Here I am
another Saturday
I've woken up
with a smokers cough
heaving
at my lungs
like a slow roasting
fire
I've been
smoking
more cigars
lately

Usually seven
would last me
about a week.
Now that many can
only hold it down for
three days
maybe four

I drag myself out of bed
fumble around searching
for my glasses and of course
the phone
I manage to
slug myself to
the bathroom
pop an
Adderall
make my way
out to the porch
I light up a smoke
the cold wind
strikes my
exposed body parts
giving me the chills
**** Texas weather
it's either too hot
or too cold
kind of like me

Still

it doesn't stop
my routine of
having a few hits
my will power
is a slave
to the
rituals.

As I sit there
mean mugging
the cloudy but
still bright sky
I feel the Adderall
kick in
I'm ready to
tackle
the list of chores


With a toothbrush
and some foam cleaner
I scrub
at the bathroom sink
each little blob of
tooth paste spit
gets focused on
and scrutinized
just as I do
with my insecurities

Tossing a foaming
cleanser bomb
in the toilet
it volcanoes up to the brim
kinda like my emotions
have been
these past
few weeks

I scrub at that for a while
living with two boys
can cause **** to go
and get
in
to
everything

I hand wash all of
my black stockings
in the tub
rinse and
wring them out
and hang them
one by one
on the shower pole

There
as they drip
getting ready
to be worn
through the
work week
I sit on the
edge of the tub
and write this poem
despite all the ****

it was still a good Saturday morning

H as in, How could you do this to me?!
H happens when you least expect it!
H for, How happy are you now?
H to, Hello all my unanswered text and calls!
H is to, Hell with promises
H is the first letter in the word Helpless
H isn't the letter f for **** all of this.
H for you're always at a party and never Home.
H for my name is Hope
because that's what I was full of
before I met you.

H is what does she have that I don't have?!
H for , our Holidays were fixing to be together
H for I feel like a stupid ***
H is for, Hoes have feelings too!
H is for, to Hell the fact your name begins
with an N and not giving a **** what
this is all doing to me.

H for humiliating your so called "nagging wife"
who wanted good morning texts,
"What are you doing?" responses
and letting me know when your making
plans without me.
I only wanted to feel a
part of your everyday life
because you're so far away!
Yeah
but to hell with that too right?
As long as you get out
of the cage that is me.
Yes, to hell to the 2 years of love
because **** taking accountability
             This final H is for
              Hope this poem finds you
               because I haven't been able to...

Carry me in the wind
from the funeral of my heart
a cathedral of loneliness dies
the moment
you spoke my name.

This heart aches every moment
your hands carve into my soul.
Reaching through my soil
up rooting the dirt
exposing the corpse that is me.
Love's violet hues consumed with you
I'd die again
        and again
                  to be buried in your love

An unmarked grave
drowns in shades.
Whiskey as dark as your gaze
cooled with whispers of water
to smooth the taste of your fire
an ember lost in snow-
housed within cemeteries gates.

Usher me in a casket
classic and romantic
silk pressed with satin pearl.
Dye these roses to match the
tattoo vines that cage your arms.
keep me in your embrace
held closer than death.
use my ribs
   fragile and thin
       to break into the woman
          that lies
            helplessly with you.
Casketed in me, casketed in you.

touch me gently
kiss me slowly
      escape in us
        chisel a path that
            death herself can't break free of
               let this moment outlive the grave.

your loose tobacco is
   still on my bed side dresser.
on a brown rectangle tray
  dried out leaves
    shriveled from lack of moisture
     along side a vase of dead roses.
       even the moon dims it's gaze
       it's silver light thinner without you.
         everything mourns your departure

   this house feels less than in your absence.
    i miss you, so i wear your clothes  
  no longer does lace grace these hips
    nor silk lay on this flesh
      for your palms are far
     from the peach orchard
    heavy showers
  cast dew on hand held mangos.
    it's been days
  since I've coated my pucker
   with red cherries
     for your lip stain is far from me.

       when the moon brings the cold
      the stars spill
      their ***** tonic waters.
     celestial bodies drink and weep
   pouring gallons of salted rose on
  the open wounds in the marsh.
    
