prose, writing

unrequited

unrequited love, is a disease. It eats at me, ravages me. I am no longer me when the waves hit me. I am slumbered beneath the sea. I am in mourning. I am tree that has lost its leaves. The autumn of my life, I must salvage what is left; I will replant in the spring. I will plow my fields; with my own hand. The pleasure can be too much to handle, but the rain comes when I call. I am my own goddess, I am my own harbinger. Muse to my fate, I inscribe lies to fend off my own misery. I take blades to my fields because I find imperfections in the presence of raw, unfettered beauty. In my dreams, you always wore white. I should have known, you were no angel, not heaven-sent…

 

@amateur_poet

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

w

Connecting to %s