Desperation

I am desperate for touch.

The tickle of your fingers,

The whisper of your lips,

The movements of your body over mine.

I don’t know who you are,

But I am desperate for your touch.

For your love,

And eventually, for you, 

To be mine.

The Head Ache that is You

The inside of my head throbs,

Refusing to sleep,

Refusing to stop.

The pain it hurts, 

The pain it hurts.

Monotonous and constant.

All I want is to sleep,

To rest my eyes and to sleep.

But the pain it goes on,

It churns,

And it churns.

The lack of happy poetry is a sad reality.

I’ve been feeling fine.

No.

Fine is an understatement,

I’m happy.

But poetry is not happy,

How can you write poetry if you are happy.

But still I am writing.

I am writing and I feel free,

I am writing and I feel glee.

And so should you,

Life is better when you are not feeling blue.

This may not be deep,

Poetry.

It may not be sad,

Poetry.

But it is still mine,

And for that I am glad.

Please, for my sake not yours,

Let the poetry stay bad.

Rubies and Diamonds

As single light outside my window,

Welcomes itself in and tickles my ice cold skin.

Bright against the hard contrast that is me.

It stays – it doesn’t go,

Or disappear,

Or leave,

Or least of all,

Disappoint.

It makes my skin sparkle and shine,

As if I were the purest diamond or the greatest ruby,

And yet I am still cold.

If only there were more like you little light,

Perhaps then my soul could be bright.