Poems that are not mine,
But of those who found inspiration beyond my own.

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Sonnet XVIII

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer's lease hath all too short a date:
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimmed,
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance, or nature's changing course untrimmed:
But thy eternal summer shall not fade,
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st,
Nor shall death brag thou wander'st in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou grow'st,
      So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,
      So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
-William Shakespeare

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Untitled

Everything is spinning,
And everything is static.
The deafening roar in my ears,
Does not compare to the pure silence.
There are colored dots in my eyes,
I've never seen clearer.
I am numb,
And I feel every atom moving.
It is intense pain,
And extraordinary pleasure.
Your scent takes me to a utopian place,
And it nauseates me.
Then you let go,
And it's all seperate again.
-Mel

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Well, I have lost you.

Well, I have lost you; and lost you fairly;
In my own way, and with my full consent.
Say what you will, kings in a tumbrel rarely
Went to their deaths more proud that this one went.
Some nights of apprehension and hot weeping
I will confess; but that's permitted me;
Day dried my eyes; I was not one for keeping
Rubbed in a cage a wing that would be free.
If I had loved you less or played you slyly
I might have held you for a summer more,
But at the cost of words I value highly,
And no such summer as the one before.
Should I live outlive this anguish-and men do-
I shall have only good to say of you.
-Edna St. Vincent Millay

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Sonnet CXLI

In faith, I do not love thee with mine eyes,
For they in thee a thousand errors note;
But tis my heart that loves what they despise,
Who, in despite of viez, is pleased to dote;
Nor are mine ears with thy tongue's tune delighted;
Nor tender feeling, to base touches prone,
Not taste, nor smell, desire to be invited
To any sensual feast with thee alone:
But my five wits nor my five senses can
Dissuade one foolish heart from serving thee,
Who leaves unsway'd the likeness of a man,
Thy proud hearts slave and vassal wretch to be:
Only my plague thus far I count my gain,
That she that makes me sin awards me pain.
-William Shakespeare.

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all
was
off

***

ask about
why it said
love bruises

***

through all dark slender lace
summer cracked a book
songs burn her morning
love consumes her tongue

***

what will she do
there are you
and like me
she is going
to leave you
if you stay.

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