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Kylyssa's Love Poetry

Updated on July 22, 2016

Love Poetry Is Not All Hearts, Flowers, and Clichés. Some of It Is as Strange as Those Who Write It.

Love is an emotion common to the human experience. It is perhaps the most powerful and consuming feeling there is. Poetry is a brief, intense format. Good poetry grabs onto emotions and makes us feel them. So it is no wonder that so many people write love poetry.

I, too, have written quite a bit of love poetry - some of it about the positive sides of love and some about the painful sides of love. I'd like to share just a tiny bit of my love poetry both happy and sad about loves both real and imagined.

I've been told my poetry is weird and unrelatable, but you can be the judge of that.

By Hubble telescope [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons
By Hubble telescope [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

I Can't Love You Forever

I can feel the hurtling velocities

of Earth around the sun

crawling with atrocities

and on its axis spun.

I can hear a cataclysmic crashing,

a beating heart breaking,

love like razors slashing,

claws so sweetly raking.

I can feel the universe cooling down,

matter spreading apart.

Worlds slowly turn around

inside a broken heart.

I can see the last of light is dying

as a universe unwinds.

Silent stones are flying

and slowly darkness blinds

Absolute zero, more than killing cold

can't match the chill I feel.

The love that you withhold

was never even real.

The universe is dying, I'm thankful for that

because I can't love you forever.

The bent, barbed wire catheter of love
The bent, barbed wire catheter of love | Source

It's a Fine Line

between madness and love

Rapture calls,

passion sucks you in -


of the heart.

It's a fine line,

bleeding hands holding

the wind in your arms.

Insanity pales

humbled next to love.

Madness comforts,

bitter laughter

stabs deeper.

Dead hearts beating

impaled on love's blade.

Love is a

cherry red hot

bent, barbed wire catheter.

Loving words batter,

madness trumps all

Torn lips pledge to me,

laughter knows my tongue.

Morbid desire,

it's a fine line -


No - madness?

Maybe they're the same?

Why I Write Poetry

I'm terrible at expressing myself with the spoken word. When it comes to emotions, I'm even worse than terrible at expressing myself with the spoken word.

Poetry can be an orderly format. But poetry can be messy, too, if it needs to be. Every emotion is valid in lines of rhyme or verse. I don't have to explain myself or the weird way I say things if I simply put them into verse. I can be myself and if that's something strange to be I know I won't be judged as harshly for it if it's in the confines of a poem.

I also think writing out of love shows a degree of certainty that speaking aloud can't convey, at least not for me.

Rich Sleeping, image by Kylyssa Shay, chalk and charcoal
Rich Sleeping, image by Kylyssa Shay, chalk and charcoal

Looking at a Photo of My Love

I wrote this poem after looking at my partner's photograph when he was not around.

Looking at a Photo of My Love

Head cast back

eyes closed

lips curved with dreams

I yearn to taste.

Sunbeams rest upon

wind ruffled hair

I long to stroke.

If my fingers were breeze

they'd play on that face,

dance across cotton

and tug at denim

until I spent myself

in one final sigh of love

above his heart.

photo by Kylyssa Shay
photo by Kylyssa Shay

Love's Sweet Garden

a very short love poem

My partner has supported me wholeheartedly in all of my creative endeavors. He has given me strength, praise and criticism. He has shown me great joys and passions I'd never known before which re-lit my inner fire. I've written and created more and more passionately in the last eight years with him than in the entire 37 years before.

I've grown so much under his care, I feel as if I've finally begun to blossom in life.

Love's Sweet Garden

I am rooted

in your tender heart -

nourished, bewitched,

and jubilant.

Constantly blossoming,

I couldn't wish

for more fertile ground.

photo by Environmental Protection Agency, image in the public domain
photo by Environmental Protection Agency, image in the public domain

Planting Flowers You Will Never See

a poem for mother

I kneel in the dirt,

soil under my fingernails.

The smell of earth

reminds me

of time spent with you

walking in the woods.

You pointed and said,

"It's a Jack-in-the-Pulpit."

A strange green flower

became magical as you added,

"There's Jack"

pointing to the pistil

cupped inside the bulbous bloom.

"And there's his pulpit,"

you declared,

gently touching

the flower's body.

I was just about four.

Planting flowers

you will never see

somehow breaks my heart.

Beneath Your Heart

image by AnonMoos generously released to the public domain via Wikimedia Commons
image by AnonMoos generously released to the public domain via Wikimedia Commons

Beneath your heart I grew,

curled up like a bean

I planted roots in your soul.

Leaving that warm and precious place

I spread out into the world

nourished by its light.

When I found true love

I recognized it

from when I rested there

under one heart that beat as two

and came onto the earth

under two hearts that beat as one.

His arms cradle me safe.

As in your womb, I still grow.

I share your love from there

where I grew beneath your heart.

My roots grow there still.

By Rudolf Koppitz (Rudolf Koppitz) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons
By Rudolf Koppitz (Rudolf Koppitz) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

My Momma's Hand

I looked up at you,

looked up to you, too.

You held my tiny hand in yours

and never strayed from my side.

You led me through everything new

until you knew I could stand on my own.

Momma, you held my heart, too...

Years passed by

and I still looked up to you

though the angle was different.

I knew I could count on you

when I needed a hand to hold onto

or a shoulder to cry on.

Momma, you held my heart, too.

It seemed such a short time,

just the blink of an eye

before you held tiny new hands.

We led them together, as you had before.

Again I looked up to you

with wiser eyes than before.

Momma, you held my heart, too.

I couldn't even protest

and I was looking down at you,

your small hand in mine

but still I looked up to you

and held on so tight

but I couldn't follow where you went that night.

Momma, you hold my heart, too.

By Annick MONNIER (Own work) [CC-BY-SA-3.0 (], via Wikimedia Commons
By Annick MONNIER (Own work) [CC-BY-SA-3.0 (], via Wikimedia Commons


Sometimes love must break us before we can make ourselves again

The winter wind at night

caresses my skin,

burrows beneath it

somewhere around the fifth rib.

My heart freezes,

crystals cleave its chambers

spreading outward in a spiderweb of ice.

Blood and bone become transparent

shot through with a million piercing lances

glistening with reflected light.

Exquisite beauty burns inside me.

I am Venus pierced,

a living jewel balanced above the darkness.

I quiver and fall

shattered upon the snow.

The winter wind at night

sounds like it's blown through torn, thin steel

as it soars through the splinters of my heart

adrift in the sky.

The Physics of Heartache

the laws of nature need not apply

If the human heart is the size of my fist -

How can such a crater exist?

How can there be a person-sized pit

where the size and the shape do not permit?

There's a space in my heart

it's been hollowed out by tears,

in the time we're apart

this crater appears.

The available space has somehow ballooned.

There's a void, a vacancy, a sucking chest wound.

The laws of physics are being defied -

there is no way that you could fit inside.

© 2009 Kylyssa Shay


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