demonic790
04-23-2014, 10:06 PM
I've been meaning to get back into poetry for a long, long time. I decided that tonight would be that night, and so this will be the first poem I've written in over a year. I missed language. I've noticed after writing this just how much water and liquid metaphors appeal to me. This is not the first time I've written through the lens of tears. There's something about the flow of wet words that really sparks my interest. I don't know why I was feeling this subject matter tonight, but I can assume that I was hit by an emotional trigger that brought back some nostalgia and so I branched off the mental state from there. This is the result. Thank you for taking the time to read.
The Woman Made Of Tears
There’s a woman made of tears across the riverside.
I can see her. From my building.
Sitting atop her grave every night.
Cold sweat pours from her satin glossed temples
into self-made bourns that linger inside the shade of her sorrow.
Like a spate of murders she kindles each sundown with that bawling,
whimpering and sniveling to the stars as she hides under the lull
of the night’s darkest blanket.
When she screams,
black imagery stains the mind, painting pictures from love
that never quite broke its virgin chains; though,
obviously rusted with celibacy, I can tell that she is soft.
She should imitate the roar of a lion and scare off her tears
instead of drowning in them.
If I can speak of love to her, I would wish that a mistake
in the game of affection wasn’t so much avoided before.
And that second chances for her valentine weren’t so large an enemy
to the torrents of rejection pouring from her broken chest...
Especially when beasts like me howl from across the riverside
with raging apologies never met by the ears of their suicidal lover.
I’ve been roaring.
Ever since she started her day plastered on my roof
and fell off the edge into her watery chasm
when my hand could not save her from the appeal of the concrete.
I wish that she would imitate the roar of a lion and scare off her tears
instead of drowning in them.
So that she can rest. Because I cannot.
The Woman Made Of Tears
There’s a woman made of tears across the riverside.
I can see her. From my building.
Sitting atop her grave every night.
Cold sweat pours from her satin glossed temples
into self-made bourns that linger inside the shade of her sorrow.
Like a spate of murders she kindles each sundown with that bawling,
whimpering and sniveling to the stars as she hides under the lull
of the night’s darkest blanket.
When she screams,
black imagery stains the mind, painting pictures from love
that never quite broke its virgin chains; though,
obviously rusted with celibacy, I can tell that she is soft.
She should imitate the roar of a lion and scare off her tears
instead of drowning in them.
If I can speak of love to her, I would wish that a mistake
in the game of affection wasn’t so much avoided before.
And that second chances for her valentine weren’t so large an enemy
to the torrents of rejection pouring from her broken chest...
Especially when beasts like me howl from across the riverside
with raging apologies never met by the ears of their suicidal lover.
I’ve been roaring.
Ever since she started her day plastered on my roof
and fell off the edge into her watery chasm
when my hand could not save her from the appeal of the concrete.
I wish that she would imitate the roar of a lion and scare off her tears
instead of drowning in them.
So that she can rest. Because I cannot.