A Poem About A Poem

There is a melancholy woven into exhales, 

The fumes of heartache stir in your brew. 

And I wonder why the somber flavor, 

The stale aftertaste of lingering rue? 

Your language is lovely but its sound so sad, 

Like the bloom of roses on thorny vines, 

Curling themselves into the curves of the tongue, 

Where they melt away from papered lines. 

Why are stories more endearing framed in rhyme, 

Their romantic undertones always incomplete? 

Because what is a poem without a melodic accent? 

But a beautiful, clumsy way to translate heartbeats.

In Lyrics

In lyrics I see road maps

street signs and flashing yellow lights,

follow routes to forgotten streets over the gps and lose myself

listening to the voice of someone I don't personally know.

In lyrics I see fingerprints

collecting just enough dust to hint at their existence,

watch waves sweep away delicate sand castles to prove they're not real

and taste the salt of the ocean with my eyes.

In lyrics I see billboards

for plays performed on stages too small for such big stories,

distracted by the cakes of makeup on faces distorted with timed emotion

but feeling regardless the meaning in their soliloquies.

Unwritten

 

The blankness of this page is full of stories

I try to write but the words evade me

The artists in my mp3 player do it so much better

As if their lyrics were the script between my long, drawn sighs

As if my heartstrings were the first to play those melodies

I hear the throb of my soul in someone else's song

And its language feels lost to me.