Poetry is like
Magic on the page
Using words to bring
Stories to life

Poetry taught me how
Music is a fraud
You don't need to
Repeat the same thing
Over and over
To get your message across

I never connected to music
The way poetry connected to me
It gave me an outlet a
Place I belonged

Music uses tricks to
Keep you interested
Instruments, chords, melodies
Poetry is made by the
Person who speaks it

Music is so straight forward
It's in simple terms
Poetry isn't all simple
You have to read between the lines

People usually
Get the same message from a song
In a poem there are many messages
Many ways to read and interpret

People can quote lines from songs
How many can quote
Verses of poetry?

Music is great though
I love music
Poetry is just
More important to me

In my poems
I am free to
Be who I want
I am free to
Be who I am

The only masterpiece
that captivates me so much is
the beauty that unfolds
once your lips curve.


*-qyf

What can a reflection be to itself
Or a falling leaf apart from its mother?
She did not know the answer
She could only scratch her heart until it bled
Like eyes watching lovers that fall but never set

Pilings choking under rising tides
But not high enough to relieve their burden
A wax candle waiting for the torture of the flame
She could only watch knowing its life was short
Soon to join the memories she could never forget

By her rosary she knew somewhere was a blessing
By her cross she knew she was still saved
The stars that had chosen those who would look
Lit the path as she returned to the night sky
As her heart asked if life was only about regret

you know from the moment
you
stop feeling beautiful
she said it
wasn't suppose to matter
and
I always want
what's
gone

& you're always gone
so what's beautiful
without your forearm
without our throats
& when I can't hear you

cause I'm not writing poetry
I'm filing a complaint
in a love letter
to your name

Without you, without the flirty melancholy,
     Without your memory, without love poetry,
Which from leaf to leaf sets off
Into yellow crisps, and sad crimson,
     Congregating somewhere,
Crackling at every strut, a pixie,
     Graceful, treading on,

I will, I would seem as though the root,
Which, in vain, motions its longing,
Long arm, no hand, nor palm,
     A lone finger, saying that I miss you,
No wind to disintegrate, no lungs,
A heart, meditative of emptiness,
     Dreaming of carpentry.

The dormant doormat of yours,
Even that, could not welcome me,
     Without you.

Without you, it is only you
That moves, not me,
     Not even time.*

© 2015 J.S.P.

My last breath
Has the scent of your hair
As I close my eyes
I catch a glimpse of your face

While my body grows cold
I gradually feel your warmth
I don't mind going to hell
Because here, I felt heaven