         Lilies brush the scent
       of apple crisp,
       that refreshed the skin
        between my breast
        where you laid
         and I cradled your crown
         sweet scents of beautiful
            feathered doves
      
         all the night long
        I seek you in my bed
        where your ghost
       offers a bouquet of ripe
    grapes—their sweetness
    crushed by the weight of waiting  
    reminding me I've pressed your wine
      I tango with the shadow of amor
       keeping this heart beating
        tormented but clinging
          sugar coated covenant promise
             that I'll hide under my tongue
              until the day
               you're back home again.

I told him that I needed some space.
That I think if we had it
we'd be on better terms.

So he gave it to me..
the space between his shoulder
and elbow.
Some space on his chest
where I could rest my
oh
so
tired
head.

There
right there
where his heart beats
the fear right out of my skin.
There is where I slept,
longer than I normally
would have.
My manic mind
usually puts a
choke hold on sleep
much later in the night.
He slept too, even
though he hadn't been
awake for too long.
'Go ahead and rest my love '
is what he spoke to me.

Sometimes all we need is a little space.

There's a fire
in my chest.
It's burning in
water.
The steam
fogs my glasses.
As being on the verge
of breaking down
draws ever so closer.

Closer than a lover
closer than the
decaying yellow
from the vines of
a dead fern.
So much closer than
the smoke-stained paint
which coats the walls of my home
an off-white uselessness.

Carrying an anchor
so far
from the sea,
it bears a toll on me.
Half dead
hunched over
waiting for
a candle's light to
reach my
ever-growing darkness.

My body is half buried
in the dying Texas blue grass.
The worms
maggots
and circling birds
hungry to tear away
at the flesh of a dead poet.

There's nothing like
waking up at dawn.
The plants and the trees
are bare.
Each blade of grass
is either brown or green.
The quiet demands silence.
Even the cats
that follow
me outside
lower their heads
to show some respect
to the quiet.

I collapse, surrendering
to the rocking chair
My eyes still heavy
from only having a few hours of sleep.
The pills haven't worn off yet.

A half-smoked cigar is in my hand.
I take it to my lips
flick the Bic
and give it a long kiss.
Inhaling enough smoke
to fill my lungs.
Leaning back in the chair
I release a stream
of smoke.
Sitting there watching
nothing happen.
It feels good.

Until my mind starts up again.
Like a record on repeat.
The static
and flashes of
all the episodes
with every word
drowning my brain
with loads of cheap whiskey.
I question myself,
Will I be able to make it today?
Can I outrun
this hurricane
at least for
another day?

It's awkward being around so
much stillness and having a
tornado inside.
From a perspective of
someone people watching
I'd just look like a normal lady
sitting outside enjoying
their morning cigar.
They're partially right,

It was a **** good cigar.

He watches me
going crazy in agony.
With his dark brown eyes
that hold me hostage.
His eyes don't follow me
neither do his ears or
mouth.

It hurts to be in love.

Being put on the back burner
left to forget
or told to sit in the corner
for being a bad girl again.
I've drawn all over the walls
with permanent markers
and the paint peels
when trying to clean it off.

There isn't much I wouldn't do
for him.
I would shoot up a car he was in.
Pick the most beautiful abstract art.
Jump off a cliff to land on broken
glass bottles
and try with my lack of skill
to pen him even more beautiful
love poetry.

I feel lost
in my own house.
My heart is like
a race horse running it's last lap.
Every noise startles me
and he's no where to be found.
Not to comfort
or to hold
He's just vacant
with no room at the inn for me.

I've written him hundreds of
poetry. Even when he left me
I still
kept writing.
I'm a fool
I know.
and the sadness that
comes with it all
saturates my sheets
keeps my head foggy
and my bed empty.

Being in love is hard.
When you have no one to talk to,
and strangers get the best parts of
him.
What's left for me?
scraps in a metal bowl
that his father kicks around
because it's in the way.

I couldn't let go of him
Even when he demanded I do.
Now we're here in this space of
being together but not.
and I cry
into my pills
into my cup of tea
and it over flows
becoming salty.

Where do I go from this.
I feel it slowly breaking inside.
Being not heard or understood
on top of it all makes even more
tears kiss my pillow at night.

