I should really be asleep right now.
I had an english teacher that told me modern poetry had no need for rhymes anymore. I know something doesn't always have to rhyme, but I like it. When I write this stuff, I think in rhyme, like my left brain is desperate for a say, and my right brain enjoys the company. I never really have to search for words- just rhythm. It's like a mosaic. Sometimes the tiles are all the same size, and sometimes they're not. What matters is whether or not there's a picture when you're done.
You're a lust put on leave
Dark chocolate after sex
No such thing as heartache
No name for my regrets
You move me like a drug
Slow-acting, thick like glue
Senses spread under golden fog
No one exists that isn't you
But my metaphors are vast
My truths only half-guessed
Half-lived, though meanings always change,
I mean myself- you mean the rest.
Hint: Perhaps not about what you think...?
Also, this goes without saying, but I'm paranoid and would rather say it: It's nothing special, but it is mine. Please don't claim otherwise.
Also, after 11 pm is usually when I'm most artistic / intelligent but also when I make the least sense.
On that note, if I don't tuck in now, my morning class will be hell. Good night.