Waxing Poetry

On a whim, a satire of my own emotions.

Roses can be red,

Violets aren’t actually blue,

I’m not one for waxing poetry

But when it comes to you...

 

Last night I dreamt

You laughed

As our mouths collided and started fires -

You told me of your world and I

Acknowledged that mine was perfect for your being in it.

We were both happy

At the same time.

I told you my truth (how can i not) and from your arms woke

Up, curled up, embraced,

And was alone.

 

We’re walking different paths, I suppose.

We haven’t always.

But maybe we were children learning to walk, and at some point

We let go of each other’s hands and kept going.

But you were meant for science

And I for magic;

I had hoped we could rewrite each other’s worldviews.

But this is the shortest of long distance relations:

Vague letters and blunt accusations bitten into the pillow,

Ventured glances, expeditions across the jaw line, then falling;

You speak in awe of the dead

And I of the never-lived.

Did we make molehills out of mountains and forget what depth is?

Did we call a pond an ocean?

(We were drowning for the first time.)

 

All blood is red,

Your eyes are blue,

Words make more and less sense

When they’re written about you.

 

I wrap truths in my craft

To aim for ideals. Your manufactured store-boughts ring true.

Bullseye.

Make it personal.

Sometimes I’m trying to get away from my own name.

I would run

Toward you, if only this world worked the way we wanted.

(Drama scripts; the gods are squirming in their seats.

“Perhaps it’ll Ross-and-Rachel on us.”

Or the ratings dropped. They’re fighting over Spike and Angel.

‘Else it’s called Drama - they fridged me for some Jane Doe.

Head writer left long ago.)

Do the other worlds know

That their creator has been destroyed

Because her love writes poems about other people now?

 

Wish I were half as brave as anyone who dared test the waters after a storm.

Mock me. I’m scared to drown again yet I have yet to surface.

I’ve made it through three lifetimes of people telling me ‘get over it’

And I barely know what It is anymore.

Girl, get over yourself.

 

They say love is red,

And sadness is blue.

What colour would they paint

How I feel about you?

Reviews

[Daisy]

Amazing concept and words.... Thumbs up for you... keep it up

[Bee C.]

Thanks very much - I'll certainly do my best.

[Laura Lynn]

...classic subject, my favorite and one of the first poems I know I ever learned for one. Sometimes I wonder if when I dream about one person, they were dreaming about me, but in my case it is unlikely, and I have trouble interpreting my own dreams though I enjoy them, and I don't think one should besmirch the dream-state, which is an important aspect of the mind at rest and includes a spiritual element just as our waking hours do,

[Bee C.]

This is very true. I've many times considered the dream-state, though so often odd, to be a person at their most honest, at their true core. Spiritual and metaphorical, yes, and very important. Thank you for dropping by.

[Moonlight]

It is a really deep poem. I liked it! I don't know what inspired you to write this one, but it is interesting nonetheless. The last lines of the poem :

"They say love is red,

And sadness is blue.

What colour would they paint

How I feel about you?"

Yeah, they really do show one just how judgmental the world around us is... It is a great effort turned into beautiful expression. I loved your effort and the satirical tone of the poem. Keep writitng! :)

[Bee C.]

Thanks very much! :D
A mix of different things inspired this, really, which is part of why there are a few different layers of meaning to it. Some a lot more obvious than others, I expect. Judgements from outside, judgements from inside our own selves, and just... judgment in general, in multiple senses of the word. I'm glad you enjoyed it though, and thank you for the kind words as always. :)

[Moonlight]

you're welcome! :)

[Chris]

"...a dreamy green..."

it didn't "feel" satirical... just very real.

[Bee C.]

A satire should not have to be crude to be labelled as such. There are subtler forms of hyperbole - love and such emotions are so often seen as greater than they are, or not recognised as great until too late, or too much are given a larger meaning than they were ever meant to have. Those were the kind of questions I was asking here.
Or perhaps I need to rethink myself. Ironic.

Either way, there is absolutely truth in this, and I'm glad you saw it. I appreciate you pausing again in my neck of the woods.