After I ash out the final cigar of the
night. After trying to talk to him
but he couldn't choose between me
and a computer game.

I think the answer is louder than my silence.

I'm a crazy woman you know.
That's what
all the men tell me.
Even though
I'm not the first
to yell or
even the last to.

I've learned.
Don't ever tell
your partner
what diagnosis
the psychologist
tell you.
They will use it to
slit your wrist,
arms,
and soft
under belly.
Gutting you like a fish
getting ready to be fried on
a scorching pan.

They'll make you question
what had happened
and what was said.
Remember I'm the nut job here.
Not the schizophrenic man
who yells at the black blob
on the floor.

He knows exactly what happened
so don't you dare question.
It will turn into a ping pong game
one that will wear you down
and make you want to
spend all your money in your bank account.
Do a lot of drugs,
smash your face into a plastic screen

Yes, yes I see the blob too
I tell him time and time again
I've gotten on my knees
trying to scrub it out!
Even tried to chase it away with
a baseball bat
but still it lays there
mocking
mocking.

Like the woodpecker
who continues to
beat the trees
at all hours of the day.
Bang
Bang
Bang
It's like a shot gun being fired.
Shaking all the dried leaves
off your tired wasted head.

Where was I?
Oh yes I'm a real ******* nut.
That's why I cry and cry
to the point that I start
Hyperventilating
choking
on the words
I can't even get out.
                   I'm the bad guy
                    I'm the problem
and all the pressure you feel is me
me
me

I can't even write
a ******* poem
right now.
There's a broken vase
on the floor
and the house is
shaking from the
thunder coming in from the west.
The kids are whining
and the dishes are
talking ***** to each other.
and I'm so stressed
my mind has stopped thinking.

My body wants
pleasure
a little pain
maybe even a little teasing
to make it extra good.
Anything to take away what it is
I'm stuck feeling right now.

I write because
I have to.
There is no rhythm or reason.
My poetry isn't for you
half the time
it isn't even for me.
It just is.

Once in a while
the hands from the "chosen" gods of
allpoetry.com
will deem me worthy
to grace the stage
of "front page"
Where all the big wigs of the site
get flowers
their proverbial ***** stroked
and told how pretty they are.

Poems like mine don't get chosen much.
I have to be
literally *******
the picker
to get one of my
mediocre writes
displaced for
a few hundred
or thousand views
some likes and of course
DMs from boys.

There are times such as today
where my writes get taken off of "pending picks"
The God of this land finds my words to be too offensive.
Asking what do certain metaphors mean
and my formating is wrong.
I make my own words "weak"
That the word *******, is
too strong.
To that
I light my nightly cigar
and the urge to burn
my page down
is fighting
with the cats and possums
clawing into each other's back
between the shed and old fence.

To hell with
modest clothes
that cover full breast.
**** the short skirts I wear
and the boots that I could very easily kick your teeth in with.

If you want poetry
about babbling brooks,
tall red wood trees
and metaphors you can
sing to your
small child at night
while her father
slams down
another empty can of beer
hoping to not wake
up in a bed of his own ****
in the morning.
That won't be misplaced here.


Dear reader
my poetry
isn't for you.
Neither is it
front page
"worthy"
I write about
depression
***
cheating
loneliness
being ******* over.
About being
Bi polar
and all the
******* pills I
have to take
to let me sit
near the "normal crowd"
and if that's not what you want to read.
then go **** yourself
*******.

"I've already told you
it's like you don't understand"
" We get paid
on the 17th and
no doctor tickie,
no money"
"So I have to stay
until then
and pray they don't call"
"No it's not about therapy or work it's about the goverment"
       He says all of this and more.
It brings back memories of yesterday's
episode of
" She doesn't understand"
followed by
" It's like talking to a wall"

I'm the wall you see.
I'm the one
that doesn't understand.
It's not that I lack
the capacity to do so.
It's just when
things don't add up
I ask questions.
It shouldn't trigger a bomb
or
light
a bon fire.
At least
this one didn't
end with
him
punching
himself on the chin.

At least I don't think it did.

