Images pt.2

A/N: I wrote a poem a while ago about images I had of me. I didn’t know what they meant. I wanted to write a new poem about images. I still don’t know what they mean.

Me, in the face of the
little girl on the train who sits in the middle,
cuts out the heads of footballers while the
whole world around mumbles down on her.

My reflection in the lights of the city,
the view of the street from above;
bad wine tastes perfect enough
but burns me whole.

Me, making pesto pasta in a beautiful kitchen,
for a beautiful friend, after a beautiful day,
which makes me wonder
if the concept of stress is fake news.

Me, walking down a foreign city,
falling in love with peace and self-care,
giving my heart away
to places and moments.

I am torn between
what is and what might be.

 

The three dead sparrows

I wanted to write a poem
about the three dead sparrows.
I would’ve compared them to
a sad face;
a sad trumpet;
a broken heart;
a lonely day.
But their death is more
than what you do to me;
and it’s more than a tool for me
to create a poem,
to tell a story,
or to show an image.
The three dead sparrows
will be left unremembered
and unrevenged.
My poem doesn’t do justice
to the way they stopped breathing,
losing their selves to the
Kingdom of Sleep
forever;
to the way they bled out by the canal,
and the world was still;
to the way their eyes closed
accepting their faith.
Dear sparrows,
I’m sorry.

There are fireworks outside and I’m bored and feeling stuff

I sit on my window sill and gaze at the darkness
Fireworks bang and crackle behind the trees
Some of them are shy and some of them
are fearless
And I am laughing out loud
Because I am happy
I feel every boom in my chest
And I remember how kissing you for the first time felt
Exactly like that
I love you
And the thought of kisses
Makes me melt
Here sitting on the window sill
And I melt
And I’m melting
Down the wall and onto the pavement
Where people step on me and don’t think twice
But I’m smiling
And feeling every fire
work inside me