Will my poetry ever find a way back to me?
Summer fun is always tainted with a hint of melancholy;
This time next year we won't be so young.
I miss hallucinating love with you, Molly.
We only feel safe when we're in touching distance of a gun.
You were canonised for the lies you told;
The white picket fenced life isn't real.
Beautified spells of decay; an elegant sense of old;
Creating art is my only way to feel.
Meet me at the peaks in Yosemite;
Heart valves icy; veins melting.
Whisper "I love you"'s in the midnight sun;
As California waits for no one.
Become blissfully unaware of the fire engulfing our sweet land;
Wallow in seductive ignorance; as darkness falls yet again.
As America perishes below our feet;
Let's rot in what could've been here at Yosemite.
Will my poetry ever find a way back to me?
Ashes flutter around my eyes like butterflies in bloom;
All while the tall, the short, the young and the old are dying.
From the West to the East; I can feel a lingering shadow of doom.
As I follow the North Star until the genesis of morning.
Massachusetts never felt so abandoned to me;
Having escaped the lonely hollows of New York City.
I can never go back to memories I once had;
I poured black paint over that path.
Will my poetry ever find a way back to me?
And here I am wild and in the wilderness;
Writing stories born out of flames.
I feel magnified by the rain's mist;
As I find a new target to place blame.
Yosemite Joe knows my one true secret;
But he promised me he'll forever keep it.
I can feel the flames of the city begin to burn my body;
Let's use my bone's dust to write romantic poetry.
Will my poetry ever find a way back to me?
Meet me at the peaks in Yosemite;
Heart valves icy; veins melting.
Whisper "I love you"'s in the midnight sun;
As California waits for no one.
Become blissfully unaware of the fire engulfing our sweet land;
Wallow in seductive ignorance; as darkness falls yet again.
As America perishes below our feet;
Let's rot in what could've been here at Yosemite.
As guitars are strung and songs are sung;
Today's an end for someone.
And maybe today is that day for me;
Perhaps I'll die right here in Yosemite.
And if I do, the poetry inside of me,
Will be forever thankful for Yosemite.
Yes, it will.
YOU ARE READING
BOHEMIA
PoetryBOHEMIA 🌷🌼 An abstraction of creativity. Deeply rooted in the harrowing aspects of the human condition, my twelfth poetry collection, 'BOHEMIA' is a darker yet stark, poetic exploration of nature versus nurture through a poetry collection ri...