Each time the topic comes up-
moving here
and the steps
it takes
or God forbid
a time frame.
Everything goes
down the crapper.

It feeds my insecurities
and need for reassurance.
You see this isn't our first rodeo.
He was already suppose to be here.
Now with our second go around
and the topic of conversation is
when will he be here
All I get:
lost in translation
between
him
me
a cigarette
with tears,
angry tones and silence.

My head begins to throb.

This brings up old issues.
The time when he left me
and found
comfort in woman
*****
and drugs.
So naturally
I get afraid,
something  will come up
and I will be left
even
more
shattered
then
before.

Last night
he said,
I don't trust him.
When all I
wanted was
some comfort.
Because all I
see is I can't
ask
him
anything.

a " Hey baby it will all be okay, I want to be there just as badly as you want me there " but
No.
He told me
he didn't know
how to do that for me.
How to comfort
or what to say.
This made me
scared.
How can we last if someone is
incapable to comfort me
when I need them to.

I asked him to apologize at least
for putting me through all this.

"Would that honestly even help"
.......to my reply,
not with that attitude it won't.

After all the weeping
anger, finger pointing
and frustration
here we are today.

It's going to take longer now
longer than he initially said
and when the
discussion came up again
out of the blue
I refrain myself.
Still being told
how much
I don't
understand..

What I do know is, these
back and forth arguments
are over 400 euro.
That may or may not come
which is prolonging his trip
back home to me.

His eyes are a beautiful dark brown.
They have a way of sinking into the very fiber of my being.

and I'm tired
of things being up in the air.
Tired of being told
I'm like talking to a wall.
Tired of not finding any comfort.
That nothing
is in my control
or even his,
to be honest.

I just know none of what happened
last night and our small conversation
about it today
was worth 400 euro
not the argument
not the waiting
or the ache.

Not even this poem.

The way
I love you isn't perfect-
it's probably not the way
you dreamed of.
I imagine you thought
someone would understand
you more,
not be so volatile
maybe even less of what I am-
show
and
give.

I'm sorry I can't give you
the things you deserve
or the way you deserve to be treated.
That the stars hang low
not low enough to touch
but near enough to tease.

I want to be more for you,
in ways that I struggle.
I wish on those same stars
that they'd fall
softly
one by one
to comfort you
gently,
kiss you
slowly
and burn at a pace
that's suitable
for a gentleman
such as yourself.

You deserve
every
thornless rose
and a vase
without holes
that keeps the water in
not drip
by drip emptying it out.
not to question if the
vase is still there
or wonder where
the cracks are.

You deserve someone
who can dedicate
beautiful poetry to you.
One who can hold a candle to
your own.
Not someone who
fumbles with words-
can't string together
a metaphor
or misinterpret
your brilliance
for whiskey
without a little water.

I love you
the only way I can.
Like butter
that over-saturates
toast, that's straight
from the toaster
with no chance to cool.
As mud is born with dirt
and soil.

I love you with all
my darkness
in every shadow.
Behind the front door
with a gun
locked and loaded
safety
still on.

I love you to
where my pride gets
stuffed down an old
Christmas stocking,
not with trinkets
and sweets
but with
coal.
I want more
of you
less of
myself.
So I can be
satisfied with your stillness.
Your own starfish
deep down in the depths
of a forgotten sea
that has
no name.

Let it all take me
into your arms
in your teddy bear embrace
with doe eyes
and a silent song that sings
only for me.

and as I struggle to end
this so-called poetry.
I'll put out this cigar
sink into my quicksand bed
kiss your sleeping lips
and hang my crown
on the tombstone.

I woke up early today
before the house itself
opens its crusty eyes.

Everything is still.
Everything
but me.
I couldn't sit in the quiet
So I went out to the deck
wanting to light a cigar.

I sit in the rocking chair
hunched over and begin to
type.
The urge to write a poem comes
but
there is a thorn on my side
that's keeping
the words hostage.
Is it the stillness
or the fact that
too much happened before bed.
There was one of those arguments
that made me question
more than the relationship
more of my own self
and so many other questions
that burned a hole straight through the sheets.

