Poetry Blog by Aly

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elPintor on Progress (Fri, 21 Sep 2018 01:32 am)

Marie Alyza on Progress (Mon, 17 Sep 2018 01:35 am)

lynn hahn on Progress (Fri, 14 Sep 2018 09:04 pm)

Chris Armstrong on Triptych #1: Coffee, Paper, and Storm (Thu, 13 Sep 2018 05:31 pm)

Marie Alyza on How Late Is Too Late? (Thu, 13 Sep 2018 02:56 am)

Marie Alyza on In Love We Crash (Thu, 13 Sep 2018 02:55 am)

AVISHEK GHOSH on How Late Is Too Late? (Wed, 12 Sep 2018 07:44 am)

AVISHEK GHOSH on In Love We Crash (Wed, 12 Sep 2018 02:44 am)

Martin Elder on In Love We Crash (Tue, 11 Sep 2018 10:41 pm)

Martin Elder on Best Friend (Tue, 11 Sep 2018 10:39 pm)

Progress

There are things that

I don't understand about us.

One is how can you tell me

that you love me

when all you want to do

is change me.

 

You started a forest fire

that destroyed my roots

and damaged my trees.

You built concrete walls and roads

until I could no longer recognize

myself in the mirror.

"This is for progress," you said,

but all it created was cal...

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poem

In Love We Crash

At night in the office,

I watch you watch me.

The smell of coffee and vanilla

lingers like a cigarette stick

we refuse to finish.

We talk about love, life,

and all the boring intervals,

but we never really talk about us.

 

The coffee in the pantry

taste like old paper and broken promises.

I look at you across the elevator,

and think about all the things

that ...

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poem

Best Friend

You were the Earth,

and I was the moon.

You were my world,

but I was just your satellite.

 

The dark spots in my face were scars

from catching and stealing

the sun's light

so I could brighten you up

during your darkest hours.

I spent my time revolving

around you so I could fix you,

but you couldn't see me

because you were too busy

chasing the sun.

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best friendlovepoemspilled ink

How Late Is Too Late?

Act I.
From twelve midnight to twilight,
I lie down on a blanket on the rooftop,
between a bottle of wine
and my father’s old typewriter.
I am growing too careful as I age,
so when you tell me that you love me,
I pretend I don’t feel the same.


Act II.
I am unfolding. I sit at the edge of the rooftop,
surrounded by city lights and white noises.
Thirty-seven desperate missed calls.
I...

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poem

Triptych #1: Coffee, Paper, and Storm

I.
The coffee on the table is as cold
as my hands which shiver
like tree branches during a storm.
I can’t decide
if it’s too bitter or too sweet,
but I will drink it anyway.

II.
I will write about you again,
but I know that’s not entirely true.
I will write about me too.
There will be no crumpled papers
on the floor
because even if this will turn out
as a poorly written poem,
I wi...

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poem

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