Your eyes, they speak,

I’m trembling, so weak,

your hair, seems to dance,

your touch, what a dance,

like a ballroom,

and two, intertwined,

humans who, become more,

more than two, become me,

becomes you.

But I doubt, my stare,

my desire, my care,

will get you to dance,

or say hello,

or even glance my way.



So for now, I’ll write,

about you, and the night,

till the day, you look my way,

and I give you my hand,

and ask you, for this dance.

Click here to go to the poem. Sorry to do this to you but I want to have all my poems in one place.

https://youngmanpoetry.wordpress.com/2015/12/22/beauty-is-a-narcissist/

Siri. Type this:

More memories. Less Facebook moments.

Let’s go back to concerts filled with lighters — warm seas of flame,

instead of stadiums filled with phones and waves of blue light that keeps us from sleeping at night.

Our phones, it looks like we’re all telling one big ghost story around the campfire — our faces lit up from underneath in the dark.

It’s like a part of our bodies, a mollusk’s shell,

That we won’t outgrow until it’s torn from us and we’re eaten, still fresh.

It’s like we call it Facetime because that’s what we need, but don’t have.

Since when is being viral a good thing?

Viral means an infectious disease.

Viral Viral Viral.

I feel like I need a ****** just to surf the web.

I honestly can’t have a conversation with a person

without toying at my phone anymore.

We post our beautiful stories on snapchat,

the colorful blurred days of our lives,

and let it slip away into the ether.

Your stories are still interesting even after 24 hours.

Seeing that red notification, knowing I’m special, I’m wanted, I’m special.

when it turns out to be another Farmville invite.

Talk about crutches. Nitze called religion a crutch but at least religion helps people walk. Phones make people run into things.

I wonder if the New Messiah will have a social media account.

We are so close to just hooking up our phones to traveling robot vehicles and navigating our world from our home.

The future’s hangouts will be phones arranged in a circle

on a table,

all on Facetime,

as we take shots,

in our rooms alone.

Jerry smiles because he isn’t wearing pants

but no one can tell.

Our phones only show what’s on top.

Please share this poem, by the way.


For videos of my reading my poems, visit https://mateilatte.wordpress.com/content/poetry/

Stopped at a red light,
no one else around.

You roll down the window,
there's not a single sound.

You look into the darkness,
you look into the night,
you scream,
yah you cy
yah you scream

I wish I'd ******* die

I sit my backpack down on the university bathroom floor with a clink.
I pull my pants down so I blend in to the other collection of feet below the stall walls.
Balancing the large glass bottle between my thighs --
I pick up the unwieldy weight and strangle its neck - I lip it.
I pull in *****, no chaser, like the rappers do.
Throat-clenching cold, metallic liquid,

I try not to retch.
Humming represses the gag reflex.

My best friend asks me why my breath smells like alcohol.
It’s 12:30 on a Tuesday and I’m chewing gum.

I stumble home for miles after a party on the cuff of dark roadway with shooting star cars bulleting by.
I just want my bed.
I violently stick my ***** finger nail down my throat.
I feel much better.

A girl asks me what I was reading at a coffee shop.
I’m too hungover to keep a conversation going.

I fall asleep to the view of a crumbling mountain of beer cans beside my bed.

I take shots before having to make a phone call.

***** looks like water until you shake it.

A nerve pinching, vertebrae crushing chronic back pain sets in.
I drink to numb the pain.

Hidden bottles and cans lay under my my bed in my house back home in Saint Louis.
My dad pulls me aside and timidly tells me I have a weird, dead, look on my face at a family party.

A poem that doesn’t make sense when I read it in the morning.
Haywire words that might have been beautiful.

A google search.
Has anyone died from cirrhosis at the age of 20?

A body-wide rash that was the result of 1.75 liters of ***** over the course of a weekend.
The toxins seep from my pores.

The rest of the lines are whited out.

It's over. We are through.

You keep the sun. You always
were partial to the mornings,
pretending to sleep so I didn't have to wake up,
but you were probably just staring at the ceiling
lost in thought. I don't really need it,
the only time I like the sun is when it's setting.
You take your cigarettes and stray cats which
I'm allergic to.

I'll take the moon, but you can have the
time it was blood orange. You didn't even want to watch, I kept looking up at it as it slowly changed.
The nighttime drives and the parking garage top floors are both mine.
You have to give me back my poems,
words and ***** texts. Although I guess
you can keep this one so we have a record of what's mine and yours.

I'll take my soft touch along your spine and gentle kisses,
you take the rough, chaotic ones where our teeth clink.

There's no divorce lawyer to help us,
but I think you should keep the dances we've had,
because you are a terrible dancer.
I'll take the time you said yes,
to getting coffee with me,
because you said “why not.”

And so it's over, but I think
we ended up with more than we started with.
We'll share “Latch,” because I can never let go of the way you smilingly
mouthed the words to that song as you looked at me like
you loved who I was  and how you felt with the lights dimmed
and your eyes shining like the moon.

Were probably murmured by
a quiet one, sitting alone on a couch,
who would one day be homeless -
asking for money and half-crazy
watched by police and passerby,
but ignored when he told us about the tenth planet from the sun.