I still haven't wrapped my mind around it.
I was told to
just
let
it
go.
That I go looking for things in the mud.
Maybe that's where my mind is
left, to rot in the
swamp.
Where poems come to die
emotions die
relationships die
and butts from cigars are left
to sink.

As I descend I catch a glimpse
of what looks like
a cigar that still has
some drags left in it.

I extend my arm out for it.
The stagnant water is up to my neck
and the stench of death
fills my nostrils.
My feet sink
deeper with each
movement I make
trying my best
to make my way to
that precious
smoke.

Finally,
I get to it.
It's damp
but still smokeable.
Taking the plastic end of it
to my lips,
managing to
fumble a lighter out
and light it up.
The cherry burns ashy red
the last pulls of it are spicy
with nicotine which fill my lungs
I enjoy
it still.
Right
to the
very
end.

The plastic tip
has melted
from keeping it light
too long.
I kiss it goodbye
before I toss it
back into the swamp.
Right where I found it
and right
where
I'm leaving this poem.

is my desire to have those meaningless but oh so meaningful exchanges back and forth through the day, push your hand to taring the town red?
        I want to hold your hand
bite your flesh cause I simply can't take laying
quietly across your bare skin and control myself.
         why do you poke at my insecurities
when you're the one who's seen me raw
                                                    rare
    ­                                         and over
                                               cooked.
Where have you been?
     the dogs eaten your homework
   two lefts and a right?
       And here you are always right.
Pick your teeth with my ribs after feasting
     on reactions to your lack of reaction
              
                I'm ******* you off huh,
                good feel something beautiful
     because you've taken me on a tour of a
      side show odyssey and I hate the view
                from the passenger seat
                                        I'm mad about you,
                                        for you
                                 and this makes me hate
                                   myself.
                           the heaviness on my lungs
                 and being put on a backburner.

kiss me
don't touch me
pull me close
as you run away

                              Finely dice chives
                              sprinkle it sparsely
                             don't forget the vinegar


                can't spell sane and logic
                        with out l-u-v

Don't get too close
the closeness makes
this crazy mind distrust you.
I come from generations of lunatic woman.
Mad with passion
        jealous of the gum stuck to your shoe
          or the pool stick you chalk up right before
          you hit the rack.
                  I tell you
                      we're out of our minds.
    
As a teen I'd
spit on my walls-
sweep up broken glass
from the fists full of love punches thrown from
one parent to the next.
            Alcohol, and
              rage
                  stirred with
                     resentfulness
                         can drive any car off a cliff.

I'd miss weeks of school
because of this.
Jumped out of moving cars to get to "safety"
smoked cigarettes
behind the tree
that covered the window to my brother's room.
   no one noticed-
              ever.
Not the times I'd be gone
    or the missing homework assignments,
       not even fear and
         beer bottles that reflected
            in my innocent eyes.
  
     It molded
     this mind
     I carry now-
      I'd curse at the sun
          told the moon to *******
          learning not to trust
                      a shadow
or even a noise.
Especially a couple weeks of calmness.
      Don't trust those,
they'll pull the rug out from
under you and
break your nose,
slice your wrist
making you learn
silence
and introduce you to
darkness.

Life goes on now,
prescriptions burn the
nerves,
     but never
keep the craziness at bay for long.
          That the calmness
                          always
                           ends.
House shaking
children quaking,
chaos-
my parents engraved in me.
      Also gifted me jealousy-
plus a little of this and that
that can turn anything sweet into sour.
        So I'm telling you
even when the stillness comes
don't you dare hold your breath-
it won't last
           we'll make sure of that
               at least it never did for me.

It's like the egg shells
have voices.
They quietly yell at me
whenever I try and make
sense of their shape.

I can't question anything.
If I do, he gets a sharp tone,
and begins to
frantically wave a knife at me.
Reminding me that I have issues.
Pointing out that
I like to cause issues.

I'm scared.

Frightened of the
unknown
of what's known
and of the knife and the man
behind it.
He makes me
go silent.
He yells,
stop panicking!
you're always making
issues!
Stop questioning why I carry a knife!

I hate myself
because I've made him
carry a knife...
and I'm always the reason why he's waving it around.

