What is your poetry, my friend?
Is it the cool spring day that bounces
off your clothes after a long winter mourning;
the spine-chilling defrosting session
you have when the sun finally rises
and the forward look to the light of a new day.
Or is it the morning silence of a library,
hot teas, and warm crumpets, that carries
your imagination far far away
after forgetting the chaos of yesterday.
Your poetry is your happy place,
your depressed face, your angry taste,
and an exhausted out space...
Your race to the moon and back
before mother tucks you in
and turns off the lights.
It's the bad blues news
and the good old days' anthem
that hums on long to the Sunday tunes
without a care in the world.
What is our poetry, my friend?
Is it a couple of pals laying waste
to the grass below our restless bodies
as we gaze up into the galaxy
and pronounce what is your and mine;
the grass clumping together in our hands
and spilling all over each other's hair.
Or is it the strum of your guitar
and the beat of my hands clashing
against each other to make a sweat
Yet miserable lullaby for our hearts
to pour our into the beach we set camp at.
The waves matching our irregular beat
with its own casual style
that loves to ride up onto our toes mid-chorus.
Our Poetry is what we make of it.
love letters dabbled back and forth
across the classroom get caught
just to share the love we have
with everybody else who doesn't have.
The glittering looks we give
when everyone bursts out laughing
because we know they know
they will never come close to us;
not even second place.
The tear drop memories of what was
and what coulda woulda shoulda been
but now isn't there for us to even cry on;
just cold shoulders and salty whispers
about the past, that should never have been
because it makes up too much pain for the present.
If we could write a motion memento
Just a couple of sentences long.
Just long enough for people to stop and live
the moment along.
If we could stop and tell the world the point of it all,
many eyes of disguise would laugh as they think they already know.
How could we forget and loose our point along the way,
And keep on walking breathlessly, as if the secret has never been told away.
We share our memories and our tears
We live in an irrational emotional fears.
If we could write a motion memento
Just a couple of sentences long
just long enough to catch attention
in this fast living world.
Just long enough to remind you
that all you have is NOW.
I remember the words they didn't want to hear,
As I made reality their only fear,
And yet to me it was satisfying,
The soft whispers of truth were gratifying.
It felt to me like a bird flown free,
My mind, uncaged, like it always should be.
But positivity is not all that reigns,
The past is filled with shackles and chains.
I don't know what I gained on that night so cold,
I don't care what I lost in my words so bold.
Only today matters, the past has brought me here,
And to drown in my memories is my worst fear.
No matter of the past
No matter day, or night
No matter if you're first, or last
No matter wrong, or right
No matter here or there
No matter good, or bad
No matter if you care
No matter glad, or sad
No matter where ya go
No matter how damn far
No matter what you know
Nowhere, but where you are
I see you through fogged glass in a small café, you are sipping apple juice and reading a newspaper even though you get updates to your phone every time a new news story is published. I assume you do it because you’re nervous and your blonde hair looks beautifully unkempt and I smile, inwardly. I stand just long enough to see you take another sip of your apple juice and fumble with your hands slightly before I notice I too am fumbling with my own. We always had a habit of saying and doing things at the same time, as if our subconscious was connected on a level our conscious couldn’t keep up with. I open the café door and the bell chimes, suddenly there is no one else in the room except us and I feel the open air grow thick with excitement and nervous tension.
I would say I could feel your gaze burning the pores of my skin open, but your eyes are too blue that I could do nothing but dive into them, swallowing mouthfuls of unspoken love and all the words you’ve never needed to say as they fill my lungs and I expand. I think this is why I no longer have an appetite; this is why falling in love is so fulfilling because there is too much to chew and so much to swallow and I cannot stop feasting on the thoughts that whirlpool around in your mind. Every day is a three course meal and I am stacking up plates upon plates trying to build something long enough to stretch to the ends of you. I cannot swim but I still continue to dive, filled with mouthfuls of unspoken memories, the parts of you you’re too afraid to give away yet but I was blessed with patience. I am candlelight and you are the flame that allows me to glow, flickering in draughty bedrooms as we sway to a playlist I made especially for us entitled “beginnings” because I believe we will always feel like this. I have been strung out to dry on life’s washing line since I was a child and it wasn’t until you became home that I felt the warmth of candlelight and we become what we love.
