Two-hundred and Twenty-three: A Poem for Her

For Hope.

Look closer, man.
There are roots in her moon-lonely eyes.
She is an anti-vampire but she is not safe
in the sunshine. Be patient. Whisper to her
during the  night and you will see shooting
stars fall out of her mouth. Her mind is
made of velvet. There are little ears stitched
in everywhere (so she can listen better, man).
Take a leaf out of her tree. Her arms are
magnificent branches to comfort you.

Look closer, man.
See the waves of the ocean every time
she flicks her hair. Hear the breeze
every time she parts her lips to speak.
She is a waterfall of wisdom. Her hands
are flames that will scorch you only if you
scorn her. Her heart is a god damn poem.

Look closer, man.
You shouldn’t need me to tell you this.
The simple fact that you do not want to see her
means you don’t fucking deserve her. Dickhead.


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I drink, I laugh, I smoke, I write.

4 thoughts on “Two-hundred and Twenty-three: A Poem for Her”

  1. Me too. It’s painful to watch, but hey, she’s marrying him.

    With regards to your poem, it’s sad but sometimes when a dickhead leaves your friend alone, he’s actually doing her a favour.

  2. Je concur- at the end of the day it’s just plain sad to see someone lovely with a douche. This particular poem is more about the guys that pass over totally rad women just because their stupid deranged hearts can’t afford to see them. And I mean, really, if you can’t realise that you’re a lucky fucker because an amazing woman has CHOSEN you… then you’re… a dickhead.


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