poetry – Page 15 – The Messy Middle 🖤

Bargaining.

We had some laughs,

didn’t we?

Thick as thieves,

weren’t we?

We could try again,

couldn’t we?

What am I supposed to do now?

What about me?

–S.

LOML.

Love of my life,

where are you?

Did you have to take a bike?

I’ve been patiently waiting,

but now I’m wondering if you’re even alright?

We’re running out of time,

what if we only get one night?

Love of my life,

where are you?

Are they making you hike?

-S.

Waiting.

Stuck in life’s waiting room,

doesn’t it feel like everything ends in gloom?

Praying for light soon,

yearning to be lit up like the moon.

Growing pains,

like flowers, hopefully, I’ll bloom.

-S.

Monster.

Soulcrusher,

you leave destruction in your wake.

Heartstopper,

my breath, you take.

Jawbreaker,

every smile, a mistake.

Twister,

fever blister,

you do nothing, but make me ache.

-S.

Sweet Tooth.

You are an Italian sweet cream,

sugar rush,

cotton candy dream.

You are a sprinkle-topped,

powder sugar dusted,

funnel cake,

sugar lake.

You are a sticky finger,

decadent dessert,

so sweet,

it hurts.

You are honey personified,

I couldn’t find anything sweeter,

I’ve tried.

-S.

Loser.

I’m searching for meaning in new places.

I’m looking for answers in less than engaged faces.

I’m not giving myself any chance for graces.

I’m losing at all of my personal races.

I find myself in all of the same old places.

-S.

Turning a new leaf.

Around the bend.

On the horizon.

Over the hill.

After that turn.

Change.

Growth.

Birth.

–S.

Magic Eight Ball.

Will we stay friends?

Maybe.

Are we at the end?

You bet, baby.

Does he love me?

No.

Should I stay?

Go.

Is there someone else?

It’s all a little hazy.

Is she prettier?

Stop being crazy.

What about wittier?

Look, it will get better, but it’s about to get shittier.

–S.

In a field of dandelions.

I’m standing in the middle of a field,

making wishes,

dandelion one,

dandelion two,

dandelion three.

I wish slow.

I wish fast.

I wish for us to last.

I wish on dandelion four,

dandelion five,

dandelion six,

but there is no quick fix.

I’m standing in the middle of a field,

reaching for dandelion seven,

eight,

and nine,

I can still make you mine.

–S.

Hobbies.

I collect your goodbye.

I place it with the others.

I collect the darkness.

And all that it smothers.

I collect the grief.

And my own disbelief.

I collect the dust.

And the rust.

–S.