Late at night, trapped in memories and longing,
reality fades to dust: fantasies unwind.
Fingertips oiled, though parched by the sun list intently over letters stained on wrinkled paper that once rested beneath your hand –
that hand that mine is so familiar with, that hand that ebbs in mine –
letters victimized by your heart and ink you wielded for translation:
the language of love, sold to words for only a fraction of its worth.
A smile is blasted into the dark with radiance as lips perk up from
natural elation: memories, memories, memories..
Pictures fly to the ceiling as those memories become images;
a child’s flipbook created in art class; Spielberg slaves over a lens:
even they could not create happiness like this.
Happiness beyond the norm, joy even angels are less fond of.
A light flashes from the drawer and wood vibrates, an alert
from someone far more still living in a happier world.
That same fingertip that rolled along the fibers of paper reassurance
swiftly rolls to the plastic outlines of my cell phone.
Tucked away in my hand, muscle memory pushes the “unlock” key hidden on the right-hand side, and another picture emerges.
Something real; another memory.
Your smile.

tl;dr but poetry is the gayness

I've been debating entering a poetry contest as of late, and I have a few pieces that I'm willing to submit after I revise them a bit. That being said - even though this is a gaming forum and presumably 90% of you are poetically inept - I need your help.

Just give me feedback on the poem. Interpretations, parts that bothered you, parts that were good, feelings while reading it, etc.

Late at night, trapped in memories and longing,
reality fades to dust: fantasies unwind.
Fingertips oiled, though parched by the sun list intently over letters stained on wrinkled paper that once rested beneath your hand –
that hand that mine is so familiar with, that hand that ebbs in mine –
letters victimized by your heart and ink you wielded for translation:
the language of love, sold to words for only a fraction of its worth.
A smile is blasted into the dark with radiance as lips perk up from
natural elation: memories, memories, memories..
Pictures fly to the ceiling as those memories become images;
a child’s flipbook created in art class; Spielberg slaves over a lens:
even they could not create happiness like this.
Happiness beyond the norm, joy even angels are less fond of.
A light flashes from the drawer and wood vibrates, an alert
from someone far more still living in a happier world.
That same fingertip that rolled along the fibers of paper reassurance
swiftly rolls to the plastic outlines of my cell phone.
Tucked away in my hand, muscle memory pushes the “unlock” key hidden on the right-hand side, and another picture emerges.
Something real; another memory.
Your smile.


Go.