He was standing there
Gazing at her
Captivated as though
He was watching a wonder...❤️
Her hair spread fragrance
Her eyes spelled magic...
She was a miracle
That defied every logic...❤️
He couldn't help but wonder
The beauty she held
Was it for real
Or some charms spelled....❤️
Lightning and thunder and little pitter patter,
Snowfall and coffee and Halloween masks,
Orange and red and all the color leaves,
Couldn’t distract from that beauty you hold,
Like complimenting colors the world turns,
The sun shines from all angles upon you,
Whispering those soft secrets in my ear,
You’re like a new color on the painter’s palette.
A color I call Beau.
-July 8th 2013
Is it my counter-counterclockwise
mind wasting time? Elbows
on the dining table pulling my angel
hair into grid-like times tables.
I’m invested in this non-conversation
table. Ich liebe dich, mein Freund.
I’ve got commitment issues and four-ply
tissues for when my eye lashes start
peeling apart. My grandpa died in 2005
and I’m all but over it. I’m holding
his kite string, but the reel is almost done,
like VHS tapes rewound then fast-forwarded
to the good times. Power Ranger birthday
and everyone’s wearing dunce caps
with elastic chin straps ‘til they snap.
Snap! Snap! Snap me back to three-years-old,
and I’m singing in a Robin costume
‘cause I knew I’d always be second best.
I had an identity crisis around fourteen,
so I stopped buying sunglasses
because I found myself in other
peoples’ shadows. But now the only shadows
they’re casting are the ones from their headstones
and from the fields of flowers cradling
them like they once cradled me.
Fast-forward, I’m genuflecting in gym shorts
before myself in a mirror smudged with plum
felt. And I seem small compared to my life
spelled out in Expo marker markings.
I would like to have a moment,
behind the locked door.
See, this voice of yours
its made my vision sore.
Red and Swollen around the image
of you that is too heavy
and I don't want to carry it around anymore.
Ive made promises.
your face will never reach
the indention of my ink.
But you know,
the funny thing about promises
are too heavy.
to the depths
of the front step
of that spelled door
You are locked behind.
I wouldn't mind
if I couldn't hear you singing...
You pull my memories to the floor,
and you scatter them around
A Mind Field
explosive to the
thats how I don't get caught...
turning the knob.
suppose to be
To lock you out.
The distance between us,
is in vain.
But, if I let you open,
I will be slain...
by the stare
the edges of black hair.
Song would boom and blair,
and shake every corner
I have left to bare.
of my soul song...
It is only spelled
it is you who casts it.
at the heels
of my steps..
As I leave you,
behind the spelled door
A wind so strong it stripped the Putrid from sky.
Stripped the Dead from their light.
Stripped the Silence from night.
It carried their Souls.
As Easy as leaves.
Greed bleeds the flowers Green.
The toll of War is cold.
Only meadow holds Peace.
But Peace without doubt,
Cannot be relief.
A wake brings Sleep.
A Dark new day.
Deaf ears so Meek.
As Quakes lay waste.
A Wind so strong it pulls, not pushes,
The Whispers of warriors and their Flags, before this.
Knocks on the doors and calls to their Whores,
Like Poison dripped to the Bottom of a Bottle neck; Sonorous.
A Fever like Fervor,
A Mist that once knew Her,
A Glass that's now Empty,
On a Sunset spelled Murder.
Crutches and caskets filled with coffins filled with crosses filled with crushing expectations
You are here now though I remember
You're in my dreams because you're my dream-girl
Blackness coming through the bright coming through ballooned faces coming through crowds who'd have it that angels come down and drag them into the sky
Now I'm without you though our fingers touch
I'll be someone new with someone new
A supermarket in Californinia.
You definitely read that right- Californinia. It's the title of one of my favorite poems by Allen Ginsberg and it is coincidentally painted on the wall of my childhood room in my parents house. It hasn't really been my house for a long time.
That's a dramatic statement, which I am actually sick of- I am sick of it, I am sick of moments that strive to be cinematic, I am sick of poetry and I am sick of the desire to make a statement.
Rather, the obligation to make a statement. Every word I've written so far contradicts my illness but I've written them anyways. Because I want to write them or because I want them to be read? Is there a difference? If so what is that difference, what could it possibly be?
These are too many questions for this time in my life. 16 was a year of questions, as was 18 and the first half of 19, but 20 is thankfully not. Even though I have found myself trying to make it so.
Twenty years is a very short time, but strangely, a month can take years to pass. I would like things simple, and when I get around to seeing it all clearly, I'll do my best to help them be simple. The things that I can help, at least.
Some things are not up to me but these things, these simple things, simple wants, simple needs- to catch a sunset, to bake a cake, rooftops, to get stuck in traffic, to do a solid day's work, the startling blue that you find in people's eyes, the gleaming midnight pigments that something so thin as skin has the capacity contain, to jobs, to clubs, to liver problems, to annoyances- these are simple things, these are little things, they are enough.
The point I really hoped to make, was the fact that a lost little 18 year old me painted those words on a white wall and never noticed until 16 hours ago that I had spelled California wrong. How did I possibly do that, and never notice during the few weeks I have been in and out of that house over the past two years?
How could I not see it- how could I have been so blind?
That is the deepest question, the question I am glad to finally be asking myself- how could you not see it? How do you not see the things that are looking you dead in the eye? (You dumb lady!! Get your shit together!)
Why don't you look a little closer at things, why don't you take the time to see them not one way but every and each way- how you see them, what they are, what they are not, and what they could be?
I think I might try to understand, I think that might be a nice idea
A four legged animal
Called mans best friend
Always has time for me
and a ear to lend
He sits there so patiently
as I pour out my heart.
Its like he wants to heal me
but has no clue where to start.
He places his little paw on my hand
like everything will be okay.
Whoever thought I'd get this love from
an animal especially a stray ?!?
He looks up at me like he knows
what is going through my mind.
How can something that speaks no words
be so patient and so kind ?
Those deep brown eyes look up at me
like owner don't you cry
And then I look back at him
and its like God just told me "Why".