I sit down opposite you in a small café, you say “I’ve missed you” and I tell you that I have never stopped missing you. The waitress asks what I’d like to drink and you reply “water” and I smile, inwardly. I stopped fumbling with my hands when they found yours and you persisted I try your apple juice but I was adamant it just wasn’t for me and you smiled, outwardly. I had always been inward but you had taught me that it is okay to be outward and I complimented your smile for what seemed like the hundredth time hoping it would cause you to smile and it did and I told you that you had a face even artists could not create. I told you that there are universes within me and in every single one I have created galleries for you so that no matter where I am, I can always feel like I’m home.
To drown is considered a tragedy but I would anchor myself to the very depths of you and float within the atoms that enable you to be and I would merge myself into the darkness and find comfort within the unknown because part of it resides within me and I would die to be close to you. We become what we love and all I am is a paperback of romantic poetry with brushstrokes underlining the parts that are most important and one day I will whittle to ash in the flame that burns for you in the belly of my stomach and my paperback poetry will shrivel in your whirlpool and the pen will smudge and the writing will smear, but it is ok. Because I am diving into eyes, drowning myself in mouthfuls of the poetry I never sent and choking it back to you with my own eyes so you can see all that I am and all that I ever will be and decide if my candlelight is worth keeping aflame.
I'm still in love
With the way you took my hand
With how you said my name
I'm still in love
With your toothy grin
With your hearty deep laugh
I'm still in love
With the comforting hugs you gave
With how you wiped away my tears
I'm still in love
With a person already gone
With someone that's been replaced
I'm still in love
With the memories
Because, now, it's all I'll ever have.
Take you're worries with you, carry them on your mind, never confront the past, too scared at what you'll find, add it to the mountain that's growing in you're head, you cannot change the past, what you've done or what you've said.
But I can shape my future, and mould my path anew, for in my future there is hope because now I have you.
The Raven lives in the void
He has no sense of time
He is able to see the past
The present and the future
Simultaneously, watching it
His head cocked, unblinking
I wish I was a Raven
Content to live in the that void
And watch you from a tree
Never losing track of the hour
The sting of things lost unknown
Preening, peering, thinking
The Raven waits for time
Every rose has its thorn
Every ocean its undertow
You have yours, but I've been lucky
You let me past those walls
And what I found was a friend for a lifetime
I can't remember the day we met
But that's what makes us ourselves
Because you're here to do that for me
It just seems like I've always known you
I've never looked up to someone as much as I do to you
Your artwork, creativity
Your cool rationale,
Your sassy smirk,
The ability you've manifested to be an adult
Driving, job and school, taking care of yourself
You're by my side to search for what I've lost
You see this town in the same light I do
We have the same passion, same plans, same past
When my demons snake thier limbs out for me, it is you I use as my shield
I think you may even be better at keeping things hidden than I am
Thank everything you let me in
You are beautiful, perfect
You do enough, try hard enough
You don't need to lose weight, you can have whatever makes you happy
If you can't trust anyone else, you can trust me
I'm sticking around
I hope I remember the pirated kids movies, all the hair styles you had to do for me, the hiding in your basement from the heat, the hot chocolate, the lunches sitting on the floor of the hall
But there is one thing I am certain I will never forget and that is you being you Aqua
Thank you for being the winter to my spring
Thank you for being a forever friend
Thank you for being you
How does one traverse a decade with words?
I once wrote about razor blades
grazing the skin on my wrists
like cattle, their muzzles coated
with a fine spray of pink blood.
I wrote about pills in numbers
greater than 2 or 5 or 10
that slipped down my throat one night
until my stomach reached out
to smack my hand, a bad girl
who deserved countless spankings
all night and through the morning.
My father stroked my hair
and blamed it on the food
before going to work late that morning
with the night still dark
within in his eyes,
while I stayed and laid on the couch,
to think of what I'd done.
And to think,
those words were just the beginning.
There were so many to follow,
so many longings to be held,
longings for broken hearts to mend,
longings to never love again.
Here I am,
so many years to look back on,
so many words scribbled
into half-empty journals,
loose-leaf pages following me
around on a wind I can't let go of,
a hoarder of words written
There are still so many words,
as my pen turns at the dirt
that will bury my grave.
They'll stick a plaque over me,
engraved with my own words,
and the people will sigh over the decades,
before they turn around
and enter their cars and drive
wondering what's for dinner,
or who will pay the bills,
or what kind of pills I took that day,
a decade or so ago.