All her clothes
pooled on the floor around them
His hands were seeds
planting a luxuriant garden of
exotically alluring flowers
on every risen goosebump
as though they were lush soil beds
The only clothing left on her
was the warm luster of his body
on top
blanketing her
Nov 3, 2017
Nov 3, 2017 at 8:51 PM UTC
stop lights seem to take longer
to turn green
when you're running late
tapping on your steering wheel
you just want to see it change
you just want to get to where you're going
stop lights seem to last a second
when you're kissing the boy you love
with your hand on his neck
and him pulling you closer
you dread hearing the symphony of horns
coming from behind you
he starts to drive
and you start hoping
that the trail of green lights ahead
turn red just as you arrive
because when you're at a stoplight
kissing the boy you love
you don't need to get to where you're going
you're already there
.grace
Nov 3, 2017
Nov 3, 2017 at 8:05 PM UTC
(This poem posted in tribute to the life &memory; of Robin Williams...Rest in Peace)
Whenever Richard Cory went down town,
We people on the pavement looked at him:
He was a gentleman from sole to crown,
Clean favored, and imperially slim.
And he was always quietly arrayed,
And he was always human when he talked;
But still he fluttered pulses when he said,
'Good-morning,' and he glittered when he walked.
And he was rich - yes, richer than a king -
And admirably schooled in every grace:
In fine, we thought that he was everything
To make us wish that we were in his place.
So on we worked, and waited for the light,
And went without the meat, and cursed the bread;
And Richard Cory, one calm summer night,
Went home and put a bullet through his head.
(Edwin Arlington Robinson)
May 30, 2016
May 30, 2016 at 2:31 PM UTC
and here i am again
at the intersection
of pedestrian language
& old wives tales
swallowing gum
like 7 year memories
opening umbrellas inside
cause i can't seem get away
from all of this rain
i ********** with my left hand
cause i was told
back in highschool that
"it feels like someone else is doing it"
it gets me wondering
about the difference between
losing you and finding out
that some one else found you
or my sleep
or lack thereof
its starting to tear me apart
i keep having this dream
where you are in
an unfamiliar body of water
trying to wash my poetry
off of your hands
or the one where
something happens in my chest
every time you sit
on someone else's bed
i'm tired of feeling like something you've misplaced
but don't have the heart
to look for anymore
tired of you saying my name
like you're trying to bury it
i'm tired of wondering
if you can tell the difference
between the absence
of my voice & silence
the other day
i almost started sobbing
at work when a woman
asked me about
our equipment
i was explaining how
things come apart
and almost mentioned your name
it made me think
of how you used to say
things like "what would you do
if i showed up on your doorstep
one day?" now, i haunt
the windows in my house
i don't leave for weeks at a time
i sit on the porch like the dog
you didn't shoot behind the shed
the one that refuses to die
until you come home again
i told somebody once, that
you didn't even know
what my voicemail sounded like
i wonder if they thought
it was because you
are so important that i never
let it ring that many times
before picking up
or if you dont know
what it sounds like
because you've never called
you can't be the ****** weapon
and the search party
i'm tired of all the seats
to the ferris wheel in my chest
being empty
tired of your voice
being the one i look for
in abandoned places
that one sound i beg
to bounce back
down vacant hallways
i just seem to stand there
in all of that quiet
like someone looking for a mistake
on an eviction notice
so i guess the hardest part
isn't letting go
it's forgetting
you ever had a grip
in the first place
and since you've been gone
i wonder if when
you pushed yourself away from me
you used your left hand
so it felt like someone else did it
May 20, 2016
May 20, 2016 at 12:56 AM UTC