Immiscible
Love is to me, what day is to night. They never mix, but they do hold hands every dusk, and every dawn.
I doubt that love is for me
Or at least my definition of it
Why do I yearn for it so much
If I can't ever have it my way
Belongs to You
I write these words
like I haven't
written before
and I will not
write like this
for anybody else
my words are yours
so am I
my breath
has your name on it
not even my name
is mine
I am yours
and my name
belongs to you
Zesty Lemon
Oh! Love is like a zesty lemon, it makes fools of us, doesn’t it? I feel half blind these days – like someone’s squeezed lemon into my eyes instead of my tongue. And yet, somehow there’s still this tangy sweetness I taste, even without clearly being able to see where it is coming from. Maybe this is the feeling of being blinded by something and still knowing exactly how beautiful it is.
The Yearning Poet
The poet in I and thee.
It yearns to be set free.
The words of a poem, mightier than a sword.
Dead tree's skin must not be its final abode.
The rhyme we sing, the notes we play.
Here comes the night and there goes the day.
Notes in unison, in utmost uniformity.
Will I make the mistake of non-conformity?
What compels this poem to rhyme?
The poet in I and thee.