As the café fills
with youthful chatter
and screechy laughter
I wonder
what it’d be like to have a friend.
At the billiards
hip teens lovingly roast each other—
their style and form
bring warmth to my lonely day.
Would I ever play billiards
or is that game
reserved for people who have friends?
I sip my strawberry tea
and imagine
having a good friend
To unwind with storytelling and gossip
We'd drink pink martinis
and be so chic in black.
And we'd be loud and open.
I'd be so happy
That I'd never have to write poetry again.
As the fantasy fades
I smile into my strawberry tea
Not too pink, but plenty of sweet.
This is alright. This cold drink is a friend.
Feb 23, 2016
Feb 23, 2016 at 6:22 AM UTC
The clouds are boring now
as I exist in a realm outside reason and romance.
These clouds are aimlessly
splattered on a dull blue sky
by a tried Artist
feeling uninspired…unrealized.
Is there any hope
for the Artist
and our world he tries to paint?
Why must the artwork continue
to destroy itself!
I destroy me
by staying stagnant and unamused.
Perhaps sometimes art
must be boring to soothe the soul
Feb 5, 2016
Feb 5, 2016 at 8:42 AM UTC
This small town has no more stories to tell
So what are you doing to me?
Small talk and pretend
as if we can save ourselves from mediocrity
A forbidden dance
between the school maiden and the passing cowboy.
No! Please! I am too lazy for adventure.
Put your hands back on that steering wheel,
you are not insane enough for me.
The snow is what’s keeping us alive.
I haven’t felt my face in weeks.
The sun doesn’t shines here anymore.
No hope, no prayers in this desolate town—
and that’s all right with me.
I don’t know myself and I don’t want to.
Dec 31, 2015
Dec 31, 2015 at 1:28 AM UTC
I feel within my gender
in a realm of passion
and Russian literature.
A king of dreams and strife
leads me to myself
as our culture dies on the other side.
Who are we to **** our culture?
Or it did perish in Hiroshima and Nagasaki?
Did you know that those atomic bombs were made with love
—or if you will, a broken heart?
Can you imagine—a love destroyed a culture!
Imagine, if my love destroyed our culture?
My language is young and not so wordy.
complex ideas give birth to simple sentences
This style is a pleasure for worldly ears.
Your style is old and dramatic—
who are you to bore an innocent girl
with your dry stories
of bourgeoisie boys and sand people!
My king of dreams and strife
translates poetry into destruction,
while you create sorrow within our dying culture.
Dec 8, 2015
Dec 8, 2015 at 9:47 PM UTC
Let's stay in this prison of blankets
and un-remember our meaning
to this existence.
I have walked all the parks
and I have swam in all the seas.
I have slow-danced in all the bars.
I have seen all the cosmic dreams.
My bones are tired of adventure.
My soul is tired of the new.
Let's ignore the changing colors and trends.
Let's arrest ourselves in this bed.
Somewhere where the jazz is fine
and smooth kids wanna spend time,
I had lost my ignorance and my pride.
Patience bit me. I grew a mind.
The world is a vampire and we only knew
after a thousand cups of coffee
and a thousand classrooms.
Let's forget. Let's die.
Feb 21, 2015
Feb 21, 2015 at 12:17 AM UTC
I get it.
I really do.
She is an ocean
of life--stories within
stories live within her.
Stories of lives
spanning far and forever.
That's why you love her,
why you went away.
I'm just ash.
I'm full of nothing,
I'm full of sorrow.
I get it.
I really do.
Oct 19, 2014
Oct 19, 2014 at 8:51 PM UTC
What I say: I'm not hurting myself because you don't love me. I'm hurting myself because I hate me.
What I mean: Please come back and love me so I can stop hurting myself.
Sep 30, 2014
Sep 30, 2014 at 8:47 AM UTC
It’s all me,
because you never have anything to say.
I fill the silence
with my nonsense.
I fill the silence with me.
There’s too much me
in this date.
There is
no us,
because I’m inhaling
the summer air
and chewing this buttery bagel
while you’re on your phone
just scrolling and refreshing
secondhand experiences.
My hands sway
with my useless tales
as your hands hold your attention.
Your thumbs sliding the screen
that is brighter than the words I waste.
This is all a waste.
There isn’t enough honey
in my tea to take this bitter
******** you call company.
Aug 20, 2014
Aug 20, 2014 at 9:38 AM UTC
I can't write
Russian with this pen.
This pen is stingy with ink.
I have to re-trace
my strokes to make them shown.
It makes me re-think my stupidity
before I can make it permanent.
Aug 15, 2014
Aug 15, 2014 at 9:45 PM UTC
I want to feel
beautiful again.
It's like I couldn't wash away
the **** and **** you said when you left.
Your words have been marinating my life,
trapped inside me like a bad song.
Following me everywhere like a bad tattoo.
But I'm done.
I'm ready for me now--the real me...
The me I couldn't be when I was half of you.
Let me finish my waffles and
I'll find something adventurous to wear.
No. **** it.
I'm getting up.
Let me look for something pre-you.
Orange skirt? Green blouse?
Wait. What is this yellow sundress?
Yes.
Aug 10, 2014
Aug 10, 2014 at 10:53 PM UTC