Poetry
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Between midnight and dawn, When the 13th hour strikes, Before the hourglass turns, When the calendar sits empty, Before the old year has gone, Time loses its meaning.
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You fell first. Open and trusting, You never doubted if you could love me. You patiently waited for my closed heart to alter, Now, you fell first But I’ve fallen harder.
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The morning of the death of democracy, Fresh snow glowed on the mountain tops. The sun rose bright in a pastel sky As birds and geese flew peacefully by, The beautiful day was a cruelly-felt lie– A mockery of our mourning. On the morning of the death of democracy, Heaven and Earth kept on turning. …
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I miss the ocean Though I fear the unknown deep, And I dislike the sand in my shoes And the salt on my chapped skin. Still, I miss the ocean The sea-scented breeze in my hair, The sound of rolling waves in my ears, And the tide lapping at my ankles. I miss the ocean.…
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When I wake to a rainy day, And the street lights cast their warm glow on the wet pavement, And the rest of the city is still asleep, Leaving me peacefully alone with my coffee and my thoughts, I almost feel like a morning person.
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Daylight burns into smouldering sunsets Then fades into the charcoal of night. Each morning the dawn strikes a new match, Lighting a fire that burns hours into ashes. Once started, the flames cannot be extinguished. What’s incinerated cannot be unburned.
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I didn’t forget My childhood memories Of hiding my suffering Of silently struggling And endlessly wondering Why all this was happening Why God didn’t love me. I didn’t forget My years wandering, Of helplessly stumbling, Of hopelessly drowning And constantly questioning Why I was still hurting Why I couldn’t love me. I didn’t forget My…
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They’ll make you fight a thousand battles So that they can win the war By wearing down your armor And wearing out your sword. When the fighting’s finally over And their victory’s ensured, They’ll be no one left to remember What you were fighting for.
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I go through paper Like it grows on trees And I live in a forest. Putting pen to the page Is grounding in a way Typing is not. Paper grants the freedom To organize my thoughts Beyond the bounds Of pixels and bytes.
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I’ve long suspected that I’d never live by The word. The pen is not the sword that cuts My path. It hangs on the wall as mere decoration Because I lack what it takes to Become The warrior poet
Bringing Mae Flowers 