Oh Girl of Leaves,
to you I sing.
My heart believes
you’ll bring us spring.
The flower seeds,
to you they cling;
the trees and reeds,
the life you bring.
They rest beneath
your petal wing
and slowly wreathe
around your ring.
Oh Nature’s Queen,
I bow and bring
myself in green
as offering.
The world, it needs
you, not a king,
your oaken steeds
of woven string.
So, Girl of Leaves,
your name I sing.
Your grace relieves
the Earth with spring.

I suck at algorithms;
I’m a writer, not machine.
I’ll never match the rhythms
needed so that I am seen.
I tried to write a viral
poem, but it sounded fake;
going down a spiral
that I simply couldn’t take.
And so I started writing
out of anger and disdain
because that’s more exciting
than what’s famous but is plain.

Stay on my senses,
sinking in scented
sheets and incenses.
Save your pretenses;
pierce my resented
shells and defenses.
Kiss me—suspense’s
set me demented
as it commences.
Show what intense is,
scattering scented
stains on my senses.

Another Jericho, another wall.
A city for the holy, claiming to 
deserve its gleaming comfort and its calm.
It’s empty. No-one has the rectitude
to enter through its gates. It’s all banal,
as those who live within are only few
while losing faith and clinging to a psalm.
And yet outside I see a multitude
that’s lost without a shepherd or corral.
The hopeless many begging for the dew,
for scraps of nothing or a worthless balm.
A Godly Jericho of solitude
surrounded by another godless wall.

It’s all becoming dust,
the legacy you stuffed
your ego with, the just 
result of having snuffed
your life away for lust
and glory—hoarding much,
enjoying nothing. Dust,
of all you made for such
a fickle life to trust.
You’re only one of us,
another corpse to thrust
to Hell and not discuss
at all again. The dust
of someone even lost
in greatness, one who must
accept the fact and cost
that all we do is dust.

I must apologize
for being like the tide.
For leaving you to dry
and wait for my return
along the shore of my
unfair indifference.
I’ve let you agonize
by being distant, cried
and ocean’s worth of guilt
to reach you so and earn
with tears the love I’ve spilt
by such impermanence.

I feel it when they call me fat—
that everything becomes a blur.
It’s so unfair and hurtful that
it’s like I’m buried in the dirt.
I hear the voices in my heart,
and so I vanish in the air;
to kingdoms where we rush apart,
where all they say will go unheard.
They call me stupid and attack
me with a cold and quiet stare,
and so I fade into the black,
within, where all they say is slurred.
I’m taken from myself so that
my body’s not my own to stir—
so that I’m not who’s shouted at,
so that I’m not who’s getting hurt.

Her eyes are brown and green
while mine are only brown.
His chin is sharp and lean,
but mine is simply round.
I’m sure they didn’t mean
to ever push me down,
but all they do is seen
while I am barely found.
Her hair is gold citrine
and like a shining crown.
His skin is pearly, clean,
enough to be renowned.
It’s fine if they’re obscene
or hollow as we frown—
because their eyes are green,
their qualities abound.
We’re damned if we are mean,
the pimply, short, and brown.
It’s crazy how a gene
can turn a life around

Cradled in your arms, I sleep,
with a caring lullaby
rippling through your heart and chest;
as the sun begins to creep
by the edges of your shade
sheltering my eyes at rest.
And I fall into a deep
slumber, carefree as to why
through your love I have been blessed
with a kinder place to weep;
in a gentle serenade,
slowly fading while caressed.

We leave the butterflies
to falter in the cold;
affection slowly dies
when pain remains untold.
When lovers keep the ties
of love without its soul,
the taste of honey dries,
resentment spoils it whole.
We poison butterflies
and wonder why they fall—
by holding on to lies
until we’ve killed them all.

I’m suddenly feeling the frost
in spite of the embers and heat
already destroying my skin.
My body I’ve blackened and tossed
at pyres of smoldering wheat,
but nothing is helping me win.
My heartbeat is hopelessly lost;
it suffers my grief and defeat
while spiraling, starting to spin.
Perhaps it is only the cost
of stalling with pain my complete
depression—the winter within.

I’m a derelict in heaps
of waves and hesitation,
as the water slowly seeps
and drags me to damnation.
I’m a shipwreck in the tides
of endless obfuscation
till my destiny decides
to end my palpitation.
With an ocean to my knee
and begging for salvation,
I’m a derelict at sea—
a sea of isolation.