oisaeu - Hello Poetry

This is the last poem I will ever write about you. Seriously. I spent 367 days trying to pluck your name Out of the spaces in-between my teeth. I got so desperate that I picked up recreational flossing. The taste of dish soap coats my tongue As I think about being seven again And having my mouth scrubbed with Dawn because I said a bad word. It was much easier learning my lessons back then. Baby, I loved you like a child locked out of the house during daylight. Wildly, freely, without any underwear on. Your voice echoed within me like a million cicadas Dancing and singing. Keeping me up at night. You were summer sweat and tangled hair. You were sand spurs and ant bites in between my fingers. When I was little I domesticated a pool full of toads So I could train and use them to take over the world. No person should ever be allowed that much power, Especially a child. But the point is, At a young age I learned how to love Things that could never love me back- The bugs I found underneath rocks, The slimy, sticky creatures that have no Understanding of nurture, just instinct- The animals that only know how to be afraid And survive and **** And I guess that's why I loved you so much. I gave you a handful of earthworms and You told me I had dirt under my nails. You never asked me about my scars, Your hands skipped over them like words You didn't understand the meaning of. While you choked on your silver spoon, I used plastic forks to dig through the earth In hopes to find gold, But I found China instead. Sometimes I wish I never came back. Since this is the last poem I will ever write about you, Seriously, Let me clarify, Very Clearly, That I was never your honey. Baby, I am the entire bee colony. I am an intricate network of flower dust and star particles, Gardens grow at my feet. I am a force of golden, powerful life, One that carries the weight of the entire universe, unfolding. You see, My Papa used to tell me a lot of stories about bees. Like when a hornet invades a bee hive, The bees swarm and rub against each other Making their tiny bodies so hot That the hornet dies a fiery death full of horror and chafing legs. I'm not ashamed to admit That I like to think of that as a beautiful metaphor For me being way too hot for you, anyways. Baby, what I'm trying to say is that This poem is our initials carved into a tree That I will never fall out of again. This poem is the end of a thin, red string, With nothing else attached. This poem is the eulogy of the childhood I am about to forget And the prologue of my adulthood I haven't written yet. I never lost you. I only gained myself. I spent 367 days trying to pluck Your name out of the spaces in-between my teeth, And it was only until I found China again, That it fell out of my mouth And into the dirt For the earth worms to eat.

0

Oct 15, 2014

Oct 15, 2014 at 3:19 PM UTC

oisaeu

This Is The Last Poem I Will Ever Write About You. Seriously.

This is the last poem I will ever write about you. Seriously. I spent 367 days trying to pluck your name Out of the spaces in-between my teeth. I got so desperate that I picked up recreational flossing. The taste of dish soap coats my tongue As I think about being seven again And having my mouth scrubbed with Dawn because I said a bad word. It was much easier learning my lessons back then. Baby, I loved you like a child locked out of the house during daylight. Wildly, freely, without any underwear on. Your voice echoed within me like a million cicadas Dancing and singing. Keeping me up at night. You were summer sweat and tangled hair. You were sand spurs and ant bites in between my fingers. When I was little I domesticated a pool full of toads So I could train and use them to take over the world. No person should ever be allowed that much power, Especially a child. But the point is, At a young age I learned how to love Things that could never love me back- The bugs I found underneath rocks, The slimy, sticky creatures that have no Understanding of nurture, just instinct- The animals that only know how to be afraid And survive and **** And I guess that's why I loved you so much. I gave you a handful of earthworms and You told me I had dirt under my nails. You never asked me about my scars, Your hands skipped over them like words You didn't understand the meaning of. While you choked on your silver spoon, I used plastic forks to dig through the earth In hopes to find gold, But I found China instead. Sometimes I wish I never came back. Since this is the last poem I will ever write about you, Seriously, Let me clarify, Very Clearly, That I was never your honey. Baby, I am the entire bee colony. I am an intricate network of flower dust and star particles, Gardens grow at my feet. I am a force of golden, powerful life, One that carries the weight of the entire universe, unfolding. You see, My Papa used to tell me a lot of stories about bees. Like when a hornet invades a bee hive, The bees swarm and rub against each other Making their tiny bodies so hot That the hornet dies a fiery death full of horror and chafing legs. I'm not ashamed to admit That I like to think of that as a beautiful metaphor For me being way too hot for you, anyways. Baby, what I'm trying to say is that This poem is our initials carved into a tree That I will never fall out of again. This poem is the end of a thin, red string, With nothing else attached. This poem is the eulogy of the childhood I am about to forget And the prologue of my adulthood I haven't written yet. I never lost you. I only gained myself. I spent 367 days trying to pluck Your name out of the spaces in-between my teeth, And it was only until I found China again, That it fell out of my mouth And into the dirt For the earth worms to eat.

