kahara-jones-1
American
I am a poet that is trying desperately to pour out the bowels of my soul without clichés! I love puns, odd vocabulary, and most of all, new ways of saying things. I search for unlikely outlets to emotions that are often centered in poems wrought with hackneyed phrases. I do understand that I have unknowingly used clichés in my writing. Forgive me! / Thank you to all that have - and will- take some time out of their day to critique my poems. if you have the time, please tell me what you think could be improved in one of my pieces. If you do, I'll be forever indebted to you. / On a side note, I must say that this is an incredible community of writers and poets. There are so many good internet vibes here.
dear boy
this is a love poem to the evening we met-
not to you
because love is a four-letter word that I cannot use against you yet
I was texting while biking
perpetually late
you were sitting outside the cafe
couldn’t find the door (somehow perfectly understandable)
I was thinking of how I would open up the conversation, carefully wrapped in the plastic seal of Tinder ambiguity. We could be one of many things:
two strangers meeting
two serial killers
one serial killer, one victim
two humans
two aliens
We learned we both fell under the last title— both aliens to Rhode Island
and Maine, our homeland
dear boy, this is a poem to myself, so I will not forget you,
you were such a gift that night, with eyes that were both kind and silly,
and I was so drawn to you as I drew you, wanted to capture the seconds of the night and how they etched themselves into our skin, every line of our bodies grows darker with age
sometimes I think about how wrinkles are just lines that grow onto our bodies like a sort of topography, and we perceive this as ugly
topography is **** the way it undulates and defines a thing, such as a hill, rising and falling
the lines spreading out like frozen sonar
we didn’t have to go to the diner, but we did,
didn’t even eat anything, just each other’s time
and I wanted to stay there, and I wasn’t sure which I was more drawn to: the thought of us remaining
Nov 5, 2017
Nov 5, 2017 at 11:04 AM UTC
stay awake, tasting the musty morning breath-dust at the back of your throat,
rise like smoke, still half-senseless
so drawn to the blueness of the ****** day,
so blue the word loses its meaning
(there has to be another word for this color).
The stiff grass, waiting to be melted by sunrise,
the quality of the air, cold and rough in your lungs
is a boon to the eyes
The mist dissipates, everything can be seen through a portal of glass more polished than in the rusty dregs of the day, everything, everything.
Oct 20, 2017
Oct 20, 2017 at 10:54 AM UTC
I have two words.
Snow.
You fill my mind with the sort of rapture that comes from falling snow— the way you look up and it swirls down like cold petals.
There’s a wild wonderment from something so simple:
it transforms the stark nakedness of the earth; the dead forests
and empty fields become whole and alive again with the powder.
Bloom.
You made my winter unfurl itself like a magnolia tree, crackled branches, then frenzied blossoms cutting up my line of vision, hiding the ugly.
Oct 20, 2017
Oct 20, 2017 at 10:50 AM UTC
cut your ring finger. delicately
taste the blood.
lick it off.
Does the flavor suit you?
Twist a handful of hair the way he might
and let it fall back against your neck
-- gently undo all of the actions he has done.
and kiss your own stomach, the way he did, the way it made you shiver out of what could best be described as a blend of ecstasy and anxiety,
how the very touch clung to you like heavy wet cotton,
how the moment permeated through you, held you, and for once, you knew what it meant to be sated
the moment still lives in your throat and is born again whenever you sing.
Oct 20, 2017
Oct 20, 2017 at 1:45 AM UTC
I am not a-
I am not a-
I am a red mess of what human kind doesn't need to see
the human heart doing a double beat
fingers too sweaty to snap
eyes that twitch in a foggy mist
I can not be quiet in my head
and so I talk to myself
I cannot be regarded as beautiful
unless you disregard the film of error
plastered over my worn-out soul
Jan 9, 2014
Jan 9, 2014 at 10:12 PM UTC
What’s in a life
that makes it feel tangible
-not moldable-
but legible at times, when
you’re so close, you can’t blink without swatting their cheek
and
so that you feel you can grasp their stress
and peel it away
like ducktape
with little nubbins of glue
like gossling fluff
left over
Whatever film that separates two souls
was put there for sanity or practicality
And I want to ask...
What is it like in your soul?
Is it disturbing
or loving for me to ask?
Jan 9, 2014
Jan 9, 2014 at 10:11 PM UTC
He
Was first to my second
(instict)
gulp of air tasted like his breath
I had wrapped my arms around his
paper white t-shirt
his skin beneath was firm
we were like pasta boiling over
I wanted to slip my fingers through his teddy-bear hair
centemeters to my feet
his eyes were mine
quiverering with electricity-
he wrapped himself,
a shell around my frame
a core to his body that he
didn’t think was wild
until now
and it felt so good to know
all the people in the world
did not touch his mind while I mentioned
how we could be one step away from the term one tends to shy away from
in heaven-willing
love-rants like this
Dec 21, 2013
Dec 21, 2013 at 11:19 PM UTC
The love we made was enervating,
you rancorous pooch!
I cannot suppress my deleterious desires!
Oh! How I hold your face in my disdainful mind!
When I was waiting to be vindicated from your legal pressings,
upon the cold, stone floor of my cell, I wrote an anecdote
of the pain you caused in my chest
(with that knife).
Mundane human, you posses spurious desires!
You have given me false hope,
which has led to many adversities!
I may have been impetuous to leap upon you with that knife,
but you were the one who walked away unharmed.
Let us proceed with our impetuous plans...
x x suicide pact
will write later
Dec 12, 2013
Dec 12, 2013 at 10:55 AM UTC
I do not want to hear the word ‘love’ ever again
but I do wish to see you at noon
thirty blocks away from reality
with the sun printed like warm coffee stains across your face
the light cutting through that little cafe window
tinny radio music and cloth napkins
and a wind to slap the hanging sign
to make us curl up on the bench,
imagining the cold.
Dec 6, 2013
Dec 6, 2013 at 11:45 AM UTC
We are a white children
of clouds
of sand
of carving words
that shape the sands we walk upon
and cannot judge one slip from another
at times
love is expressed through
the crudest terms
and so we divide,
define
and in each mind
rest the chicken bones of the last meal
press the prickly matter into the damp soil
where it will be forgotten.
Oct 18, 2013
Oct 18, 2013 at 1:34 PM UTC