what to do
She knows her eyes long for you
The juxtaposed ideas wane
The tears subside and begin to drain
The sun returns and casts her glare
The love warms they return to share
The inner child they promised to hold
The love they defrost from the cold
I do not know where it goes
I fear for the love I show
If it’s too much I guess I lose
For honesty is all I chose
Poetry be my hidden centre
Brave begins this lyrical banter
Shakespeare gave Juliet her centre
A muse to devote her complicated heart
Her loving words, her form of art -
The weekend wasn’t enough
When her share was halved
She longed to stop time for a moment
Gaze at his face
Feel his warm embrace
The lump in her throat as he left
Scared by her feelings, she pushed him
Put on her mask and told a good tale
Stories she wrote
But honest she was not
For the story that hurt her was this one
Waiting on the sea she’ll find him
Once she finished her ship
But weak and unsure if she’ll make it
And perhaps another love he will meet
Unfinished and hidden went the story
Afraid she’d scare him away
Masked she slunk into the shadows
Feeling safe, the little sparrow was brave
Alas, she promised to be true
And love hard she does do
Bare all! Surrender to the universe
Whatever will be, will be
If her husband is meant to be waiting
Then waiting she will find he
If not, then just enjoy what is
Let go of what you cannot grasp
Allow the waters to settle
Hold her own heart in a clasp
Unable to stop her falling
She falls all the time
Clumsy she is with her feelings
But meh, it makes for good rhymes -
The painter sat watching the world go by
He watched the people and gazed at the sky
So relaxed he observed the busy little street
The children running with their little feet
The dogs pooing in the middle of the road
Embarrassed owners red faced and shroud
He sat and sat for days on end
He never painted
Not a penny did he spend
He brought his own coffee
And perched on the bench
Next to the cafe of a horrible wench
She threw her cigarettes into the street
Which were swept up by the dragging feet
The weather would change
But his routine would not
In the blistering storm
In an anarak he’d stop
Wipe the seat down and take a pew
Observe in slow motion, kind yet subdewed
Sin Agua Poetry Blog 