73

Coffee stains and cigarette butts I've found good company on the frame of a couch. Everyone else sleeps while I reach the bottom of my broken mug. It's funny how often I find myself at the bottom. It's rainy in Portland. Just as expected. There's a girl much more beautiful than me Half asleep Half dead Dying In between sheets of complacency. She is delicate and sometimes I worry that her cotton sheets will scrape the skin right off her bones. . I've waited three days for the sky to stop leaking, I've waited three days for the clouds to mend themselves like I've had to my entire life But no amount of brushing under the rug will suffice this time. I think about where I am And how these hands belong to me. They're small and rough and They've touched too many things. I am nowhere and the tiniest accident. I think about the planets and I think about the dead stars stuck underneath my skin Waiting to break the thick surface And reach other galaxies. I get carried away and slip into Jupiter, It's red storms and galactic dust burying me beneath mountains star things just like me. There is a girl much more beautiful than me Half asleep Half dead Dying In between sheets of complacency. She talks about losing her belly button And the secrets I have to keep.

0

Jun 8, 2014

Jun 8, 2014 at 12:16 AM UTC

oisaeu

pdx

Coffee stains and cigarette butts I've found good company on the frame of a couch. Everyone else sleeps while I reach the bottom of my broken mug. It's funny how often I find myself at the bottom. It's rainy in Portland. Just as expected. There's a girl much more beautiful than me Half asleep Half dead Dying In between sheets of complacency. She is delicate and sometimes I worry that her cotton sheets will scrape the skin right off her bones. . I've waited three days for the sky to stop leaking, I've waited three days for the clouds to mend themselves like I've had to my entire life But no amount of brushing under the rug will suffice this time. I think about where I am And how these hands belong to me. They're small and rough and They've touched too many things. I am nowhere and the tiniest accident. I think about the planets and I think about the dead stars stuck underneath my skin Waiting to break the thick surface And reach other galaxies. I get carried away and slip into Jupiter, It's red storms and galactic dust burying me beneath mountains star things just like me. There is a girl much more beautiful than me Half asleep Half dead Dying In between sheets of complacency. She talks about losing her belly button And the secrets I have to keep.

33

I hardly know what I'm doing As I ask the clerk for a pack of naturals behind the counter. My make-up from yesterday's shift preserved nicely, So the exchange followed suit. I'm not good at this. Naturally. Fifteen minutes before walking into the convenient store I paced the empty terminals of a car wash Rehearsing my demeanor and forced eye contact. I hate eye contact. Stand tall and look confident. But not too confident. Be charming, But not desperate. Don't try to be **** (You're not **** I'm four foot ten And twenty years old. Buying a pack of cigarettes for an addiction I don't carry Shouldn't be this hard. I'm not damaged, I'm not drunk. I'm not struggling, And I'm certainly not a cigarette smoker. But I'm here, In Boston, Stuck in-between the fibers of a girl Who writes bad poetry and Hardly knows what she's doing with much of anything. Naturally.

0

May 4, 2014

May 4, 2014 at 1:09 AM UTC

oisaeu

(optional)

I hardly know what I'm doing As I ask the clerk for a pack of naturals behind the counter. My make-up from yesterday's shift preserved nicely, So the exchange followed suit. I'm not good at this. Naturally. Fifteen minutes before walking into the convenient store I paced the empty terminals of a car wash Rehearsing my demeanor and forced eye contact. I hate eye contact. Stand tall and look confident. But not too confident. Be charming, But not desperate. Don't try to be **** (You're not **** I'm four foot ten And twenty years old. Buying a pack of cigarettes for an addiction I don't carry Shouldn't be this hard. I'm not damaged, I'm not drunk. I'm not struggling, And I'm certainly not a cigarette smoker. But I'm here, In Boston, Stuck in-between the fibers of a girl Who writes bad poetry and Hardly knows what she's doing with much of anything. Naturally.

