PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

don’t be shy I will win you

the biggest (insert thing you want here)

I will catch all your throws

smile at all those jokes

except when they deserve a laugh

come love

wing walker

hold me at swordpoint &

pull all my treasure away

tomorrow

if you let me match you

I will parry every move I see coming

meet you where you are

bright star

quick blade

sit me down & shut me up

with your quick

hands

Beneath the thunder of our words,

a softer voice lies trembling,

not anger, but ache,

not fire, but the faint glow

of a heart wanting to be seen.

Each clash, a coded psalm,

a plea wearing armour,

the soul’s shy hand reaching out

through the smoke of misunderstanding.

We do not battle to win,

we battle to be held.

What sounds like conflict

is the sound of loneliness breaking open,

of love knocking against its own walls,

of yearning dressed in defiance.

So let us listen

not to the sharpness of tongues,

but to the hush between them,

where the true words live:

choose me,

consider me,

understand me,

accept me.

For every argument is a secret altar,

and beneath it burns

the quiet, stubborn fire

of our longing to belong.

To love, truly love,

is not the tremble of the lips in spring,

nor the wine-glassed vow beneath the moon’s soft ring;

it is not the poem etched in bloom and sigh,

but the dirt beneath the fingernails

when hearts break open and do not die.

It is to walk, barefoot, into the unknown

of another’s heart, not with lantern or map,

but with the trembling whisper: “I am here.”

And when storms rise like unspoken grief,

to plant your feet, not disappear.

Yes, it is easy to love when laughter spills

like light through clean windows;

when joy is abundant,

and the garden of the self needs no tilling.

But real love?

Real love, asks for hands in the dark,

asks for breath when breath is short,

asks for silence when words could wound,

asks for presence,

when every part of you longs to run.

It is the holy art of staying soft

when the air is stiff with tension,

of whispering calm when the storm is not yours,

but rages through the person you adore.

It is patience in the face of confusion,

kindness in the drought of understanding.

It is to sit beside another’s ache,

without fixing, without fleeing, simply being,

an open hand in a world of closed fists.

Love is not perfect.

It limps. It forgets.

It loses its way and learns again.

But oh, it is worth it.

Because beneath our bones,

behind our histories, we are just souls,

longing to be seen, to be known,

to be met in the stillness

and held as if we were light.

So love.

Love not for the reward,

but for the reverence.

Love bravely. Love deeply.

For this, dear heart,

is the divine labour of the living.

all life

at it’s core

comes from the sun

that solar furnace

the one place

in the universe

where the quantum and gravity

play nice

mass becomes energy

and energy becomes light

and absolutely everything

ignites

you said you

wanted to be seen

had so much warmth to give

the universe's a

cold and empty place

but you my child

are like the sun

where being becomes

light

and two become

one

I want to get lost in

the rock & roll of you

the slip & slide

motion like a drainpipe in your storm

crush me these shells will

find a new hope

take me away

this is more than just a vacation this is

fire magic sunrise driftwood

riding into the city

chasing that red tortured skin

tipsy me faster on your feather arms

flying to the edge of somehow

we spend years in this house

& now here is a new corner

later let me drift close

twin matchstick mountaintops roaring to share

let me learn to love all this land

I only want a little bit of ruin

some marshmallow ash to keep the captive inside

you can play me

hard like a piano

soft like honeysuckle between the teeth

don’t let death chase me

just a fffflicker of it like

oh- oh- there

cutting bringing the tops of my goosebumps to a boil

& every time we kiss

watercolor fade

it washes away

Often in the hush where mortal voices fail,

And Time in solemn hush begins to drift,

There dwells a grace too subtle to unveil,

A space where sorrow weds the soul to lift.

No clang of hour, no clarion of day,

But something soft, an unseen breath between.

The wish once uttered and what fate may say,

A hush where all that might be grows unseen.

For though the tongue does mutter, “I am still,”

The heart, more wise, has learned to wait with grace;

Not bound by fear nor bent to fated will,

But resting in that sweet, uncertain space.

Through prayer and promise lies a holy seam,

A thread of gold the hurried eye might miss.

Where dreams not rushed may gently learn to dream,

And longing knows the cradle of its bliss.

What fool would scorn the bud not yet bloomed?

Or curse the sky for not yet shedding rain?

The rose does ripen in the shade entombed,

And stars are born in quietude and strain.

So I, in stillness, tend the root of trust,

With palms upturned to catch the morning’s grace.

I give my tears unto the waiting dust,

And find a peace that Time cannot displace.

O speak no more of silence as delay,

It is the womb where destinies take form.

Let others run; I choose the patient way,

Where hope, though slow, emerges deep and warm.

In my poetry, I name this magic, hallowed part:

The space where love prepares to touch the heart.

It is not the fair-weather friend

who writes their name upon your heart,

but the one who, seeing the storm,

folds their umbrella shut,

choosing wet shoulders beside you

over comfort alone.

Anyone can walk in sunlight,

laugh in the soft meadow,

but it takes a rare and quiet courage

to stand ankle-deep in puddles,

to let the thunder bruise their sky

so you do not face the lightning alone.

Love is not the absence of rain,

it is the gentle hand that finds yours

when the world is unravelling,

the warmth that lingers in cold mist,

the voice that says without words:

“I will not leave you here.”

So bless the drenched, the loyal,

the ones who stayed when staying cost them dryness.

For their devotion shines brighter than any sun,

and their soaked clothes

are the garments of saints.