12-17-2014, 01:37 AM
This is my first post in these forums, and honestly the first bit of poetry I've put effort into for a long time. Please tear it apart as much as possible. Piece is directed towards someone who has inspired me endlessly for years.
You are so oblivious, so painfully unaware.
Your insight and your intellect...they mean nothing here.
But I promise, my dear,
that before the sun retreats behind the mountains
on our final day together,
I will teach you to read poetry.
Poetry is born from a delicate dance,
when sensory experience and raw emotion
step perfectly in time with a beat that
resonates from the tip of a pen;
It lives forever in the echoes of voices
reading aloud its words,
intertwining with the ardor they created;
It is a conflagration;
its kindling is the gentle kisses of tides on the shore,
the peaks that puncture the ceiling of clouds above,
the lingering scent of romance on empty sheets,
or the thrill of lips reuniting after a night apart,
waiting only for a spark of inspiration to ignite them.
But you haven't the slightest clue
that you are that spark,
fervent enough to set ablaze this city,
and engulf the world in smoke.
When you finally realize that the words I've written
exist only because your lungs breathed life into my landscapes,
and your heart whispered light from the east
that bled ink onto the shadows of pages in the west,
Only then will you fully understand poetry;
Only then will you know what it means to be loved by a writer.
You are so oblivious, so painfully unaware.
Your insight and your intellect...they mean nothing here.
But I promise, my dear,
that before the sun retreats behind the mountains
on our final day together,
I will teach you to read poetry.
Poetry is born from a delicate dance,
when sensory experience and raw emotion
step perfectly in time with a beat that
resonates from the tip of a pen;
It lives forever in the echoes of voices
reading aloud its words,
intertwining with the ardor they created;
It is a conflagration;
its kindling is the gentle kisses of tides on the shore,
the peaks that puncture the ceiling of clouds above,
the lingering scent of romance on empty sheets,
or the thrill of lips reuniting after a night apart,
waiting only for a spark of inspiration to ignite them.
But you haven't the slightest clue
that you are that spark,
fervent enough to set ablaze this city,
and engulf the world in smoke.
When you finally realize that the words I've written
exist only because your lungs breathed life into my landscapes,
and your heart whispered light from the east
that bled ink onto the shadows of pages in the west,
Only then will you fully understand poetry;
Only then will you know what it means to be loved by a writer.