30

He told me he loved my long hair, the way it framed my face. Accentuated my green eyes. A sort of beautiful nesting place. And so I cut it off. He told me he loved the way I loved Jesus. My faith was inspiring. He admired me. I was what he believed. And so I stopped praying. He told me he loved that I was chaste. So pure. his ravenous heart found a cure, between my legs. And now it's his. He hated cigarettes with a passion, I smoked them all ****** and ashen. He thought it was endearing, the way I cringed at vulgarity. My filthy mouth was once a rarity. But my new favorite word was **** He hated drugs, and so I did them. He loved me, and so I didn't. I pushed and pulled and twisted and fought, until he didn't know who he loved. And so he forgot.

0

oisaeu

May 4, 2014

May 4, 2014 at 12:43 AM UTC

bekka-walker

Tinker

He told me he loved my long hair, the way it framed my face. Accentuated my green eyes. A sort of beautiful nesting place. And so I cut it off. He told me he loved the way I loved Jesus. My faith was inspiring. He admired me. I was what he believed. And so I stopped praying. He told me he loved that I was chaste. So pure. his ravenous heart found a cure, between my legs. And now it's his. He hated cigarettes with a passion, I smoked them all ****** and ashen. He thought it was endearing, the way I cringed at vulgarity. My filthy mouth was once a rarity. But my new favorite word was **** He hated drugs, and so I did them. He loved me, and so I didn't. I pushed and pulled and twisted and fought, until he didn't know who he loved. And so he forgot.

28

I'm stupidly sad over a boy that's not mine. I'm stupidly sad thinking of them waiting in line. For a concert we never got to see, An embodiment of you and me. I know you held her hand, and sang her those lyrics that now I can't stand. Battling spite. Those things we shared late late at night. I'm stupidly sad over a boy that's not mine. When will this heal? Where's my bandaid of time?

0

oisaeu

Apr 29, 2014

Apr 29, 2014 at 11:55 AM UTC

bekka-walker

Bandaid of time

I'm stupidly sad over a boy that's not mine. I'm stupidly sad thinking of them waiting in line. For a concert we never got to see, An embodiment of you and me. I know you held her hand, and sang her those lyrics that now I can't stand. Battling spite. Those things we shared late late at night. I'm stupidly sad over a boy that's not mine. When will this heal? Where's my bandaid of time?

11

I am writing this poem as a letter of reference for my uncultured heart, Unedited and uncensored and Unlike the affections I so willingly gave you. You read me your poems As if I were the first girl to receive them, And boy, Did I receive them. I took them and their delicate lettering that traced My name written boldly and profoundly in the center As if the world was handing itself over to me. To: Olivia From: Jupiter No return address. I kept your smooth words and slipped them into my coffee, Tucked them underneath my pillow case, And folded them into a book I virginally scribbled in. I found them scattered across the night's sky And sewn into the shirt you loved on me. I planted them in good soil waiting for spring. My good, rich soil. Untouched and unused. I Watered them carefully and buried them with a warmth That the sun itself couldn't radiate. You lit me up and I was burning so wildly for you. For you, Jupiter. My garden was beautiful, full. Plentiful. Abundant. Good, rich. Untouched and unused. And little white lilies began to sprout and dot the I's of your I love yous, I miss yous, I was thinking about you, I love you, I miss you. I was thinking about you. I love you. I miss you. I was thinking about you, Jupi. But drier than your recycled sentiments, My soil Became parched and emaciated As more of your lilies grew. My coffee became bitter, My pillow case as soft as sand paper. The small, black journal I carefully pressed flowers with Now stained and sopping wet with Your cheap ink That ran down my skin and into Creases you left your finger prints. Your lilies, though small and sweet, Were deadlier than any poison ivy I'd ever touched previously. The little plot of earth I saved for myself Was now a pile of your cigarette ash And venomous weeds. I burned so wildly for you, But without you. For you, Not with you. I was another one of your American Spirits, Smoked, put out and Tossed into the grave of another fruitless harvest. Taken, left, and used.

