elise.writer

every twist of inadequacy's blade

(each one worse than the previous)

fell in a rhythmic order, one that your silence

carried in. did you hate me?

you'd never say so. so blindly, i never changed.

sunday nights are my own.

old music in the corners of my mind

pen scratches on paper, ten thousand poems

two hundred and seventy-two

little golden lights, 4 walls

that mirror my soul.

At the hurl of a storm, the tree collapses.

Stagnant from then on, broken. Such an easy thing to be.

In the unpredicted wind, it sways

back and forth on its trunk, tendons straining

in the months of darkness and cold, i never stopped writing.

i just kept it all to myself. every night, my own religion

pages of pen poised on paper, pouring my heart out

i don't want to love someone

because i'm supposed to

you told me, one night in mid-july.

warm air and sun fading in the sky,

i want to fall in love with someone

i've heard this story a thousand times before.

i've seen it unfold. it started with a glance, became a smile,

became a longing. when i realized it was my turn,

i was too late. no one told me how hard it would be