I thought I'd never stop missing you.
I thought the echo of your voice would never stop in my head
That the words I love you
Would forever ring in my ears.
I thought I'd never get over the way your hands felt on me
the trailing of your fingers on my lips
their dance around my collarbone
and the way they dragged over my rib cage
leaving a trail every inch of the way.
I was sure that I'd never forget the constellation of freckles along your back
and the one behind your left ear
how beautiful they were
how they never bothered me
and how I loved them even though you didn't.
I knew I'd never forget the color of your eyes
so chocolatey brown
with a hint of green
and a splash of orange.
I thought I'd never stop missing you.
But the echo of your voice has since turned into a whisper
I've found myself unable remember what your laugh sounds like
and I find it annoying when I hear someone call their girl Angel.
I've slowly gotten over the way your hands felt on me
and I've come to realize
how rough the skin on your fingers was
and how the trails you've left are just scars I want to cover up.
I'm not sure where your freckles are
I think there is one behind your right ear
and on your stomach
and maybe a few on your shoulder
but I always found them messy and annoying.
I don't know what color your eyes are
you have blonde hair so I'm guessing blue?
I guess I've just stopped missing you.
I have white friends and do not like my own race.
I was born the wrong color. My bad luck, : (
I wont support black candidates. White men are better politicians.
I don't like my bad neighborhood or the trash on the streets where I live.
I spend time with white people I like on the internet.
Beats staring at paint chipping.
I listen to loud music and type smilies and lols at not funny jokes.
I want people to like me so I can be blacks in my hood.
Off internet I'm as street as it gets.
I straighten my hair because I don't want a nappy fro.
I want to bleach my skin like Michael and maybe get contacts.
I want to lose a few pounds my hips are wide and I have belly fat.
I pinch the belly fat while I sit loling and typing smilies.
I hate my own race and I like any race but mine.
Now you know and want you to like me.
I give more than myself to you
on a small inexpensive platter
but please know,
it is all I have.
It is not the biggest or most luxurious,
and I realise it will not completely satisfy you,
and I am sorry,
but it is my everything that I give to you
and maybe you will see,
that it has meaning, it is significant,
even though it may not stand out.
For you see, all this time spent alone
results in an ocean of self pity that runs in place of blood
but it is good,
for I can empty myself at times
and pour everything I have over you,
and maybe, you will let yourself taste love.
Used to come naturally for me, until my world turned upside down
Failed my college English course
Started writing poems, cut through my issues like butter
Flowed from my brain like a one way train to a promised land
I don't even know what to write about anymore, I've become so dead
It kept me alive, I'd get these thoughts and have to put them down
On a napkin, on my hand, wherever I could at the time
They were my release
I don't know what to write anymore
But I'll keep on trying
Because maybe I'll write something
To solve this problem too
I watched hypnotized by the falling snow outside my
living room's window.
It fell like falling stars through the lights of the bright
I switched on the porch light to catch sight of more,
as it fell softly on the porch steps,
dreaming of a school-less day to come.
Oh! How beautiful it is.....
Where does it come from? I asked myself,
is it sugar from God's coffee table?
Or maybe it's sand from baby angel's sand boxes?
I must say this I really don't know,
but I know with my whole heart
that I truly love....
I love the snow.
I like to think that I tried.
But at the same time
they used to like to think that the world was flat
and that green eyes meant that you were cursed.
I also like to think that I would go to the end of the galaxy for you,
just so that I could fetch a few stars and bring them back
to show you that not every light is burnt out yet.
I like to think that the scars on both of our wrists
will fade with time and will heal with care.
But so far, the redness has not subsided.
Your voice is still ringing in my ears.
I’m not sure what you are saying, but you’re there.
And you’re here.
For the most part, you are everywhere.
And if I could spend one more restless night
curled in your arms so that I could kiss the inside of your wrist
and hope for magic to appear, I could die tomorrow
and be okay with that.
My tombstone could be painted yellow
and my corpse could grow flowers.
All because I hoped for a little magic
while the howling wind touched the windowpane
and your breath quickened on my shoulder.
I would let the coolness of your eyes
take my memory back to the Bahamian sea.
I would let the flutter of your eyelashes remind me
of the rainbow parrotfish and the fire coral.
I would let the salty softness of your skin sink into mine
so that maybe I won’t be so sharp anymore.
I would let myself drown in you
and this time
I wouldn’t call for help.
I would save my last gasping breath
to let you know how beautiful you are.
Then I would succumb to your sea
and I would sink to the bottom
to let my corpse plant flowers in you.
I. I thought you were her world;
Her paperback novel
She could ponder quotes in
And crack the spine of.
But you’ve now got police orders against you
And the pain of missing you
Seers the seams of her striped-sweater heart
And though you’re trying to get into Green and Ginsberg,
She can’t see what the big deal is.
You were the Holden Caulfield
To her Jane Gallagher
But Holden never took Phoebe
To the mattress so
I guess that makes the two of you
Sid and Nancy
II. I suppose she never believed you
When you told her that you were an alcoholic.
Because alcohol burns
And though you lit her fire,
You couldn’t keep it burning.