0

Apr 29, 2014

Apr 29, 2014 at 12:46 AM UTC

oisaeu

Lily of the Valley

I am writing this poem as a letter of reference for my uncultured heart, Unedited and uncensored and Unlike the affections I so willingly gave you. You read me your poems As if I were the first girl to receive them, And boy, Did I receive them. I took them and their delicate lettering that traced My name written boldly and profoundly in the center As if the world was handing itself over to me. To: Olivia From: Jupiter No return address. I kept your smooth words and slipped them into my coffee, Tucked them underneath my pillow case, And folded them into a book I virginally scribbled in. I found them scattered across the night's sky And sewn into the shirt you loved on me. I planted them in good soil waiting for spring. My good, rich soil. Untouched and unused. I Watered them carefully and buried them with a warmth That the sun itself couldn't radiate. You lit me up and I was burning so wildly for you. For you, Jupiter. My garden was beautiful, full. Plentiful. Abundant. Good, rich. Untouched and unused. And little white lilies began to sprout and dot the I's of your I love yous, I miss yous, I was thinking about you, I love you, I miss you. I was thinking about you. I love you. I miss you. I was thinking about you, Jupi. But drier than your recycled sentiments, My soil Became parched and emaciated As more of your lilies grew. My coffee became bitter, My pillow case as soft as sand paper. The small, black journal I carefully pressed flowers with Now stained and sopping wet with Your cheap ink That ran down my skin and into Creases you left your finger prints. Your lilies, though small and sweet, Were deadlier than any poison ivy I'd ever touched previously. The little plot of earth I saved for myself Was now a pile of your cigarette ash And venomous weeds. I burned so wildly for you, But without you. For you, Not with you. I was another one of your American Spirits, Smoked, put out and Tossed into the grave of another fruitless harvest. Taken, left, and used.

64

Flirting with the brim of a dripping cauldron of jealousy, feet sloshing around in all the hate. I heard once, if you fill a bathtub with tobacco water and give it a soak, your body will drink it in, and it will make you sick. That thought crosses my mind as my skin turns a sensational green, the same as the dripping/sloshing/sucking cauldron I slip. Sinking deeper into the sloshing/sucking/stunning green goo, stunned. I attempt to claw myself out, sinister, colder than I thought, calcifying. Her perfect little fingers wrapped around my ankles. Drowned in a dripping cauldron of jealousy, silently suffering in all the hate.

0

oisaeu

Apr 28, 2014

Apr 28, 2014 at 11:59 PM UTC

bekka-walker

Bathtub of Tobacco

Flirting with the brim of a dripping cauldron of jealousy, feet sloshing around in all the hate. I heard once, if you fill a bathtub with tobacco water and give it a soak, your body will drink it in, and it will make you sick. That thought crosses my mind as my skin turns a sensational green, the same as the dripping/sloshing/sucking cauldron I slip. Sinking deeper into the sloshing/sucking/stunning green goo, stunned. I attempt to claw myself out, sinister, colder than I thought, calcifying. Her perfect little fingers wrapped around my ankles. Drowned in a dripping cauldron of jealousy, silently suffering in all the hate.

