juliacheryl - Hello Poetry

half-finished books, blank pages sandwiched between scattered notes, words lying limp on pages purposeless, bookmarks declaring incompletion, things not said or said but not heard, a night like many nights where I wish it would all just come together and be whole and be full and be done. and I sleep instead another night a night a night.

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Feb 13, 2019

Feb 13, 2019 at 3:24 PM UTC

juliacheryl

another night a night a night

half-finished books, blank pages sandwiched between scattered notes, words lying limp on pages purposeless, bookmarks declaring incompletion, things not said or said but not heard, a night like many nights where I wish it would all just come together and be whole and be full and be done. and I sleep instead another night a night a night.

17

I forgot to tell you, When you were out of town I sold my soul to the devil. He was quick and proud Found me kneeling on the ground Now I'm promised to him forever. Yes, he walked me down the lane And he showed me all my shame All my hope is a flower in the desert. That devil said I can't come home to you. Now your lots are in So I'll confess my sin Swear to god she could love you better. I went and cast my line Cause the devil said, "It's time" But there's a deluge in the river. He took me up the hill Offered media and pills All my hope is a flower in the desert. That devil said I can't come home to you.

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Jun 25, 2018

Jun 25, 2018 at 12:19 PM UTC

juliacheryl

the devil in the deluge

I forgot to tell you, When you were out of town I sold my soul to the devil. He was quick and proud Found me kneeling on the ground Now I'm promised to him forever. Yes, he walked me down the lane And he showed me all my shame All my hope is a flower in the desert. That devil said I can't come home to you. Now your lots are in So I'll confess my sin Swear to god she could love you better. I went and cast my line Cause the devil said, "It's time" But there's a deluge in the river. He took me up the hill Offered media and pills All my hope is a flower in the desert. That devil said I can't come home to you.

20

oh yeah, oh yeah, I've been depressed too. Don't tell me I don't know what it's like. I do and I get that writing about the difficulty of getting out of bed makes you feel productive and a little better. But I just think you should throw out your sad songs and melancholy pen somedays—today. Take long drinks of something cold and feel sunshine on closed eyelids. Something. Stop writing poems about it. I used to write poems about it and I can tell you, it aired the ***** laundry, took that weight off my chest but it didn't free me from any demons, just chained me to them with words.

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Jun 20, 2018

Jun 20, 2018 at 2:15 PM UTC

juliacheryl

Untitled

oh yeah, oh yeah, I've been depressed too. Don't tell me I don't know what it's like. I do and I get that writing about the difficulty of getting out of bed makes you feel productive and a little better. But I just think you should throw out your sad songs and melancholy pen somedays—today. Take long drinks of something cold and feel sunshine on closed eyelids. Something. Stop writing poems about it. I used to write poems about it and I can tell you, it aired the ***** laundry, took that weight off my chest but it didn't free me from any demons, just chained me to them with words.

17

I don’t have stories to tell anymore. Maybe because I talk with myself less and talk to you more. I walk to the car, to work, back to the car, into the house, always an invisible string, a compass, a radar, looking for you. There used to be stories, a string tied to a fantasy, a compass pointing into a future I do not know if I should dream of or want. There’s this undying want That is hard to ignore anymore. When I think about the future All I think is “more,” And I don’t know if more means me and you And two kids and that white and wood paneled ocean house. Take, for example, my own childhood house. That was a place that filled me with heavy want. Though we had everything we needed, I suppose, most children like me and you Don’t follow our parents’ footsteps anymore And we don’t see keeping up with the Joneses as anything more Than a long-dead, rotted-out American Dream kind of future. Where is the future In a two-car-garage white house? I know it’s not about the house, it’s more About the people in it and being comfortable and I want to want That future and see value in it, and oh the laughs we’d have around the kitchen table. But anymore I can’t lie, I want to run and run and run away from me and from you. I’ll use the cliché: it’s not you, It’s me and my obsession with the future. I don’t think I am ever awake in the present anymore. I’m always up ahead and there are two simulations I play with. That one with the house And the one where I run and I run, alone, wherever I want And honestly, honestly, I don’t know which one I want more. But couldn’t they have guessed? The more I fear losing everything which is you The more I want To play by my rules and **** the future. So in another imagining, they find me in the bathroom of this house. My heart isn’t beating anymore. I imagine there’s something more in the future Other than you or running or a white-wood house, But I don’t have stories to tell anymore. I don’t want to look there anymore.

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Jun 18, 2018

Jun 18, 2018 at 12:16 PM UTC

juliacheryl

sestina in summer

I don’t have stories to tell anymore. Maybe because I talk with myself less and talk to you more. I walk to the car, to work, back to the car, into the house, always an invisible string, a compass, a radar, looking for you. There used to be stories, a string tied to a fantasy, a compass pointing into a future I do not know if I should dream of or want. There’s this undying want That is hard to ignore anymore. When I think about the future All I think is “more,” And I don’t know if more means me and you And two kids and that white and wood paneled ocean house. Take, for example, my own childhood house. That was a place that filled me with heavy want. Though we had everything we needed, I suppose, most children like me and you Don’t follow our parents’ footsteps anymore And we don’t see keeping up with the Joneses as anything more Than a long-dead, rotted-out American Dream kind of future. Where is the future In a two-car-garage white house? I know it’s not about the house, it’s more About the people in it and being comfortable and I want to want That future and see value in it, and oh the laughs we’d have around the kitchen table. But anymore I can’t lie, I want to run and run and run away from me and from you. I’ll use the cliché: it’s not you, It’s me and my obsession with the future. I don’t think I am ever awake in the present anymore. I’m always up ahead and there are two simulations I play with. That one with the house And the one where I run and I run, alone, wherever I want And honestly, honestly, I don’t know which one I want more. But couldn’t they have guessed? The more I fear losing everything which is you The more I want To play by my rules and **** the future. So in another imagining, they find me in the bathroom of this house. My heart isn’t beating anymore. I imagine there’s something more in the future Other than you or running or a white-wood house, But I don’t have stories to tell anymore. I don’t want to look there anymore.

39

your leaving is quick, maybe calculated. like all the other times i have been turned from in the most literal sense, your leaving -- quick. your leaving, your turning, your back, my last glimpse, your leaving, leaving me numb not broken. off you go. vamoose.

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Jun 13, 2018

Jun 13, 2018 at 3:42 PM UTC

juliacheryl

vamoose

your leaving is quick, maybe calculated. like all the other times i have been turned from in the most literal sense, your leaving -- quick. your leaving, your turning, your back, my last glimpse, your leaving, leaving me numb not broken. off you go. vamoose.

12

She walks on fluttering ribbons That wave in sunset breezes, as silent and unsure as the night. She sees ribbons, furling and twisting underneath tentative steps. A tightrope walker - She wonders if ribbons lead anywhere or if they only belong tied up in a little girl’s waterfall curls.

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Jun 13, 2018

Jun 13, 2018 at 3:31 PM UTC

juliacheryl

about the future

She walks on fluttering ribbons That wave in sunset breezes, as silent and unsure as the night. She sees ribbons, furling and twisting underneath tentative steps. A tightrope walker - She wonders if ribbons lead anywhere or if they only belong tied up in a little girl’s waterfall curls.

9