Old stuff · Poems · writing

Thinking in Watercolor

My body is haphazard stitches and broken bones. Tear me to shreds, I no longer fear an injured heart. This one shattered long ago.

My skin is patchwork veins, open wounds, and I cannot keep my tongue from lolling out. Spitting, screaming, it has a will all its own.

My mind should be compared to drops of rain, pattering to the ground at random interludes of cloud and sky.

Because, like them, my thoughts fly and fall at random, never striking the same spot twice.

My feelings are composed of watercolors, bleeding into each other, until even the ignorant child who mixed them cannot tell the red from the green.

[2013]


I don’t know if I personally like this one too much. I just found it in an old journal and I added a little to the beginning

Old stuff · Poems · writing

Never Enough

Inspiration fine as silk blown away by a fluttering of eyelashes, a pair of eyes too bright, a connection from one soul to another

Too fast.

Too soon.

Blooms grow from these solid bones this sordid flesh of mine

No one means to hurt not really

The mind can be a comforting thing in the face of our misery, never thinking twice of the wounds it will leave behind.

Take a breath, try to speak, and find you have nothing to say

They can see it all. Staring into yourself you know there is a flame within trying so hard to flicker out failing time and time again

Children learn to tie their shoes to count by two

Children learn to tie up strings to fall in love with dirty things

Fingers tracing new horizons we color outside the lines

Dreaming is my drug of choice the only side effect a heart void of this world and its inhabitants

Every day the same causes a shift of the beat inside, strumming in staccato the words and visions I cannot reclaim as I try to explain in these too little sentences some desire deep inside

Beat yourself black and blue marvel at the change as blood attempts to flow again through your broken veins

[Written sometime in 2013/2014]

aUtHoRs nOtE: Writing the tags makes me realize how sad some of my stuff is and it’s a little depressing LOL.

Old stuff · Poems · writing

Flames

   Of course the day after I promise to post everyday my family practically blows up. Trying to hold it together. I didn’t get the chance to take a breather let alone write, but here’s an old, silly poem I wrote awhile ago because I don’t want to give up. I’m worried, and honestly scared, but I will not let that control me. We will be okay. 

Trying to sway my hands in a way that somehow seems melodic. 

You watch me enchanted as I utter condolences to that iguana who died last week.

I know he thinks I’m fancy but really I’m ok. 

Because that iguana didn’t care if his tail was on fire, he barely felt a thing.

So why do you expect me to keep on singing when I’m just like that stupid iguana.

Spinning in circles amazed at the flames burning me alive.

[2013]

I wanted to add that I thought I was pretty edgy back then, but honestly I can’t say I wouldn’t write something similar today and also think it was extremely edgy, so. What can you doooo.

Old stuff · Poems · writing

12:49 AM

Float up to the stars, gravity take me down. I’m too reckless, too light. Down at the garden in a small chick pen. They cluck and the flutter they hurt one another oblivious to their own sting.

 
You’re too far to follow and I think I’m drowning in my head. “I know you do, I wish I was” you said. You open and flower in a brook that I’ve been sleeping in. Moving moments, is it you or is it me? I feel the future and I want it to be mine—just give me time, give me time.


I escape you wearing her perfume. I loved that room, I loved that room. You’re gone too soon, gone too soon. “Drop dead” he says and then I do. Run into you. Into you. I’ve found it but the waters out of reach. Moored on the sidelines she shudders at speech.


Unfolding memories of you. The corners are ripping, the paper is yellowing, the creases are deepening and I need you.


Prop me up and kiss me, I’m dying to be folded into you. A dream where we’ve met before, and every open door is an opportunity for us.


Walk me to the sea, I need to be just you and me. A place empty now to thoughts of you and how you’ll “never leave me” and as you say that let flowers bloom in your wake. Proving I’ll never be a mistake. I will believe you.

[July 9, 2017]

Old stuff · Poems · writing

Unsettled Feelings

Walking in silence I pull you along, wondering, wandering, your face flushed and long.

Jumbled fingers and skinned up knees, you’re asking me, begging me, crying, “stop, please!”

A whisper is all I can give you. A hand brushed against your face. Water dampens my fingertips, and we rush on.

Running, not walking now, I pull you. Stretching legs and hammering hearts, the wind picks up and suddenly we’re slipping in mud, blinking through rain.

Must I go through this again?

Leaves swirl and branches whip across skin, I’ve lost the path. The sounds begin.

A wailing sound, or is that the wind? It creeps closer and I draw you in.

You’re safer when you’re close to me, or maybe that’s what I tell myself.

I can see the eyes, that scarlet glow, the rotted breath tells me all I need to know.

My arms open.

I leave you here, as I walk to the jaws below.

[January 2017]

Old stuff · Poems · writing

Kalopsia

I wish the storm would blow you my way, in its violent winds you like to play, until a frozen gust throws you away. You’re never the same the next morning.

Ice creeps with cold abandon, it flows through the frozen earth. Rooted to the ground, it oozes up the trees until every autumn leaf is gone.

The lotus frowns and then cries out, the isolation overwhelms her. A cold stillness settles through the trees only to be broken by the thawing of the spring.

Baring shoulders, softened heat, grey cold nights make way for days bathed in a golden light. Sun rays drip from the trees like rain, burning as that water stings cold.

Walking oblivious to any bird’s song, more interested by the cracks in the street, waking as they travel along, bobbing to anything but the master’s beat.

Sycamore honey bees will do anything to please, beckoning the summer in by falling to their knees.

The summer rages wild and hot, with no room for reflection until its enemy the autumn breeze starts to pay attention.

Crisping leaves and forgiving winds bring the lotus back again. She takes her toll and we’ll never know if she’ll survive the winter.

[2015]

Old stuff · Poems

Sometimes Serendipitous

Unconventionally beautiful

Accidentally wonderful

Tripping on my tongue more than my shoes

Can’t look out for myself until I look after you

Unconditional melodies

Pre-positioned tragedies

How am I to know if you’re not gonna show

Leaping to great heights was a feat undeveloped

The mechanics of that dance practiced over and over until we tire of the rhythm

Creativity becoming the glorified cliche

I wonder what they would have thought of us today

Composing poetry

A skill still unknown to me

Pluck your guitar strings and sing us a song

 

[2014]