14

I woke up late today and looked in between my sheets Hoping to meet the Corners of the body I loved too much And too often hid myself underneath. The safety of your sleep So close Pulling the universe inside of me. I couldn't find you Did you leave again? I made the bed that is now to big for me Evening out the Wrinkles of your space Only to find a receipt And a thumb tack that fell behind the side table. I put it in my pocket And allowed the cool air to Bite my lungs As I stared at the tapestry you hung for me Because I was too short to reach. (I could never reach.) Where did you go? I checked underneath the hanging sheet Longing to meet the arms I lost too easily in the night The familiar comfort of your warmth Slowly extinguishing itself From me. I opened the window Inviting the sun to fill the space Of my empty room But the clouds slipped in and Lingered in your chair Behind the door that I can no longer sit in. Where are you hiding? I ran downstairs with a handful of creamer To make coffee for two Only to find the mugs we shared Were already used. Will you be back? I looked outside hoping to meet you And forgive you for your temporary absence. The safety of you I took for granted My desperation to touch you And keep you safe And comfort you And hold you Slowly paralyzing the uneven beats Of my swelling heart. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry I didn't mean it, I take it back. I understand. I wish I knew. Will you be back? But as it turns out I woke up early enough To say good bye Instead of good morning And good luck As the sun came in And buried itself underneath The salty dunes dusted around the corners Of my eyes That could no longer find you.

0

Apr 25, 2014

Apr 25, 2014 at 5:46 PM UTC

oisaeu

.{ familiar }.

I woke up late today and looked in between my sheets Hoping to meet the Corners of the body I loved too much And too often hid myself underneath. The safety of your sleep So close Pulling the universe inside of me. I couldn't find you Did you leave again? I made the bed that is now to big for me Evening out the Wrinkles of your space Only to find a receipt And a thumb tack that fell behind the side table. I put it in my pocket And allowed the cool air to Bite my lungs As I stared at the tapestry you hung for me Because I was too short to reach. (I could never reach.) Where did you go? I checked underneath the hanging sheet Longing to meet the arms I lost too easily in the night The familiar comfort of your warmth Slowly extinguishing itself From me. I opened the window Inviting the sun to fill the space Of my empty room But the clouds slipped in and Lingered in your chair Behind the door that I can no longer sit in. Where are you hiding? I ran downstairs with a handful of creamer To make coffee for two Only to find the mugs we shared Were already used. Will you be back? I looked outside hoping to meet you And forgive you for your temporary absence. The safety of you I took for granted My desperation to touch you And keep you safe And comfort you And hold you Slowly paralyzing the uneven beats Of my swelling heart. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry I didn't mean it, I take it back. I understand. I wish I knew. Will you be back? But as it turns out I woke up early enough To say good bye Instead of good morning And good luck As the sun came in And buried itself underneath The salty dunes dusted around the corners Of my eyes That could no longer find you.

65

Today I found your toothbrush Sitting in the same cup as mine I stared at it Remembering that you were Here only a week ago With a bad case of morning breath And my toothpaste tucked in the corner Of your smile. Hesitantly waking up I stared at it Remembering that you were Here only a week ago My concept of time Now revolving around the way You touched me Only a week ago The way you loved me Only a week ago This toothbrush This blue toothbrush I bought from the dollar store Brushing along the tremors of my Uneven breath threatened to Defeat me Threatened to put me back to sleep and Try again tomorrow Resolve the reoccurring bouts Of sadness tomorrow. But instead I looked at it I looked at your toothbrush with a certain familiarity I looked at your toothbrush with a sincere smile And remembered that I was lucky enough to share my space With someone Only a week ago I was lucky enough to fill my room with Comfort and soft conversations Only a week ago I was lucky enough to See you again Lucky enough to touch you again Lucky enough to bother you again Only a week ago And for the first time For the very first time I looked at everything I gained Instead of my impending losses My expired emptiness and hollow thoughts. Because I realized Only a week ago The entire world unfolded itself in front of me And gave me Two toothbrushes.

0

Apr 25, 2014

Apr 25, 2014 at 5:32 PM UTC

oisaeu

.{ mourning breath }.

Today I found your toothbrush Sitting in the same cup as mine I stared at it Remembering that you were Here only a week ago With a bad case of morning breath And my toothpaste tucked in the corner Of your smile. Hesitantly waking up I stared at it Remembering that you were Here only a week ago My concept of time Now revolving around the way You touched me Only a week ago The way you loved me Only a week ago This toothbrush This blue toothbrush I bought from the dollar store Brushing along the tremors of my Uneven breath threatened to Defeat me Threatened to put me back to sleep and Try again tomorrow Resolve the reoccurring bouts Of sadness tomorrow. But instead I looked at it I looked at your toothbrush with a certain familiarity I looked at your toothbrush with a sincere smile And remembered that I was lucky enough to share my space With someone Only a week ago I was lucky enough to fill my room with Comfort and soft conversations Only a week ago I was lucky enough to See you again Lucky enough to touch you again Lucky enough to bother you again Only a week ago And for the first time For the very first time I looked at everything I gained Instead of my impending losses My expired emptiness and hollow thoughts. Because I realized Only a week ago The entire world unfolded itself in front of me And gave me Two toothbrushes.

