Unreachable

I believe in destiny, so I'd like to send a message and place it in the sea
If it reached you, then I'd know that You and I were meant to be.
How long must I wait for destiny to deliver a bottle of hope…
if you never walk along the shore?
©Elizabeth Zsamboki

Motivation

My heart and soul move my feet, my speech, my dreams…
when they are dark, they kill my speed, stop my beat, flood my eyes, drain my spirit, and drown my light…
Curse of a hapless romantic with an absent prince charming.
Jokeless horses drift on a cloud returning in the morning as dew on the leaves…
in the fall, turn brown, drop, crumble into dust, blow away in the winter's wind…
Frostbitten fingers unable to gather, hold, grip what floats in the midst's.
Unrecognizable pieces lay desolate on the ground…
Easier to allow the elements to bury them deep within the earth.
Attempts to rekindle what has already been lost and now belonging to the wind
IS exhausting, unredeemable, and pretentious
to believe that one is more worthy and powerful than fait, destiny, and God himself
for he controls the horses, dew, leaves, and wind.
I control my heart, my spirit, my light, my love.
©Elizabeth Zsamboki

Untitled

Familiar rhythm from my heart knocking at the palm of his hand
revealing secrets years I've kept sacred in my heart.
unreturned understanding, meaning, and feeling
transcended from his words, landing drops of spit like acid on my cheeks
revealing secrets he's kept clever in his silence,changing my rhythm to a slower beat
proverbial enigmas sifting in my mind knocking at the walls of my lips
lacking courage, faith, and ability to translate why his hand I took that night
swallowing words like knives, a fire landing in my belly, blanketing the light of my spirit.
asking God to send the rain and drown the flames that are transforming my love into ash.
©Elizabeth Zsamboki

Physicality

Unrealistic attempt to change my dimensions
the form of my thighs and chest
the radiance in my smile and eyes
vividly imagining a physical transformation to match the one that feeds your preference
what would be left of ME if all of ME I altered
I'd wear a mask for just a chance to show you the brilliance of my essence.
my eternal capacity to love
my heart, soul, and passion is all that truly matters
in the end her beauty dies…will her love be first or after?
©Elizabeth Zsamboki

Frozen

Frozen in one particular moment in time
paralyzed
motionless
eyelashes glued to the tops of my cheeks
blind
sightless
visionless
unfocused on what's moving dashing forward
my feet are planted in grass
only in this very particular moment in time seems greener
the moon is smiling in my eyes
my arms are warm as my teeth chatter
as though competing with the pounding of my heart
my hand is gripping leaving room for interlacing fingers
that are no longer there…
my breath paused at an inhale, holding the cool crisp October air
as if competing with the beat of my heart
at the end of this one particular moment in time…has stopped.
©Elizabeth Zsamboki

vigor

I want to be the healer of your shattered heart
hand it over, place it in the palms of my hands that will not part.
allow me to put it back together with my gentle touch
glue it with my laughter, tenderness, and endless ability to clutch
I crave to rupture your lips of silence and inhale the pain from every tragic lesion
fill my lungs until they lead me to the dreadful reasons
Do not fear my explosive passion or constant need to make you feel alive.
DROWN! your frightful need for help to stay afloat, move, and survive
The habitualness of where you dwell is not a place to sleep, be, or need.
Take my hand and let me lead
guide you to a place where, the sun is warm, the moon is smiling, and the stars are bright.
I want to be the strength behind your fight.
©Elizabeth Zsamboki

all the pretty horses

Have all the horses turned dark or developed spots of black
during my sleep of seven years
the world has flipped so drastic
a red rose on the first date no longer grows
a pack of Trojans tramples in its garden
a first kiss is meshed together with a monthly scare of skip.
© Elizabeth Zsamboki