Crazy Love (poem)

Describe your love to me.

Does it eat you up inside?

Does it make you crazy?

For your sake,

I hope not.

We praise crazy love

like it opens the way to happiness,

like careless madness can end well.

It seems we all know it,

a love so entirely insane

that we're driven to believe in it.

But do we want to live in madness forever,

or would we rather a calmer love?

And what are we willing to give up for it?

How many lost friends is too many?

How many broken promises is too many?

I hope you have your answers by now.

I have mine.

I'd rather a reliable love,

one that flows like the river,

a calm unending force.

My mad love is long gone,

a story I've decided to end.

I wish you all the best,

and hope you don't learn to regret it.

-Zero

Wandering through the mists (poem)

A haze has come over me,

giving the illusion that I no longer feel,

that apathy has taken over

and I'm just wandering through the mists.

Lost and alone, I wander,

wondering if I'll ever find my way back

to clearer skies and hearts,

back to where I belong.

Shadows lurk in the mists,

and I avoid them out of fear:

how can I tell salvation

from absolute destruction?

I've always felt a burning inside,

and I'll rip that flame from my chest

if it'll help me forge a way out,

a way to part the dense mists.

I'll find a way out, I promise.

I'll learn to weave these mists

into a salvation I couldn't see,

into a path back home.

-Zero

The Arboretum (poem)

Memories of biking through the arboretum,

a masterpiece theatre full of green leaves.

Tell me how to tend to your branches,

teach me how to water your roots,

show me how to make you flourish.

The landscape covered in a green canopy,

distance covered by intertwined roots,

by the intermingling of voices and people.

I'm right beside you when you need me,

whenever you want me to be.

-Zero

Imposter Syndrome (poem)

Writers and artists all around feel fake,

like we're taking on a title we don't deserve,

being someone that isn't actually us.

It's call imposter syndrome,

and recognition makes no difference -

it just feels undeserved.

Everything that we are is a lie

that we've been telling to ourselves.

But it is said that we are

what we continually do.

We are not defined by achievements,

and cannot be easily simplified.

What makes us are our actions:

a poet is identified by their poetry,

the artist by the art they create,

the writer by the words they string together.

Insincere actions are still actions,

intentions are just flavor.

A fire put out in hopes of fame

is still a fire extinguished.

So even if we are faking it,

and all of us are imposters,

the art we create is still art,

and that is what makes us artists.

-Zero