February


With resistance and disdain
he said: "Romance is dead. Life isn't a fairytale,
and everything, is not roses."
But somewhere, buried -
I know this is false.
Somewhere in the repressed romantic
who lies- hidden, somewhere
between the darkness
and the likeness
of any true poet, or
teenage lover, entangled
between youth and
everything else.

Before a time, when our barriers
enabled us to spell check our thoughts
and technology enabled us to auto-correct our emotions
without a second misgiving.

DO NOT tell me this place does not exist. There are still lovers
who escape, and adjourn.
They may not be you
and now, apparently they
are not
me.... but -
they must be.
In their silence,
they cannot be broken.

Poem Rating:
Click To Rate This Poem!

Continue Rating Poems


Share This Poem