Laura

Laura Jun 2018

Is it?

I wish I could love
in the same tender kisses
that I loved then.
These pink Sunday skies,
and your red gym shorts
too long.

I wish I could smile
through the same blonde roasts,
same blue water creases,
but I can only accept
blue mornings before work
and his undone hairs.

I wish I could give
and receive.
In the same sweet
voices and hold you
like I wanted you.
I don't want you.

I wish I could lie.
I wish I could talk to you
like an old friend.
Give you a hug,
as if it was a simple
greeting.

I wish I could know you.
But I can't.
I never could.
It's never that simple

Is it?

dawggggg idkkkk????? lol just working through emotions tbh not a real anything for me

Laura Jun 2018

?

Cohesively graced
in soft warm browns.
Never going slowly,
but i have gone.
To see new moons,
the shaking falls
of forearms and
river bends.
I have turned in
muds like a lotus,
a hypocrite anew.
Drowning in dirts
for perspective,
for answers,
for hope,
but not for you.

a lot of lotus metaphores my apology

Laura Jun 2018

Pretty Little Lackluster

your magnetic strung up
hydro fields sit in this
delicious precarious
silver storm
of my new June

your rain tethers on
into gentle purple trees
across from the NE window
where I sit perched
in May's altostratus fogs

your gliding about
the unrequited escapings
of my consciousness
or lack-there-of
my unresolved words
now tracing across lined sheets
of which I sip relentlessly

i am thriving
off unreliable narrators
to which I cannot name
achilles' heels
to which I cannot see

neither you nor I
can make sweets
out of
these bitter
and too often
extended
metaphors

Laura May 2018

I Feel Bad for the Lotus

Quiet Easters awake the spirit
in a shiny April dusk.
Where you call him "Baby"
by Mum's purpled hydrangeas.

Crossing many desolate fields
in hopes of finding cheerful Forget-Me-Nots.
You have found sorrowful stories
of holy ghosts arising,
and then falling.

Spilling out
of passing spring dwellings,
with trees holding far too many rings.
Strong and sturdy,
yet knocked down for a pretty penny.

I wish we could be
milled, burnt, and wrote on.
Growing out of muds
like the words on this paper.

Like mother nature,
I've been fooled into thinking
I was more than I am.
But only until man makes me,
something I am not.

Laura May 2018

Curtain Call

Draw me in like curtains,
                   sheen whites,
holding onto
                   morning lights.
Legs asleep,
                  minds dreaming.
Your eyes are
                   forever reading
crispy morning
                     Toronto Stars.
Just a Sunday moment
                    fleeting?
Or someday a memory,
                    but,
                    i am
                    only
                    ever
                    dreaming.

because writers write about things that are not real, and when I pick up my pen it is always a curtain call - wish me broken legs

Laura May 2018

Class-less

Rural summer
    simmering and splashing
into shattered empties,
    stark parking lots,
        and suburban love triangles.
But quiet,
    onto 4am dusks -
skip every other step,
      timid wood always wakes parents.
Soon,
   play The Kooks vinyl in the morning,
skip every radio station
      into your 9 to 5 day,
while smiling in
               your dads ancient Subaru.

not great just felt like writing

Laura Apr 2018

late night thoughts

loving someone
does not stop
at the pain
they caused you,
or the pain
you caused them.

it exists somewhere
deep within the mind
between suffering and forgiveness -
because forgiveness IS love,
and that sliver will always remain.

not a real poem by my standards just a piece i've been resting on for a while now

I always have love for the people who were there for me and taught me the lessons I need. I will always have love for anyone who's showed me some, and I will never hate anyone who's ever been themselves to me - those are the truest most soulful people.

I hope one day they see that, and get that I do have love for them, and could never hate them and all the parts of me I gave. I could never hate myself for the parts of me that they gave to me - can't hate myself for the person they helped raise in character, lesson, and love.