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I have never felt more worthless,
Than on days when you take my hand and you ask me what's wrong

Maybe it's because of the way your eyes glaze over.
Shifting to a spot slightly over my shoulder
One that I'm sure is filled with more beauty than you see in me
The sound of my voice becoming white noise
Making way for a symphony of colours within your mind

Maybe it's the way your shoulders slump slightly.
Trying to carry my weight is too much for you
Don't worry, I'll take it back when you're asleep later
I've gotten used to carrying enough for the both of us

Maybe it's the way your grip on my hand slacks.
Are you scared you'll break me if you hold me?
Are you scared I'll break you?

I've recently noticed a shift
It's like we're magnets, you gravitate upwards and you're always glowing
And I've learnt to hold my tongue
A maul is not an axe;
an axe is not a maul.

One is for splitting,
the other for felling.

Of course to trees
such distinctions
are immaterial.

Walnut rounds
scattered on grass
stare into juniper
scratching the sky—

tall pallbearers
shiver in wind,
whisper above
dead medallions,
unblinking eyes.

The handle I hold
like a divining rod;

metal blade forged
by inchoate words,

honed on grinding
letters of precision.
 Nov 2016 Alexandra Provan
Chris

You, with words of beauty,
speak in softer tones
where volume is not required
because vibrations
bring to light the meaning

Even if remaining quiet
calms the fears
drifting along your heart

Feelings still shout
in actions shown,
leaving only words unsaid
to speak the true meaning
of the silence
Wrapped around her finger
Metaphorically and physically
The way she looks in my eyes
Heavy breaths exhaling desire
Light reflects off the sweat on our skin
I take a hit off your hips
Inhale your passion
Trace your curves with the tips of my lips
Grip your throat delaying your breaths
A sudden gasp as I explore your love

Follow me into ecstasy
my mother always said
"don't fall in love with a poet"
they pretend to love you
but what they really love
is writing about loving you
you are mere words to them
feelings cheapened by a page,
dusty grey typewriters,
and many unfinished drafts
of lovers both old and new,
you are the question mark,
but not the answer,
they are searching for ?
person unidentified: mystery
the page wanderer,
each poem a missing
person poster to cover their
bedroom walls.
they cannot love something
that is in their head
poets are the loneliest of
all people, my mother said.
they write to immortalize
what has long passed.
to live within their words,
but not reality,
lost souls writing suicide notes
and proclaiming it art.
© copyright

NOTE: i've noticed people sharing this to other sites without having spoken to me about it beforehand, I do not give permission for this and all poems are copyright, keep this in mind.

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my mother never actually said this to me, but i figure i'll probably end up saying it one day if i have children.

it's pessimistic yes, but i know there are exceptions. please don't take to heart. it's more a criticism of myself than all poets. :)
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