53

i am a terrible poet. the words i tied together in attempt to annunciate  the way your kisses felt along the soft of my  cheeks were mediocre and just barely enough.  just barely.  there weren't enough ways that i could describe the mouthful  of stars that spilled at the seams of my  lips as you gently traced them with warm finger tips.  mm, your finger tips.  your finger tips felt like a personal extension from god himself as  they dusted the empty jars i left untouched  in the forgotten spaces of me.  you held them tightly and filled them to the top  with a breathful of morning secrets  and hidden places to meet.  i found you.  i found you and allowed the words to slip  through my small hands  as you kissed my palms gently and sweetly  and folded them into your own to keep for just a little bit. ( i could stay here) i could lay underneath your tired smiles  and messy hair  until stars realigned themselves and directed  me to you all over again. ( i could stay here)  i could tangle in-between your pale sheets and make up all the words that  effortlessly translate the way i melted and simmered  at the sheer thought of waking up and knowing you again.  i could illustrate all of the galaxies you whispered  onto the trail of my back with  colors and warmth i never knew  and turn them into poorly strung together,  black and white strings of thought.  you were my favorite secret  and the cause of all of my writer’s block. (i could stay here)  i’ve lived in florida my entire life  and have spent more days than i can count  under the sun and in the wake of rays that always burned,  but i’ve never felt more warmth than lying underneath  your expired thoughts and eclipsing eyes  as the moon seeped through your broken window blinds.  i forgot what it was like to breathe  until you took my face sweetly and sincerely and kissed me. the paragraphs and ellipses that perforated my parenthetical sighs of relief stained the corners of my mouth and lingered long enough for me to remember the after taste of your recycled sunshine as you left me. i am a terrible poet, but a better kept secret it seems.

0

Apr 24, 2014

Apr 24, 2014 at 2:56 PM UTC

oisaeu

.{ mason jars }.

i am a terrible poet. the words i tied together in attempt to annunciate  the way your kisses felt along the soft of my  cheeks were mediocre and just barely enough.  just barely.  there weren't enough ways that i could describe the mouthful  of stars that spilled at the seams of my  lips as you gently traced them with warm finger tips.  mm, your finger tips.  your finger tips felt like a personal extension from god himself as  they dusted the empty jars i left untouched  in the forgotten spaces of me.  you held them tightly and filled them to the top  with a breathful of morning secrets  and hidden places to meet.  i found you.  i found you and allowed the words to slip  through my small hands  as you kissed my palms gently and sweetly  and folded them into your own to keep for just a little bit. ( i could stay here) i could lay underneath your tired smiles  and messy hair  until stars realigned themselves and directed  me to you all over again. ( i could stay here)  i could tangle in-between your pale sheets and make up all the words that  effortlessly translate the way i melted and simmered  at the sheer thought of waking up and knowing you again.  i could illustrate all of the galaxies you whispered  onto the trail of my back with  colors and warmth i never knew  and turn them into poorly strung together,  black and white strings of thought.  you were my favorite secret  and the cause of all of my writer’s block. (i could stay here)  i’ve lived in florida my entire life  and have spent more days than i can count  under the sun and in the wake of rays that always burned,  but i’ve never felt more warmth than lying underneath  your expired thoughts and eclipsing eyes  as the moon seeped through your broken window blinds.  i forgot what it was like to breathe  until you took my face sweetly and sincerely and kissed me. the paragraphs and ellipses that perforated my parenthetical sighs of relief stained the corners of my mouth and lingered long enough for me to remember the after taste of your recycled sunshine as you left me. i am a terrible poet, but a better kept secret it seems.

58