Poetry Blog by Aly
elPintor on Progress (Fri, 21 Sep 2018 01:32 am)
Sometimes when I watch the city lights
slowly die to give way for the night,
or listen to songs you wrote about me
as I stand in the backroom window in my apartment,
I wonder if you’ve forgiven me
for all the times I didn’t love you as much
when you were still here with me holding my hands.
I know it has heen a busy couple of months
with everything happening all at onc...
Sunday 21st April 2019 2:31 am
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...
Friday 14th September 2018 2:28 pm
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
Tuesday 11th September 2018 9:10 pm
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.
Sunday 9th September 2018 10:20 pm
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.
I am unfolding. I sit at the edge of the rooftop,
surrounded by city lights and white noises.
Thirty-seven desperate missed calls.
Saturday 8th September 2018 2:00 am
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.
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,
Wednesday 5th September 2018 7:07 am