Poem: 3 in the morning (God loves you)

Poem: 3 in the morning (God loves you)

Sometimes at night
I think of you
(I’m lying – I always think of you)
There’s nothing else I’d rather do
It’s the bittersweet sting of being hopelessly enamored with you

The more you want it, the farther away it becomes
You stay up late and say you’ll sleep next to the sun
He says he’s running late, but he never does come
That’s the sad truth about not being the only one
I twirl my hair
I spin around
I choke so hard I fall to the ground
And if you calculated my efforts, I’d pay by the pound
I’m lost in abysmal and undulating surround sound

He put black padding on the walls to keep the voices quiet
Asked me what my favourite wine was and said that he’d buy it
Passed me angel dust, but I said I won’t try it
This time I’m not lying
It hurts more to keep trying
Don’t blame it on timing
If I am dust, you are worn out leather from a cow that loved to live and breathe fresh air
You ran your fingers through my soft, blonde hair
I knew you were unaware
You had me right there
You had me

Boys have short attention spans, so I’m working on making my poems shorter
As if a somber gaze doesn’t scratch at the envelope
As if the disposable cardboard coaster I kept from the bar we went to last year isn’t practically at its wit end
But I stare at it at night and I like to pretend
That you and I will never end
(You spin me round and round, you scream, you bend)
I only liked when you were drinking
Because you never stopped talking
And I could listen to your words for endless summer days

I’m watching my step
I’m too sharp for this town
I reached the vault of heaven, but you pushed me back down
And every time I walk away from you, I turn right back around
You’re the most beautiful thing that I have ever found

And if you want me, please tell me
That’s all that I ask
Because I don’t know how much longer
I can contain this chaotic energy, it’s only a setback
It pays for my grave
Collects debt at the tollbooth
Serves me a clean slate I can’t afford and makes it taste like dry vermouth
A botanical celestial atmosphere where there was you and I appeared and you said come here, baby girl, my doe-eyed dear
Please, my angel, don’t you ever disappear

I say never
Won’t do it
I’ll always be here

But you’re so distant from me that my words sound unclear
And the walls are blurry and they’re bleeding red
And I bought pink satin sheets for my queen-sized bed
And I wait every night for you to come fall sleep
But if your love cuts my skin, it doesn’t go very deep
If your flaws were secrets, they’d be mine to keep
And I replay your laugh in my mind on fucking repeat

I know only one thing that’ll make me complete
But if it’s me against her, I’m too weak to compete
I am a glacier dissolving in sunburns and aggressive summer heat
But I still thank God because he arranged for us to meet
I know it as much as I love the window seat
But I see you and her, so I make a spreadsheet
Of all the ways this is going to kill me
Please stop, only you can heal me
I need you like candy
I crave all of you
I know that my hopes are too good to be true
So I lay on the concrete, I only see in ocean-blue

I scream at God for letting me fall in love with you
It’s 3 in the morning
There’s nothing else to do

© Elle Silvestrov

I only liked when you were drinking
Because you never stopped talking
And I could listen to your words for endless summer days

Poem: 3 in the morning (God loves you)

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Poem: Love you in fragments

Love you in fragments – love you in fragments – love you in fragments – love you 




Author

The author of the poetry on Lilac Dove is a young girl living on the outskirts of Los Angeles, twirling her hair with her finger and eating sour candy, as she writes about the strangeness of her life.

Softness and silk

I love you in fragments
Like pieces of a puzzle

That no matter how hard I try to make out the shapes just right

I’m always wrong

I find myself thinking about things like
Do you paint pictures of me in your mind before going to sleep
Before resting your beautiful tan head on the mattress because you don’t like pillows
You joke they’re too soft
But I’m soft
Fragile in places I’ll never admit out loud
Paradise found
You call, and I’m the happiest girl in the United States of America

To dream is to escape reality

But you just ask me questions
Like I’m an encyclopedia of the world
And while I’m charmed that you value my intellect so
It still feels shallow
A jellyfish catching me after I lose out on a killer wave
When I’m with you, I always tend to misbehave
Reconsider my decisions later
Wonder if I could have done better
But you encapsulate me every time
Put me in a bubble with no oxygen, so with every one of my screams I’m losing out on life
Is that what this is like?

There were times when I felt divine

Reconsider my decisions later
Wonder if I could have done better
Thankful that I still have your sweater
Accept the parts of you no-one else sees
Parts of you that are rust- to me, are shiny
Pick up the phone every time you call

Which as of late, has been no time at all

Leave me a voicemail
Tell me you love me
Leave me a voicemail
Don’t let go when you hug me
Reconsider my decisions later
Wonder if I could have done better

Go to bed every night in your sweater


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Poem: 1933-1945

 
 

We would like you to enlist in our services.

For some people, war is war. For others – dear mother. Russian Proverb 

 

The painting of slogans on buildings
Young people were attracted to a group that offered adventure
Distinctive military appearances
Who achieved more?
We were all keeping score

The unquestioned leader
Officers and politicians
Ugh, so nationalistic
My brother, he had
A stern political career
Damaged
In the postwar years
He blamed his associates

Secret meetings
Apocalyptic trains
That would combust all of a sudden
Confidential minutes of a downhill argument
When you’re Russian they think you’re very clever
All a hoax
From the flood, a new world will be born
Signs and wonders are seen
From the unruly flood
Come Holy Spirit creator
Salvation is to befall

 

Ukraine

Liberation of humanity
Whine about wretched nest eggs
His lack of success
No chance of survival
Less-than-mediocre poet
He died just like that

Nobody cried about it

 


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