love poems
Love poems for hopeless romantics; I'm the poet and you're my muse.
Love
Love comes so easily to me. I see it everywhere. I find it in the littlest things. I see the keys depress on a piano and I fall. I hear guitar strings vibrate and I’m lost. I listen to rain and I think of you. I don’t know how to express what I have for you. Your green eyes are a mystery. I’ve so clearly been able to see people through eyes but I see your eyes and I lose focus. I lose sense of everything. I picture forests I can get lost in and a wilderness I long for. I picture the light at the end of the tunnel. Nobody ever says what color the light is. I believe it’s green. I believe it’s a forest. A wilderness all to myself. Your joy spreads. Like wildfire. And I’m burning. The way you speak is so alluring. You have so much to say and it always takes you minutes to speak single sentences but I look in your eyes and see a cluttered mind picking together the pieces and I wait. I patiently wait. I listen as you seemingly discover words for the first time. I wait for you to finish thoughts you never knew you had.
By Aaron hughey8 years ago in Poets
Fairytale
You’re the Gertrude Stein to my Picasso, I’m the Camille to your Rodin. How does it end? Will our art become an emblem of an endless love or will our beautiful work become forgotten? In a couple of years, will someone discover what we have created and suddenly make our love known all over the world? Isn’t it reckless to fall into something like this so deep? Isn’t it childish to be crazy about each other? It is my dear, it is.
By Brownie Haze8 years ago in Poets
Small Talks
Why not talk about sex while drinking coffee? Let’s tell each other things we always wanted to say. Let’s get lost in the universe full of dreams that never came true and promises that has never been kept. Let’s tell each other sweet little lies in which we can get lost. I could tell you how I feel when you gently touch inner side of my thigh and swipe your finger around my navel. The Velvet Underground plays Sunday Morning for the third time but we’re still drowning in the lakes of our black coffees.
By Brownie Haze8 years ago in Poets
The Stone and The Traveler
The night was dense with the musk of the sound. The scent of which filled the nostrils and choked the hopeful. Alone, amongst a group of strangers, shrouded by the smoke of cigarettes ignored stories and fabrications, a lone Stone shone bright. The light of the moon cascading down her twisted bounty: Side eye glances pierced the armor of the a traveler stuck in the time. That one glance eliminated all the questions that surrounded the traveler: he no longer consumed the by the night, He was enamored by her atmosphere. The whiskey blurred his mind, yet his vision was crystal clear.
By Stephen Jones8 years ago in Poets
