Poems · writing

Feverish

The orange blossoms on your sweet tooth yellow at me as I smile at you and I can’t gather these withering flowers with ugly dreams, nasty fiends, knocking at my door

What is it for?

Single melodies playing all around pretend to revel in its percussive sound

You know I’ll always be around

Until I’m not.

Who’s happy with their lot when all you are is what you’ve got

Distracted fingers memorize stop lights and bruises, alcoholic cruises melt into me and out of you

Liquid malnourishment

Find your tongue is spent working its way through the cash in my wallet

Blue rubber bands paperback hands jumping frogs and mildew incense

Innocence lost lost lost in every note

Feverish pursuit, bulbous trees taking root,

I’m too late.

Poems · writing

Out Of Line

Frost bitten, love ridden

Cracked and bitter lips frame one of those smiles that keep you up at night sometimes

My coat does nothing to keep out the cold.

In this quiet kind of sadness,

I’m missing those warmer months.

A trapeze.


A shorter one from a couple months ago

Poems · writing

Disconnected Dreamscape

I lose myself so easily,

Slipping masks on that never even fit me.

Irony being in that I know now, more than ever, who I’m meant to be.

Too often, though, this surety escapes me.

A ruse, this game we play,

No two thoughts ever the same

Coexistence, a mortal flame,

Realizations hitting, too late.

We’re all the same.


Now why don’t you act your age?

Smile and rage.

Ladylike pains.

Ignore the kerosene flowing through your veins.

I need a desperate act. A heart attack accident just waiting to happen.

Sweet leaves condense underneath your tongue.

Oh whisper to me the things you would never tell anyone.

I’ll hide them under my pillow,

Dreams, fears, delusions.

I fall asleep to laughter and tears, moments collected over the years.

There are shared songs and stories—my joy, I find, has settled here

Content to rest in the times you were near.

writing

A Letter To Myself

Or, more accurately, a series of post-it notes I wrote to myself while in a self doubting spot at work. I want to be a writer. I’m going to be a writer. I am a writer. I am enough.

You have not gone far enough to give up. You haven’t dug your heels into concrete. Your shoes are still intact, you haven’t drawn blood. You have not reached a point to shrug your shoulders and say “well, I tried”.

You have yet to feel the satisfaction of a project moved to completion, you don’t know what it’s like. You want it, but will you fight?

You assume you have reached a place where things cannot possibly get worse. You’re wrong, and they can, but things can get better, too. That’s all up to you.

Now go put books away, dummy. You’re fine.

Poems · writing

Whispered Things

I’m afraid my heart is closing up

I’m afraid the love I gave was never enough

I’m afraid of Time

Of the lines it furrows deep between, under, outside my eyes

I fear the timidness lurking inside, a meek spirit waiting to take over any liquid fire slipping passed my lips

I’ve felt it entangle me, encouraging every doubt, stroking each insecurity.

A russet hound, sickly and old

Begrudgingly, I allow these feelings to take hold

Scarcely aware of the inequities.

Poems · writing

Internalizing

Waxing Moon

Guide me to a night in June

A memory, distraction so sweet

May cannot come too soon.

Tears crack rivulets into skin

The salt water begging to wash upon every wound

A genuineness in its violence

Love as an act of defiance,

Where does it leave you?

A broken heart, this crippled tune.

Skipping beats, rhythm undone,

No longer aligned, the war is won.

I spark and these words ignite,

Setting alight flames inside this washed up soul of mine.

Hope is something I’ve indulged in,

And nothing has left more scars.

Poems · writing

Uncomfortably Numb

Lake of liquid steel


Rain-slick jewels run bloody in the street


Feeling…Numb, lately. 


Not comfortably so, no,


Far from it. 


I feel numb in the way that you can walk on and on not really knowing or caring where to. A sentiment that is far from the long and warm wandering of summers gone by


I feel numb in the way that light is now always too bright, too dull. Colors explode in the waters below me. I’m in awe of the headaches they bring on. 


I feel numb in the way that songs die in your throat, inspiration spreading thin over the din of voices crowding your thoughts. I drive on. Choked by sound.


I feel numb in the way that people have been so, so draining to me. Constantly in a state of instability, unwilling to be with company, yet dreading the way home. Not wanting to be alone.


I’m forced, I find, to fervently speak my mind. 


I cannot be silent anymore, but I have to ask myself,


Who is this all for?