Poems

Words I’d like to call art.

Am I allowed to cry?

i’ve been listening to peace so much lately

it confuses me because i am in no place of declaring my love for anyone

we’ve brushed past that

my love is here and there, its everywhere

its been mistaken as the one for many years behind and many years to come

my love is a food that never goes bad

its the one you keep, till you hate me

now, why is it on repeat?

why am i shouting words of desperation in which no one understands?

give you my time, sitting down in your trenches

whisper my love as if it was a crime

sleep in benches of uncertainty like nothing would come out of it

give up my wild

to sit you in silence that only comes when two people understands each other

give on grief bigger than ones who’ve died

to tame the devil’s in the details, hid them in the depths of the theater

give you a child

to finally realize this is not a declaration of my heart and love or anything further

its a bargaining of a lover

peace is a plead of love

I don’t like calling my art poems though much might say so, I never think that my silly little writings are ever good enough to be called “art” I always thought that, that would make actual poets felt invalidated. But if art is whatever the artist thinks is, then I’d like to think that this is art.

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