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

My face peels as if getting to the middle
 of a twisted plot, my spine is sore,
 I’m used too much, I’ve got finger stains
  from every one whose ever touched me.
 Some of my inside is missing, how does one
 come to the ending of things
 if you have to keep skipping the important parts;  
It doesn’t matter really, you get the  gist of what I’m saying. I’m worn and lightweight
  as a paperback laid out on a summer day.
 You read my expressions plainly; your eyes
 skimming over the poor grammar,  you say “
I want to write myself in your story
“ and  scribble your name on my arm. . . . instagram: theprettypoems etsy shop: https://www.etsy.com/shop/HylaBrookBooks

Rolling it over in my head As I stretch my neck in circles. I’m thinking of you How you make me feel. My head feels great. The way you touch me makes me tremble beneath you My breath shakes itself out and I am entirely yours. I know that you love me by how hard it is To keep the secret hidden Do you want to make love to me? – Hours of hot excitement. I lie in my bed, my hand on my stomach And remember how warm you are. I don’t know how to make you happy. Only to show you how happy you make me. Love that feeling of new new happiness The ripe orange with the citris scent You breathe in and smile radiantly under the hot sun, butt naked, the color of a pearl. You hold me like a gift from the sea, ocean nymph in your arms, your triumphant eyes sink to the bottom of me. When we kiss, it’s as good as a mouth watering orange down by the ocean. . . . instagram: theprettypoems etsy shop: https://www.etsy.com/shop/HylaBrookBooks

she's nervous from the pressure not of what they might think but what they cannot understand the change moving continents brings, the Earth's face crying over changes she cannot change so much shes out of touch of the biggest parts that make her whole, no shes nervous because she has to carry the world and the world is sad enough without her woes. Those sorrows she carries, she picks them up so other women dont have to carry the load the burden of being woman that you can feel the Earth heart break with every riot we shake the trees of eden so eery apple fell and we bite down on forbidden fruit and it was good it tasted sweet and women were not blamed for looking beautiful as they ate. She's trying to carry the school girls in Africa back home she's trying to tell the girl to step back from the knife and society She could not go further but she pressed that our children don't deserve to be punished, they deserved to be loved. the heavy glo

“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

Petal – coloured starch lines Soul kissing French lovers like we lived in Paris. That we could be some other nation. Any where else, but this place We could come from. Wars, heavy as rainfall, pour in Over history and repeats itself. Four inches every year – Its flooding the humanity out, Like being washed out with mud Holding your arms up in meek surrendering, Let us be free, like that kiss I gave you. It doesn’t have to be near the tower, Just as far away from dying, life’s all but suffering, Drenched in their soaked clothes. They are shivering, but we stay close. Holding each other for warmth. When you see me You reach into my bottom Pull me out into the bed, love me undead, My face into your grace like a sunflower So help us God, the truth was this all along. Freedom parchment is chapped from signing The peace you give me is foreign, that I barely knew it It’s all I know now, educated under the Corithain morale Of your code of light; There is only the su