The Poetry Marathon

Let me sleep beside you.
After all the work is done.
And the day has come to a close.
I think you want my company too.

Howling children are now sedate.
Our stomach full of good cooking.
Worn out from the day.
Longing for that sweet embrace.

I want drown in a thousand pillows.
The ones covering your bed.
Feel your heat radiating into me.
As I lay next to my hero.

Finally when our eyes close.
Our dreams are just waking moments.
I picture us together where-ever we are.
As I place kisses under your nose.

My worst critic is myself.
Constantly looking at each action.
Asking if it was the right. Or
Could I have done it better?
Every hour under some misplaced
Scrutiny.

Everyday a inner battle of two.
A battle of one. A man and himself.
Screaming at each other.
Screaming doubt.
Do you ever get anything right?
Do you think you can do that?
Do you even believe in yourself?
God. I want to punch that critic in the face.

I’m still here awake
against what my body tells
I’m still there awake

Toilet. 5:25 AM
What is it people do at this hour.
As nature calls for me.
For my body. To do.
What bodies natural do.
I began to wonder.
What do other people do?
What are you dreaming?
Is it of me?

At the point of no return.

A phrase to represent an end.

But it does not mean the finale.

It is a beginning.

The first gasp.

Before the plunge.

I’d like to begin with a confession: I am not an expert in love.*
In fact I am not an expert on many things.
I can’t sing. I can’t dance. I struggle with rhyming.
But I am willing to try. To try my best. To give it my all.

When you look at our relationship. Look this love.
I am not afraid to be vulnerable or be open.
When you lose your faith or you feel broken.
I promise to stand by your side and no wander.

As negativity surrounds us and the world gets you down.
I promise to stand tall as a great red wood.
A remind of what you saw in me that was good.
Never will I be perfect. But as long as I live.
I will be here.

*^{The Mathematics of Love  Hannah Fry –  p. 1}

I sit at the type writer.
Words come from my finger tips.
Short quips and poor rhymes.
Beautiful love poetry and sad lines.
Odes of my life and sonnets for Rachel.
The same songs with a new tune.
I am sitting here. Pretending I am the
greatest poet to ever live.

I ask myself
Where would we run to?
A foreign country. A place across the pond.
Start a new life, with new names.
Would we miss the old one too much?
The friends and family left behind.
Memories from a years long ago.
What would you say?
Once we finally gave in to out desires.
Find a nice place just for the two of us.
Why run?
Because all we need
Is right in front of us, besides us, with us.

As the clock strikes midnight my mind is on something beautiful
Away in the city she is who I long to be with this night
We don’t need any words or to speak just us together touching
It is as if the only language we have is our love
As my eyes grow weary and my heart is full I feel drunk

But in all honesty it is a foolish truth or maybe this insomnia
Curse this forsaken burden that now cast upon me. Oh insomnia!
Words muddled and lines are blurred it is almost beautiful
Trying to convey these thoughts or feelings of my love
Can I be any more frank or do my words any less touching
I can’t think straight but all I feel is the warmth of night
Just listen to me and hear me speak for am confused as a drunk

A fool am I to think that my wakefulness is clear, not drunk
Again I curse and swear and scream and blame my insomnia
Missing the sights the sounds the things that are beautiful
Are you thinking less of me amongst the confusion my love?
Because at this very moment I rather be with you hands touching
Let the sounds of the city play the lullaby of the night

 
And that’s what this is a man in love up at night
Pretending to be far from a truth and creatively drunk
I shouldn’t curse it or blame my companion insomnia
Since I writing words as an attempt to say what is beautiful
It is like the waltz of the stars and the moon in love
Spread out across the sky like a painting, how touching

And then my heart feels it again the long of us touching
Underneath your sheets as we listen against the night
Your eyes are closed and against me you lay. So beautiful
I am still awake and I don’t blame it anymore on the insomnia
A sharp noise wakes you but it’s just a drunk
I don’t want to be anywhere else by here beside the one I love

You talking in your sleep roll over and kiss the man you love
And I smile back run my fingers through your hair touching
The hours keep going by and I don’t want the end of this night
I understand now what the singers say it is to be love drunk
And I try to sleep but I cannot, as I cannot rid this insomnia
Yet, I am at peace with the moment that I find so beautiful

You are beautiful you are my love
Let’s spend this night touching
I am not drunk and I am lying about the insomnia

There’s a finish-line some where.
Far off beyond the visible road.
I keep telling myself I’ll make it there.
A beautiful beach or some humble abode.

It is late and I am drunk adrenaline and caffeine.
Running out of ideas like a car low on fuel.
My eyes tell me there’s nothing just a blank screen.
Should’ve thought this through, but I am a fool.

24 poems. 24 f-ing poems. The number seemed candid
Each hour pushing myself for a little more.
And yet, the truth is that’s not what I landed.
Instead it’s a fight against myself. A great war.