Will My Heart Bleed Through Pen? | Poetry Remix 38

Today, anew, will my heart bleed through pen?
I thought I omitted these notions from my head.
My heart’s ajar on sheets I mark. . .
Paper cuts. . . pierce through me like a dagger.

Memories prick under calloused skin.
In hardened souls, feelings still run thin.
You will own my heart spilt on this paper.
And in quiet, you’ll perceive my whisper.

will my heart bleed through my pen
Photo by Kevin Mueller on Unsplash

I feel it leave. . expressions from my heart.
This release recalls emotional hurt.
Should I stop? Leave my hardened heart behind?
Tomorrow will tell. . If I’ll write next time. . .

I Crave to Kiss You

© Jonathan Pines and WritingWithStrangers, 2019, except where noted otherwise. All rights reserved.

I Crave to Kiss You | Poetry Remix 35

Let’s commence right way – I crave to kiss you.
Let’s not conceal; let’s just get right to it.
Because I know you crave to kiss me, too.

Your perfume allures me from the hall.
Every tread of stairs – we get near to it.
Every tread of stairs – hearts begin to fall.

I Crave to Kiss You
Photo by The Creative Exchange on Unsplash

As I open the door, lip meets with lip.
You’re my world and everything in it.
Two bound, to galaxies, we slowly drift. . .

The First Time This Week

© Jonathan Pines and WritingWithStrangers, 2019, except where noted otherwise. All rights reserved. Posted on WordPress.com.

The First Time This Week | Poetry Remix 34

I stepped outside for the first time this week.
I guess I’m anxious that I’ll seem too weak.
Bracing for questions; asking how I am.
Truthfully I’m just dead beneath my skin.
But I’ll bow my head, say I’m better now.
It’s just a white lie that I’m living in.

I arrive to my work and drop a tear. . .
I utter your name but no. . . you’re not here. . .

The catch with daydreams is you can’t wake up.
Minutes pass like hours. . . refill my cup.

The first time this week
Photo by Joackim Weiler on Unsplash

I’m walking home. . . I drop another tear.
I whisper your name. . . but no. . . you’re not here.

I like to fall and gaze at the ceiling.
With all this pain, it’s fine to feel nothing.
I’m lost in woe, and the world keeps spinning.
So nothing can break the way I’m feeling.

I sit by myself and finish my tear.
You whisper my name, but no, I’m not here. . .

Lying. . . Stuck in my Grave

© Jonathan Pines and WritingWithStrangers, 2019, except where noted otherwise. All rights reserved.