You told her that you didn’t read
And she should have
Backed away then.
But she didn't.
Because you played accordion
And dressed like Gatsby
And she adored that for a good while.
Until you told her that you despised the Rolling Stones
And may have committed a murder.
Even then she did not back away
Because you bought her cigarettes
And hit on other girls
While she waited for you
To give her the boot.
III. She liked your accent
But it was just a sweet, endearing cover up
For a mind as empty as a gypsy’s wallet
And a rich man’s soul.
IV. You liked to give her drags
Off your E-cigarette
Because it tasted like cherry Pez
And you wanted her to see
Or rather, taste,
Kissing you was like magic
You moved on to an older broad.
Her lips met yours
You tasted like heavy booze
And she was too desperate and twisted
To really give much of a damn.
So she accepted it
And moved on.
Because you called her pretty
And made out with her in the forest,
Denim scratching denim,
Hearts hurting hearts.
VI. She didn’t know you were homeless.
Maybe she did
But she didn’t accept it.
Like an elderly doesn’t accept death at first
And attempts to bargain.
You smelled horrible…
She believed it to be a natural thing.
But you were neglecting your hygiene and with that,
Her as well.
And the only thing you cared more for than sex
Was the Sex Pistols.
VII. You asked her to take off her glasses one day
And with one look of her freckled,
Pimple-shell ridden face,
You told her she looked like Ramona Flowers
And upon googling who that was,
She nearly crapped herself in glee.
She should have taken it as a sign
When you began to find
And tiny reason to touch her in as playful a way you could.
Through tiny nudges
She should have seen the possibility of romance blossoming.
But you were 29
And she, 17.
Twelve years, practically
Between the two of you.
But your undivided ideals
Brought you only closer together.
You were an English education major,
With a III mark after your name
And Megaman on your walls.
She took one look
At the astounding possibilities,
Drew a breath and fell in love with
Every little thing about you.
Unnoticeable thing about you,
From the scar
Stretching down your spine
To the scruff on your chin…
Deeper in love with you
Than she ever had before.
And she saw a dream,
That came in on a hot summer day
With Taco Bell
I am an artist.
I can make myself into something new
Imagine the possibilities you could
Just let me know what you want.
Here, flip through this magazine for some
And tell me what you like best!
It’s all about pleasing your audience
It doesn't matter what I want,
Nobody cares about that.
They just want to see something pretty.
I sculpt and paint imagery out of tools
To end up with a fake canvas.
Day to day I suppress myself with the lies.
I chip and chisel,
Dissect and carve,
Bits and pieces,
Until I’m left trembling,
Just to be tossed away in the end.
Splashes of red,
And strokes of black ignite your appeal,
And this is what you label as real?
Hunger strikes itself through the bones
Revealing its power through the limbs
Of the body, eye sockets, sinking down,
Death could possibly be the resemblance.
What a terrible piece, a shame it is.
Maybe just a few more tweaks,
And it will at least look halfway decent.
Trim down the sides,
Thin out any extras,
Fill in what is needed.
Even just a tad more color,
Then we have something.
Time strolls by,
A year soon passes,
And one day I just happen to actually
And look at my masterpiece,
But only for a moment.
In the mirror,
A reflection stares back at a wretched,
Beads of liquid build up into my pallid
Unable to contain the weight of their
reasons any longer,
Tears begin to burst,
They trickle down my rose stained
Fueled by the absence of perfection,
And I feel nothing.
Needs more work.
English teachers were right when they told us always to finish our sentences. They said that fragments lead to grammatical errors and a loss of idea cohesiveness. They said that ramblings overexcite the mind of the reader into a state of faulty comprehension. Full sentences engulf the paper; there are no thoughts left behind. Maybe that's why poets are so damn sad. You see, when I started using fragments, I began to exclude ideas that were too ridiculous to put into words. Now I am haunted by the thoughts I never finished and the words I was convinced were better off silent. The fragments couldn't connect in my mind and they couldn't find their syllables and they wandered off looking for you when you could only be found in commas and periods and sentences containing only one conjunction. Fragments create halves of moments and halves of feelings and maybe if I was more careful I wouldn't have created a fragment of you. Each sentence has a subject and a verb but the ambiguity of the subject in a fragment does not mean that you were not there all along. Nowadays, it's too hard to read my writing without wanting to burn it in the fireplace. I want to watch the flames flick away the broken rhythm of our past and join the fragments into whole sentences and whole paragraphs and whole stories but I can't find the punctuation. Maybe I should have listened when my teacher told me to combine ideas and make whole. Maybe then I'd know that complex sentences do not always lead into complexities. Fragments cannot stand alone and make sense. You could not stand alone and find your sense in me.
cover me in moonlight
bury my bones in a field of wild violets
lift these weights off my damn chest
i can't breathe and all i can think about
is feeling your warmth in my bed
lets drown my troubles in vodka
and watch the sunrise
framed through pine trees
i want you to steal my heart away
in the simplest terms
i've never loved anyone
maybe that makes me a bad person
but i feel like i could pretend with you
because i'm just a fucked up girl
with fascinations that never rest until
i've experienced all of you