I think I should quit
Writing about the men
Who will never love me.
Why do I never
Write about a man
Who stands
Right in front of me?
Maybe I'm scared --
Of his dead-sea eyes
Of his wild, scraggly hairs.
Of his mind --
How he loves to search and sleuth
And read.
That he'll fall in love with my work
Peer inside my pages
And see, suddenly.
That, maybe one day
He'll read these words
And say, "Hey!
This is me
Me, me!"
Oh, then
I think that I would die!
Maybe it's because
I've believed his funny folly, --
He's spoken to me
Said, "Girl,
You write to escape."
And how can you escape
By tumbling inside
Of something you can see
With your eyes open wide?
Maybe it's because he's already here
The accessible muse.
Maybe it's because, when I move my pen
I feel it is guided
By his steely blues.
Maybe it's better
When I write
For the men who aren't there.
Because I know
If they stumbled upon my words
They'd simply say, "Oh,
What do I care?"
Apr 15, 2019
Apr 15, 2019 at 4:56 PM UTC
I don't know you, --
That's the cold, sad fact, --
And most days
I suspect there isn't much to know.
I know this
Because I know how it feels to love you.
Because loving you
Is like looking out the window
Into the street
When it's far too late
And even the hoodlums are asleep.
Loving you
Is like looking into the street
At midnight
When everyone's asleep
And it isn't raining.
The wind just blows uselessly
Rustling leaves
Reminding you that you can still breathe.
Loving you
Is like looking out the window at midnight
And walking away
Only feeling that you need to go to sleep
Because all the world around you seems dead.
Because loving you
Is like watching a show
Where all the actors have perfected their craft
And love to wear masks.
Loving you
Is like going to watch a show
That you know you've seen a million times.
The actors could convince you that they were working themselves to the very bone
And all you'd want
Is to doze off in the theater's cushioned velvet seats.
Loving you
Is like seeing a play
That's so ****** familiar
It makes you sick to think of watching it again
And yet
You'll never know how it feels
To watch it from backstage --
Not that you'd ever want to.
Because loving you
Is like loving the void, --
A black hole, that sits and swallows up everything
At your dinner table.
You'll say that you hate it
Curse its name as it ***** up
Your beef roast
Your silverware
Your fine china
Begging for dessert
Just before it latches on to your arm.
But deep down, you know
You'll just keep feeding it
Mindlessly tossing useless solutions in its direction
To satiate its beastly appetite.
You'll hurl things at it
With ferocious anger
Sneer
At its revolting belch.
"Don't ask me for anything else," you'll mumble as you skulk away
Only to press the reset button
And start setting the table
For the next day.
But I'll never think any of these things
Because loving you
Is looking as deep as you can
And finding...
Nothing.
Nothing!
Nothing...
Truly
Loving you
Is like loving a black hole.
Apr 15, 2019
Apr 15, 2019 at 4:12 PM UTC
Ban me!
Burn me!
I, literature, can speak to you.
Love me!
Hate me!
I, art, can scream it, too.
Buy me!
Don't play me!
I, music, hide my meaning in shadows.
I'm not a martyr!
Don't hurt me!
...He, the artist, is sent to the gallows.
Feb 28, 2019
Feb 28, 2019 at 5:07 PM UTC
Every day
Is Judgement Day
Here in Purgatory
Where we weave
The End Times
Into our bedtime stories.
We stake claim
On what is ours
Sign our name
Cross our T's.
We seek approval
From higher-ups
Yet care not
About earthly kids
Or the lives of trees.
You see, though we're large
We care about the little things.
That's what makes us pure.
Should you tell us otherwise
We'll let you burn below
For sure.
Feb 28, 2019
Feb 28, 2019 at 4:44 PM UTC
He has a siren's scream
And angel hair
And the devil himself
Sometimes takes up residence in his eyes.
He makes your heart skip a beat
When he waxes poetic about death
And the smoke from his lips
Makes you feel alive.
You love the way
That his voice breaks
And, in his desert of broken things
You'll see the mirage of your strength.
The art that he makes
Is your perfect opportunity
A chance to make his viscera
All soft around the edges.
Let him sing like Cobain.
You'll take that song
Turn it into something
That sounds like Plath.
And you'll beg for those songs
But he won't ever ask for the poems.
The most that he notices
Is that you pity him
When he cries.
He'll bring worry to your pen
And love to your heart
Leave you thanking the heavens
For bringing you a muse
That feels just as much as a girl
Even if it makes you cry
When he leaves you alone.
The curse of the muse:
To you, "can't save him"
Will never sound quite right.
Feb 15, 2019
Feb 15, 2019 at 11:56 PM UTC
If she is hungry
Then we'll let her starve
For longing
Is a beautiful expression
On the face of a pretty, young girl.
If she is cold
We'll wrap her in white
Over her paper-doll arms
Dancing-girl legs
Porcelain-baby face.
We'll spare her from mummification
By peeling away those first layers
Just to reveal more white, adorned underneath
Pure as ****** snow.
We'll never speak
Of those dark shadows
Over smooth, breakable skin, so fair
For we shall make a gentleman wonder
If she wears proudly her shadows
If she has on her pantyhose.
If she becomes yours
We'll show everyone
If only for a moment
Just what a prize you have won.
Such a lovely, hungry, pure, feminine face
Beneath that age-old veil.
But don't you worry, son!
As soon as you taste those wanting, red lips
You can lower that veil as you wish
Decide the form she shall take
As one who is yours
To feed, clothe, flaunt, hide
However you please.
But until then...
If she is hungry
We'll let her starve
Just to make her wait.
Feb 15, 2019
Feb 15, 2019 at 11:45 PM UTC
I'm not her.
Don't tell me that's not what you want me to be.
Even if it's true, I still see things in your eyes
For a moment, strange and wistful
Years younger
Then, brightly pain-filled
Once you're reminded of this here-and-now land
Where I, as you know me
Am the one you hold in your arms
And try your damndest to love.
I'm not her
And that is something I'm trying not only to accept
But embrace.
If that's something you can't do
Well, --
Stop embracing me.
Feb 15, 2019
Feb 15, 2019 at 11:30 PM UTC
"Oh!
Tell me!
What is wrong with you?"
Well
I think that lightning
Struck somewhere
Caught my blood on fire
Bent my body
Like tree limbs.
"Oh!
Tell me!
What can I do?"
Well
I'm trying to put this fire out
With gallons of black tea.
Maybe you should just
Try to pick those fallen branches
Up off the ground
If you want to be a part
Of the disaster relief.
"Oh!
Tell me!
Why are you made of thunderstorms?"
Well
I'm thinking it's genetic
Or maybe the price I have to pay
For the tilting angle
Of my brain.
But don't you worry
About this sporadic bit of lightning.
After my hurricanes
Sunshine always comes.
Yes, it does.
Nov 10, 2018
Nov 10, 2018 at 2:38 PM UTC
Pearls and curls and off-white lace
And my mind conjures up your sorrowful face
And my heart just toes the line.
Is my wedding day
Your Roman holiday?
Well, it sure as hell
Is mine.
Nov 9, 2018
Nov 9, 2018 at 6:16 PM UTC
I look at you
And I melt
Like strawberry ice cream
Dropped on a black buckle shoe.
(And you make me cry
Just the same.)
Nov 8, 2018
Nov 8, 2018 at 11:44 PM UTC