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@fl4vourless
They call me pagan, because darling I worship each part of you like a god on its own.
They call me the dammed because darling I twist and turn inside the fire in your eyes.
They see me running stray, running after you. Lost in the winter you leave behind.
Oh darling, each part of you is a god, dancing on top of my name.
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They were faded amber, waiting for the sun to shine on them again. Treading accross my face, dilated pupils expanded when they met mine. Honey coloured eyes, lost in the fog of war. Neither of us looked away, it felt a sin to do so. Eyes like the sun seen through mosaic tiles. powerful, dormant. So when they shone, when the ground seemed to split under my feet, I knew that those eyes with the majesty of broken oaths, and the wonder of burning oaks, had realised the sheerness of ecstasy they held.
She wore foreign syllables on her tongue, so that when men bellowed her name, they would think before they spoke of her, they would hesitate to incantate names forged through defiant divinity. So when she uttered what belonged to her, and only her, heads would turn, heads would bow to the sensation of a name heard only once. To the unfiltered power of a title you could only be born with. She was given names bred from a war, and she brought war with her.
I suppose even after you razed hell out of my demons. I suppose even when your hands were like a noose, even then I did enjoy the feeling of being held.
Isn't it maddening
To know
That in the front of an ever constant tide
You are just another body it'll wash away
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Tell me lover, have you bled enough to turn your roses red?
I built a palace out of all the sentences I thought you'd hate me for.
Reblog if itβs okay to befriend you, ask questions, ask for advice, rant, vent, let something off your chest, or just have a nice chat.
Men aren't taught to love, so we spend our time telling you about our favourite movies, or showing you our favourite songs. We're never taught to take or give affection, so instead we play football in blazing heat or freezing winter, as a way to connect. Man was never taught to say I love you and mean it, so instead he learned to quietly protect those he would say those words to.
Men are taught to be strong. We're told to make the money for our wives and kids. To be their foundation. Never bother knowing what's ours. Be stoic, even when the solitude crushes you.
You'll be a real man when you claw at yourself to tell people you love them, and ultimately fail.
We come up with silly jokes and physical gestures. Nicknames and gifts because how else do I show you your worth to me, than an item I think is worthy of you?
I was never shown how to display love, and that kept me from knowing if someone loved me.
So I'll spend my time tending a garden with all your favourite flowers, just so you have something nice to smell in the morning. Instead I'll keep a record of all your favourite shows, so I can play something on nights that stay just a little too long.
I can not hold your name onto my tongue with the Valor of love.
I was taught to hold the weight of the world on my shoulders, so tell me why a rose feels heaviest in my hands?
The sun, setting between folds of white
Softening the hues, darkening caramel to hazel
The orange feels right.
Fall in love with the little bit dull
The sidewalks that's always chipped
Or the tree that no one sits under
The pages on old books, ripped
Some sunsets, can't help but wonder
Doesn't every little thing deserve just a little love?
Don't I deserve to love every little thing?
Don't the crows, don't the doves
Don't I get to hear the crickets sing?
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love is in the little things.
βstay safe.β
'text me when you reach.β
'I missed you.β
itβs in the nicknames used only by the other, the hugs in passing, fleeting smiles exchanged between strangers, the inside jokes that make you grin wider, the 'wonβt you stay for dinner?β, the 'are you okay?β when you notice something off, checking if your friends have eaten, your father giving you the last bite of his food, your mother bringing you a plate of cut-up fruit when youβre studying, your sibling texting you in the middle of a family gathering because youβre both bored,Β your best friend sending you a meme with no caption except 'youβ. itβs in the being there for the friend dealing with a panic attack, getting them to tell you whatβs wrong so you can help, knowing the otherβs favourite chocolate, sending each other music, replying to their stories, and the random questions because thereβs still so much you donβt know about each other.
love is in the little things.
I write for my family, in hopes to convey the things I love about them. To tell them what bothers me and what doesn't.
I write for my friends, to lift their spirits when the thunderclouds are a bit too dark. To lighten the atmosphere after talks of loss.
I write for a friend who passed not to long ago, to show him what I come up with. To honour his own craft.
I write for strangers I see on the sidewalk, with which I have exchanged moments of vulnerability in smiles. To tell them I still think of them.
It seems, I have learned to write for everyone but myself, I sing for the trees, I dance with the wind, I write for the time that has passed before me.
Maybe if I write about everything in the world, I'll finally be able to write about me.
I do not want to be just a poet. I assume nobody wants that, to be in line with everybody else. what a conundrum, everyone afraid of fitting in, without anything to fit into. I detest simply being a poet. I wish to be a muse. I hope, to create muses through the pen. To create ideals which can change the world, even if I fall short of changing it myself.
I used to think that I couldn't find love if I wasn't Adonis. Work out everyday for abs chiseled by Michelangelo's hand, jawlines that could cut and biceps that showed every inch of the muscle. I used to think, that if I wasn't the most good looking guy in the vicinity. I wouldn't find love. What a fool to think June does not embrace all unconditionally. What a fool to think love bounced off the skin. What a fool, to think that Adonis could be loved.
I resent you. I abhorr the changes you have brought within me. I resent that you love me, because now I fear death. I fear to lose you. I resent you because you have given me something to protect, and nothing kills me worse than knowing I will fall short of the task.
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Everybody wants love. Everybody wants π‘π love. To ππ loved. It confuses me. The affection you yearn for, do you realise the layers of yourself you must concede before it lays itself upon you? Love is nothing in the face of loyalty. I wish not for love that isn't loyal. For that is a fate worse than no love at all. When you have love, there is no garuntee of loyalty. When you have loyalty, love will be by your side, at every turn of the way.
Even when I'm stripped of my name, when I'm just another grave in the cemetery. After the gravestone has faded and the idea of me is nothing, I will still reach for your love. For I am nothing, without you to hold.
