horrible poetry - figs

Oh you beautiful, fresh-faced cypress tree, swaying gently in the breeze. The lingering scent of rain in the air, my flowing rage and laughter, my poet always with his gun. 

My ever creative lover, I hit the wall, open the door for me. Give this tired girl a shelter. The disciple of my eyeliner, the silk of my thread. I hit the wall, listen to me. Make the wall into a loving embrace for me.

 Oh how badly I wanted to be your tree, to bear fruit for you, figs. I wanted to be a home for you, one with a big yard and a flowing pond, resting innocently amidst the garden. in a nice spot of the city, finally earning your name. A beautiful moment, a sweet dream, to be yours. To be a long, green road riddled with flowers, passing through your mind. To be a comfortable pair of shoes, walk with you through every corner of the world. 

I wanted to be a tree, bear fruit for you, figs. I wanted to be a comb, running through your hair every morning, to be the smile plastered on your pretty lips, to dissipate and become the fresh morning air, all for you to breathe me in. I wanted to become warm, become tea, for you to savor in the midst of autumn. 

But love is not a fig, it’s a bitter raw olive still hanging from its tree. These are the words of my insanity, the delusions that spare me from the world, for love is not blue. It is not colorful, it is black. Love is yearning, love is misery, love is a mistake.

And yet, i keep making that mistake over and over again, for i am nothing but a perverted amalgamation of sorrows and desires.