Aditi anonymously submitted a poem, yay!

it’s been so long since I wrote you a poem,
but I hope you know that it doesn’t mean
that I’ve run out of words for you,
for anything, for everything.
I hope you know that I’ve lent you a little plot
on my land, and that you’re always there.
I hope that you understand that I cannot tend to
my crops as often as I’d like to
because at the end of the day, 
I only have two hands.
But with you on my land, my mind, my heart,
I have nothing to worry about.
There’s a little bird perching on my cheek
and it’s singing your name to me;
you are the smile that leaves 
love wedged between my teeth.

Sweet Misery

Your touch is pins and needles
making me jump and flinch
it’s soft cashmere against my skin
protecting and soothing me.

Your voice is high-pitched alarm
shouting at me to turn and go
but it’s a soft melody
calling me in to take a plunge
and put my life at your mercy,
you, the siren of the land.

You are the best and the worst
crammed into one package,
line between the two blurring
until you can’t tell it apart.

Darling, I don’t care if you’re bad
all I know for certain is the fact
I want more of that sweet, sweet misery.

Vesna Parun - You Whose Hands Are More Innocent Than Mine

You whose hands are more innocent than mine
and who is as wise as nonchalance
and who removes slow shadows of doubts
from his face
like the spring wind removes
shadows of clouds floating over the hill.

If your hug gives courage to the heart
and your thighs stop the pain,
if your name gives peace
to his thoughts, and your throat
a shade to his berth
and the night of your voice, an orchard
still untouched by storms.

Then stay beside him
and be more devoted than anyone else
who loved him before you.

Fear the echo approaching
the innocent love nests.

And be gentle with his dream
bellow the invisible mountain
at the edge of the soughing sea.

Walk around his coast. Be seen
by sorrowful dolphins.

Wander around his woods. Kind lizards
wont do you any harm.

And the thirsty snakes that I tamed
will be humble before you.

May the birds that I kept warm sing to you
in the nights of sharp frost.

May the boy that I protected from
stalkers on a deserted road
caress you

May the flowers that I watered with your tears
bring fragrance to you.

I didn’t witness the best years
of his manhood. His fertility
I haven’t received in my bosom
ravaged by looks
from cattle drivers at fairs
and from greedy thieves.

I will never take care
of his children. And the stories
that I’ve prepared for them long ago
I might tell, crying,
to little miserable bears
abandoned in black forest.

You whose hands are more innocent than mine
be gentle with his dream
that remained harmless.

But let me see him
his face when strange years
start to come down on it.

And tell me sometimes a thing or two about him
so that I don’t have to ask strangers
who find me silly, and neighbors
who pity my patience.

You whose hands are more innocent than mine,
stay beside his pillow
and be gentle with his dream!

Elusive

She was the kind of woman
you never want to meet
but regret not having,
not one for comfort and loving arms
rather animalisms and sharing lust.
On some nights you’d wonder
if she was actually real
and not just a silouethe
raising from the cigarette smoke,
brought on by all the whiskey in your blood.

He dress was always skin-tight
but peeled down so smoothly
inviting someone’s touch
offering warmness off another body
just for a few hours, never the night.
And there were confusion filled mornings
where you were unsure if she came round
or just maybe it was all just a dream,
a crumpled carton on the floor
and an empty bottle the only signs
there was any life there a night ago.

When the blood cleared up
and the thick smoke disappeared
the only thing still left clinging
to your lips, lungs and skin
were the thoughts of her
but nothing else to be seen.

It Hurts Me Too

I’m sick of seeing your eyes cry
over a man who treats you so unkind;
tired of your 4 AM calls
drunken nights, heavy mornings
and lost spaces in between;
if only you could put him down
like a bad habit that he is,
but you love him more
when you should love him less.

It’s time to admit it
he loves another woman
but you stick to him like glue,
and when things go wrong
and go wrong they do
it hurts me too.

Learn how to say no
and stop wasting your heart
giving it away to people who fling it back;
stop bashing your head against the wall
bruising your knees in bathroom stalls,
because you know
there’s so much more
waiting for you.

He’ll never love you
and his heart won’t be your home
so it’s time to move on,
because when things go wrong
and go wrong they do
it hurts me too.

Get To Know The Blogger

Let me make you all a list
of the clothes I like to wear best
and the important name written on the fabric
covering my private parts;
let me tell you about the phone I have
and the tablet I don’t,
I’ll drop well-known names and brands
to make you all get to know me
because we all know that’s what makes a man
the brands he wears, furniture he lounges in
pieces of metal and plastic he talks into
all in an effort to make you know me better;
I’ll make lists and tell you about
all the things I own
because apparently they define you
(and own you).

Your heart is a ghost town
devoid of anyone still inhabiting
but showing signs of what used to be there
houses where people used to live
where you let them live
signs that there was a time
when boys kissed those lips
and made nests between your hips
hoping that this will never end,
but they all left one after another
leaving nothing but memories
of ages long past
because your heart is now a ghost town.

A House is not a House…

…if it’s not welcoming and embracing,
rather gut-churning and fist clenching
causing back to never be turned
and mind never, ever set at ease.

A house is not a house
if the halls aren’t filled with laughter
but angry shouts and curse words
belittlement and abuse slung forward
instead of kind words and praise,
blocking out the minds and filling ears
until the venom becomes reality.

A house is not a house
if it makes people flinch in terror
at smallest touches and gestures
because they’ve been taught
a hand is only raised at them in anger.

A house is not a house
if it teaches you how to cover up bruises
on a daily basis and weave lies
to deceive others just so they wouldn’t know
where that new shiner actually comes from
and the red marks across the back.

A house is not a house
if it makes people sit in corners and cry
and dream all day of getting away
as further away from their house as they can,
hoping they’ll never have to come back.

A house is not always a house,
sometimes it’s a prison.

Broken Record

I feel like a broken record
repeating the same things over and over
trying to find words to explain how great you are
and how much you make me smile every day
I can compare the love I got with my love for
oranges, chocolate and waffles
but you heard it all already
and you’ve read a bunch of poems
already
so all I can hope that
this broken record of mine
is stuck on your favorite song
and you never want it to stop
because I don’t plan to.