Perhaps. Just. Maybe.

’twas hard for me to walk away.
Well love, I thought
Perhaps
you might not have stopped me.
’twas hard for me to tear up.
Well love, I thought
Perhaps
you might not have held me.
’twas hard for me to be gone,
Well love, I thought
Perhaps
Just
Maybe
you might not have sought for me.

© 2019 _occultatum_ blogunseen.com

Just stay a little longer?

I saw her walk away,
a little by little.
Bit by bit.
And a little while later
a thought escaped or
was it a beat?
I forget as,
I felt a tiny crack
in my voice or
was it someplace else?
I forget as,
I yell, “Could you, maybe,
Just stay a little longer?”.
As here’s the thing,
The sound of her whisper and
the smell of the rain.
The peck on my cheek and
the warmth of her lips
felt like fine
stardust, to this
heart of mine.
Ha, I guess it felt
a little lot, to let off.
Even for just one night.

©  2019 _occultatum_ blogunseen.com

The Book with a rose and a note

So I fell upon 
a rose in a book,
dried and broken.
Oh, and a little note.
In the corner, hidden.
Hidden, as though just
meant for my eyes to lust.
And the rose although
felt familiar,
the words somehow
didn't.
All I knew, it told a story.
Oh hey, but shhh shh.
No, don't read it
out loud.
Even whisper
any word or even
any letter.
I am afraid,
the heart might just hear.
It said something
it could no longer bear.
So hush please,
If you please?
Because it still is hurting.
Alas, you doubt
a tiny part still is missing.
So guess we will leave
the book,
the rose,
the note and now
a tear droplet.
Here heart, let's
just leave it.

 © 2019 _occultatum_ blogunseen.com

A Verse Tried #8

'She' was 'taught' to
hide her scars
And reduce her carbs.
She was to taught to
feed her insecurities
And bury her rarities.
She was taught to
be shy and giggly.
And was taught to
stay short and skinny.
She was taught to
not say things out loud
And was taught to
forever follow the crowd.
Taught to walk 'like a girl'
Taught to talk 'like a girl'.
To dress like one
and to sit like one.
But as time passed
Slowly
she 'learned' that
the mark near her eye
the scar on her thigh,
the mole on her chin
the pores of her skin,
the loose shirt she loves
the crooked smile she hides,
the extra skin she covers
the messy hair of hers
are just a part of her beauty,
Beauty which is more than skin deep.
Beauty which is more than 'he' could keep.

© 2019 _occultatum_ blogunseen.com