Learn
Now, after learning how to love you, I have to learn how to hate you.
'Cause, to me whose heart doesn't un-learn, it is the only way to forget you.
Poems on the topic: love
Poems on the topic “love” on Poets.by.
Mrs. Overcoat
You don't need to tell me
How it happened, I was there
I saw the rain fall
And turn to ice
I saw the people flock
To the broken coffee machine
I watched five grown men
Fight over a throw blanket
And when I called you
You were too sad to speak
You couldn't bear to see it
You were too sad to even cry
But we needed you
We needed Mrs. Overcoat
To keep our spirits warm;
I was also there
You Cannot Throw Me Away
You can only attempt to
And fail.
You can try every trick
In the book
And come up with a few
Of your own
But I don't care
It doesn't matter
What you do
Or what you say
Because I know
You can never throw me away.
loved
To be wanted
Loved
Looked up to
Desired
Respected
Supported
Something we all need
Yet some of us
Are disliked
Despised
Detested
Disdained
Discarded
Like old diapers,
Why
Wherefore
To Be
Or to not exist
To live
Or to die
To believe
Or to question
To love
Or to hate
To decide
Not because you have to
But because it makes sense,
What's the use
Of an ignorant life
Of mindless indecision
For just being
Just existing
Just living then dying
You and I
Like two peas in a pod
Two petals on the same flower
Two seeds yearning to take root
You and I,
Two saplings trying to become trees
Two trees that might grow together
Grow old together
And fall as one.
What is This Thing
We call love,
Where does it come from and
Where does it go when we
Put ourselves on pedestals and
Tear each other down;
What is this thing
What is its purpose and
What does it mean,
Why do we give it
To some and not all,
Why do we need it and
What is it made of;
What is this thing
We call love?
No Love
No love from spome people,
Some people just gotta be miserable
Be miserable for no reason other than
Other than the joy they obtain
They obtain from suffering
From suffering and watching others do the same;
The same amount of love can be expected
Be expected from someone who lives
Who lives in a fantasyland
A fantasyland where he's the most important, living in a
In a glass castle
Glass castle where he can
He can look down on us all and laugh
And laugh to himself and tell himself
Tell himself all the supposed reasons
Supposed reasons why he's better
Furnishings
“You are my everything,” I whisper.
“I’m not your chair,” she laughs.
But where else would I sit
when I can no longer stand?
My chair, my table covered
with food and a half-burnt candle;
my bed, my pillow holding up
the heavy freight of dreams;
my closet filled with costumes,
my dresser of bundled socks,
my basement of musty smells
and unhealthy seeping waters.
You are my lamp, the saucer
beneath my evening tea, the mirror
at the end of the hall.
Such ordinary furnishings
From An Old Lover
Her letter drifted across an empty sky,
a night shadow dragging its feet behind
a wandering cloud. Striations on the walls
of arroyos mark the arid years since we,
muddied in erotic torrents of cloudburst,
felt new roots suck each tender drop, blush
of new life erupting in passionate colors,
before vagrant dust filled every hollow footprint,
left smooth, dry surfaces like unstroked flesh.
Cool now, a breeze of her voice from the stillness,
a kind moisture urging dormant life to emerge,
knowing such tender shoots rarely survive
the desiccating sun, in night’s dark forgiveness
a soft-lipped moment reaches up for the moon.
Last Moments
“Closer” you say, from less
Than six inches away, the end
Of the weary, long day, at last
At rest. The best rare moments, we talk
This way, with heads on pillows, face
Each other. Face each other, soft voices
In sounds sleeping gray, sometimes
Important, often just touching, topics
From the day, anything else left to say,
Before sleep, before love, before
Anything that matters gets away. I speak
“Are you thinking of a date?” and
I watch and wait, no clouds rise up, no
Silences contained. Easy as breathing, your
Sweetest, intimate way, neither hurry
Nor delay. “Closer” you say.
My younger sister
She is chubby
She is neat
She don't like cow meat
She is wonderful
She is miserable
When she read
She is beautiful
She is sometimes-ish
She is kind
And selfish
The point is she is my sister
And she is mine
I will never sell her out
For silver or gold
Because she means
The whole to me
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