Post-Romantic Ramble

It’s in moments like these that I wish,

Hell, sometimes I’ll even pray,

That I was still a romantic heart.

So I could find a blue to compare

Your pretty eyes to.

Or I could find a word

To make you stay here,

But if I open my mouth you’ll

Run away, and I could never

Blame you for realizing how

Over-done I am.

 

Because I can’t find a word

To say how when you smiled

My heart did something

And that your laugh

Made my breath do the same.

And then the words

Seize up in my throat

My head pounds out a rhythm

That doesn’t make sense.

Blocks crush synapses

That used to flow with ease

That used to be able to say things

Like “Eyes like limpid pools”

And totally didn’t laugh at just how

Absolutely stupid it sounded to say.

 

High school poetry made all this

Easy.

I mean, you’re young, pissed off,

Or in love.

So what do you do?

Steal from Shakespeare,

Borrow from Byron,

Tell Tennyson that you just need to take

Some pretty words and raw emotion.

And you rhyme.

You better rhyme or your teenage

Trash won’t mean anything.

I mean, who writes poetry that doesn’t rhyme,

Right?

 

So when I was sixteen I could tell you:

Your eyes are a cornflower blue.

To you I would always be true.

Your love hit my heart and tore it in two.

The walls around me were a dragon you slew.

 

See? Easy.

 

But now, at twenty two,

With a little more poetry and

A lot more life, the sixteen year old,

Who used words she barely understood,

Has changed her style,

Has changed her tune.

And don’t get me wrong, she’ll still

Steal from Shakespeare,

Borrow from Byron,

And tell good old Tenny that

She’ll bring his pretty words back.

But she’ll say it with this

Post-romantic ramble.

This “Romance is dead

Why are poets even trying”

Drawl that will make you think

She really doesn’t mean it.

 

But let me assure you:

When she says that your eyes are

The prettiest fucking blue she’s ever seen.

Or when she tells you that she held

Her breath when you walked in the door,

Because she was afraid that if you heard it,

You’d see her,

This Post-Romantic Romantic,

Who still loves Shakes

By-guy,

And Good Old Tenny,

Really means it.

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1 Comment

Filed under Poetry

One response to “Post-Romantic Ramble

  1. Pingback: Love 4 | An Empty Glass

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