ThePrettyPoems

Once they thought they had finished all they had left They just laid like that for a while, sharing large exhausts from their working love. He is not so weak from it, in fact, he is made stronger because of it and when he stands naked Like that it reminds me of a Greek God overwhelmed at the site of acres of her skin when he moves slowly over it Remarking on all he can before he Pledged his loyalty to an absolute rose and swore her generous majesty That he could bask in their love’s glory whenever He chose to love her, as if he had the choice Not to. He made circles over her stomach With his fingers like skimming the fuzz of a peach Before kissing it. Support Through Patreon https://www.patreon.com/prettypoems <> follow me on social media <> I N S T A G R A M Hyla Brook Books – my shop The Pretty Poems – My Poetry

You are the fall of golden Heaven leaves; Not the quiet for the woods are filled with the natural order of beautiful sounds. You are the songs of the highest trees that float to Heaven, and get stuck in the clouds. You are the shinning light flooding my face, you are The only truth I know. You are fallen eyes And heavenly grace rustle my soul where I lay open in the woods and stay within you forever. You, whose hands are the very essence of life I hold. You are The blue of sky that holds my world in close. Your lips, what words praise that kiss In which all the souls of the world are utterly lost? What world? I walk the valleys of your cheeks And discover the spreading of days and Venus through the telescope view of your heart. You are the invention of brightness In the precious night stones, you are the creation of love on time. A serendipity moment I find by accident. You hand me timelessness. I forget exactly when you did this, but the sky was...

A bee defying gravity is not a miracle. the same for a lonely F sharp short on staff. Writing a single poem is impossible – The discordant artist tightens Someone grips the violin’s neck In a crowd of nervous cellos and bases. “Do you know where she is?” They whisper as an audience shuffles in. All of us are waiting for something beautiful. Central Park spring a bee hums to himself Noisily at his work, not concerned about God or any ethereal meaning. Over the microphone labored breaths pummel out In static pulses; she’s made it for no reason because now They’ve left. “I’m not finished,” says a ruffled American composer at the front of the world. Now she’s found some purpose without a sound – she finished this sentence. The late night blooming is sadly beautiful. Support Through Patreon https://www.patreon.com/prettypoems <> follow me on social media <> I N S T A G R A M Hyla Brook Books – my shop The Pretty Poems – My Poetry

Deep in these moments of silent reveries memories are all that remain. It was snowing so hard the wind looked like italicized apologies on a break-up note. Luckily, the hot air is blasting, chipping your expensive no make-up make up. There at a stop sign on the street perhaps waiting for the bus, two girls laugh, they are hanging on to each other for support as they laugh, their laughter creating billows of steamy joy. I thought I'd crack under their warm and comfortable togetherness, instead I let go of the breaks and lurched forward. There was this faint tug persistent that back there was a life reminder: it's not those who have everything but who make the best of everything. . . . Instagram: the pretty poems etsy: hylabrookbooks

First it was my throat. My lymph nodes were swollen. I knew it was a blocked throat chakra. The words would not come out right, The words would not come out at all. It showed itself on your hands And it’s the first time you ever felt Death pat you on the hands. Many things you wouldn’t understand. Like why every night you would wake up at 3 am in a rapid temper. This isn’t a pen it’s your fist. My hands kept turning purple, bruised. This is the first time that I’ve wrote it down, and it’s silent. Then it was my eyes My eyelids swollen, and if this isn’t a sign then I don’t know what is. The mute is going blind. there is a pounding headache, this isn’t a poem, this is just some angst confession about depression and how if I don’t write, I’ll die. . . . instagram: theprettypoems etsy shop: https://www.etsy.com/shop/HylaBrookBooks

“I search for a word, the word, one word.” I looked back, I’m sorry, at all those old love poems To listen to how they made your heart strike. I imagined what it was like when I first gave you that poem- Now I don’t feel right reading between the lines for a sign to tell me where we are. “I barely touch you.” My heart is aching for your soul, when we were cold we held onto each other; I miss your hands. I can’t tell any more what I mean to say, for I can’t think of anything but that face of yours and be sad over it. My love “You’re collections like pieces of the sun to stare into, and eyes watery with tears you remember.” I stared for hours into that empty sky for two escaping birds. Lover 1: (whispers) “Sometimes I feel like crying.” Lover 2: “Me too.” . instagram: theprettypoems etsy shop: https://www.etsy.com/shop/HylaBrookBooks