Broken Stone Poetry

My personal poetry blog, I hope you enjoy it! All posts are my original works! "Absence diminishes mediocre passions and increases greater ones as a fire would blow out a candle, but fan a fire." - Françios VI

[brokenstonepoetry]

"Cosmos"

I think I’ll love you until my lungs stop breathing, until the blood in my veins is no longer coated with your scent, until the thoughts in my head can manage to stop singing your name; by stopping altogether, but I know it won't stop there. I’ll love you until up is down and down is up, I will love you until light becomes darkness and darkness becomes brighter than our dreams. Until then, I will love you infinitely. I will bask in your glory, I will bathe in your thoughts. I will spend every waking moment I can afford making this silly thing we call love work. You, for so long, have been my life, my love, my one and only and I can't help but hope this lasts, forever. I believe that we are not bodies, we are the souls driving them. You and I will live together for an eternity, dancing with the stars as our spotlights, turning planets into stepping stones, eating galaxies whole for breakfast. Our sun today will be a flashlight tomorrow after I throw mountains at your window in the sky late in the everlasting night, baby we, we are eternal.

[brokenstonepoetry]

"Tides"

My thoughts swirl in my head, a hurricane of everything I've ever known, but you calm my storm. You bring the raging ocean in my mind to a peace I never thought I'd know. Nothing I've ever felt could compare to the serenity you hold in your voice or the soothing nature or your words. I would live a thousand lifetimes with you if I could. You make me lucky to be alive.

[brokenstonepoetry]

"Alone With You"

From the chills that shoot down both of your legs to the sigh of relief every time I fall between them, I adore our time, alone.

I start at your neck, you cock it sideways leaving it gaping, begging for my teeth, a photographer on the countdown. My lips string their way down to your breasts, my mind is no longer in control. Your stomach puts the silk road to shame as I am on my way to bigger and better things due south, I am headed to paradise, my oasis in the valley.

I look up and catch a glimpse of the glisten of your chin before it sets behind your chest. You reach over your head, grasp at the sheets and say “right…there.” All but the freight train in my mouth freezes in time. You are my favorite waterfall to bathe in by far, but we both know I am not getting clean, because baby, damn. You are the most omnipotent drug I have ever shot into my veins. I dig inside of you, searching, screaming for my next dose. I am an addict to a substance that could only kill me by withdraw.

Your nails bury into every crevice of my back, yours arches like the curve of a crescent moon. I sit, staring into the sky. You are my sun, my star, my altogether perfect thing, and I will spend my life, studying you. You, my celestial being, my shining light, you, laying in my bed. How lucky I am that you, chose me.

[brokenstonepoetry]

"Porcelain"

Tell me, have you been in love? I mean, really in love, enveloped around another person, the scent of another soul coated in your veins. Have you had to learn to breathe through the barrel of a gun? Have you ever stared death in the face and said "I love you?" Have you ever handed your porcelain heart to a girl with a sledgehammer spirit? Do not tell me you have been in love and lost if you can look in a mirror and not be disgusted with what you see.

[brokenstonepoetry]

"To Be A Poet"

This paper knows me better than myself. This pen feels my soul on a deeper level than any, see, you can ask me about myself and I assure you I will answer you and probably tell you more than you ever expected or wanted to know, but you will never be my compass, you won’t be my north star, you will not be my pen. You are not a cure, you are not a treatment, you are a person. You can’t, yourself, rip my heart from my chest. You will never dive into my brain and backstroke in my thoughts. You, love, will never know me like these stupid things do.

With this paper, I’ve stitched wounds that a girl like you left. With this paper, I’ve braced bones broken from falling too hard with no one to catch me. I’ve learned that there is no better cure for any pain than to pick up a pen and pull the trigger.

To be a poet, you have to kill yourself every night. To be a poet, you have to not be afraid to die, but to remain a poet, you have to stay alive. To be a poet, you have to blow your brains onto every sheet of paper you can find and hope the mural you make is beautiful.

[brokenstonepoetry]

"War Games"

Growing up, I never thought I'd be like this. I could never imagine myself shut off from the world, alone in my room, begging for anyone but myself to make a sound. I was a soldier, fighting imaginary wars, pretending to shoot guns my mother hoped I'd never have to hold. I didn't know that pins and needles of lies and insults could press their way into my skin, oh, but they would. I thought I was strong, but I've come to find that the toughest skin is wrapped around the bones of the weakest people; hardened and leathery, that skin helps to resist all the things that day to day life throws at them, at us, but when the armor comes off at night, the pain that lives in the scratches and the scars is worse than what any battle wound could bring. We try to be strong, but when we're faced with a crisis, our vices always take charge from the chaos. When I was young I had to fight pretend wars for entertainment. Now days I have to pretend there's no conflict just to stay alive, but even while I push the sound of gunfire to the back of my mind, I keep an insult sheathed on my hip. My quick wit is always strapped to my back, and when all else fails, and I start taking fire, my helmet, nothing more than intertwined security phrases like "she probably didn't mean it like that" they keep me safe. They keep my lied to. I sit here now, not still the boy fighting imaginary wars, but a young man, a POW in his own room, praying to a god he doesn't believe in that the war ends soon and he can go home, to the way things used to be.

[brokenstonepoetry]

"Coffee Shop Love Letter"

I’m sorry, ma'am. I don’t usually approach strangers, but I noticed you smile like a sea-side sunrise and I wouldn’t mind waking up and rolling over to see the beach at dawn every morning. You, looked at me, only moments ago and I felt the flames in my heart, passion has never came on so strong for me, much less this fast. I know you don’t know me, and I don’t know you, but I was just wondering what you might be doing for the rest of my life.

[brokenstonepoetry]

"Whipping Boy"

From a rooftop in my hometown, I can see the highway 110 bridge reaching out it’s arms, the city, welcoming her son home from war, but this is not a poem about bridges, it is a poem about reaching out.

I can’t say I’ve ever laid a blade to my skin, but I know far to well how to chase narcotics with vodka, know far too well how it feels to crank the music up and go to work without a voice the next day. There are no scars on my arms that can be counted, but my knuckles are littered with the debris of all they’ve destroyed. My hands, they’re always imperfect. They’re always scratched, and scarred, and bloody, and tired, and sore, but it’s an aching that lies deeper than flesh. My hands have always been the whipping boy for my actions. When I do something wrong, they get thrown through the wall, they get beat into gravel and rocks. They squeeze around bottles they never wanted to hold. The only thing that has ever brought my hands mercy were yours. In yours, my hands were beautiful. It didn’t matter what they looked like. It didn’t matter that they were weathered more than any young boy’s hands should be, because nothing you held could be anything but perfection to me. I remember you, caressing them, pressing your lips to my palms, you said “I love your hands,” and when you said that, so did I. I praised, I cherished my hands after that, knowing that you loved them made me want to put them on high, exalt them, only slightly less than I did you. I kept them clean, I kept them safe, and I didn’t hurt them. I didn’t know that one day, all too soon, I would put them through an absolute living hell, with you, on my mind. Like the angel, cast out of heaven, after you no longer wanted me, my hands were holy, no more.