I like to smoke
while it's raining outside.
Long cigars with plastic tips
on the end.
I hand pick them
each time I
get em.
Roll them between my fingers
fondling each one
to make sure they're
just
right.

They're perfect for
smoking
during the down pour.
Makes it feel
like I finished rolling
in the hay.

The combination of
smoke
and me
between the water
causes my gears to grind.
Searching the floor for
that lost puzzle piece.

I like that.

Nothing matches that feeling
of rain and smoke
and your mind going.
No, voices in my head
or prescriptions
no love or attention
from a man.
not the income
I make
or **** lingerie
I wear from time to time.

What can hold a candle
to this shower
is
writing.
nothing compares
to it.

keeps the clouds
full,
fat with
dehydrated
water.
Gives the lions
something to lick.
Makes the dirt
rich with mud.

Writing is better than
any therapist,
the best lover
parent
and friend.

That's why you're here
to read this.
That's why I write
hundreds of poems.
You already know too-
how writing is kind
bitter-
salty
or sweet.
I want to end
this one sour

My cigar is out
the cherry hit
a metal chair and
fell to the ground
my naked foot, exposed
burned.
The rain
snuffed out the rest
of the ember.
leaving a black mark.
Just thought you'd
like to know
*******.

He can write about his ****
or his words making firm breast
with playful ******* hard.
He writes about turning you on
with the flick of the wrist.
About a few strokes, up and down,
helps a man
fall asleep.
He's penned **** lines about women,
his rooster has crowed in.
He has a way with words you see.
but those words stop at me.

He often looks at himself and says how
handsome and **** he is.
Doesn't say such things to me.
Can't take his eyes off the reflection
in a one way mirror.
He's in love and been in love
with his own cocky self
and women.

A real Hank Chinaski
with grit and front teeth being
knocked loose poetry.
I've asked him to write a **** poem about me
that he didn't have to share it with anyone else it could be our little secret.
disappointingly, the man who could write about chronic *******, or a perfect ***
couldn't pen one for me.
Here he can write about *****,
moans, being taken to ecstasy
between the thighs of one woman or another.
But not for me, the so called one he "loves"
not even in secret
or hitting the lobe of my ear.
He tells me he's shy...

I can't help but feel
awkward and not exactly what he wants
for his pen can stroke fire
take a woman's ******* off
just simply not for me.

Quicksand eats up who's in it
much like this bed
        that houses my body
                        solo
           a lot like depression
                it swallows too
                  just like ******
                      and heavy set couples
                      at the all you can eat buffets.
                       choke on the spit,
                           chicken legs
                             or that guy you met in the
                              bar last night
                               before last call.

I forgot what this poem was supposed to be about.
Started typing away trying to curb the want for a cigarette.
Smoke to feed the old man who lives in my lungs.
                  The bottle of whiskey whispers
                   at me
                   just like before but it's quieter
                  now
                   almost like a whistle
                    I think it's flirting with me
                   Maybe wants to crawl in
                    between my
                    sheets    
                    touch my lips
                    make these cheeks hot and red
                           I don't think it can compete with
                   him though......
                     I dunno
                      Maybe I'll let them all win
                          The quicksand
                             depression
                                cigarettes
                                  the ******
                                       ***
                                        bourbon
                                         that old man too

                                            ***** it

He writes poetry
sometimes three an hour
he's brilliant!
With metaphors
that bite
leaving no meat
on the bone.
A punch
straight to the chin
with his topics
and in your face
peacock strut.
You could
live and die to his
work.

I use to be his muse
back and forth
we'd send blood
red ink
with the scent of
love,
*** and
longing.
The eyes
which followed
our romance
would gush over
the blaze
beauty
and adoration
laced in each write.

I'd read the ones
blessed for me.
As time
turned to smoke
which hit the
midnight hour.

Then one day
all of it
stopped.
The flowers
went into the grave
our love
turned to
cigarette ash
which flew
straight
off the cherry.
It burned
the tattoos off my body
and he wrote me
one last write.
It was about how he
didn't mourn us.
I
was but a pebble
left on a dock
that he dropped
while walking
away from the empty
wine bottle and
dead June bugs.

He
had
moved on.
While I stayed
writing.
Each one collected dried up dust
left closed and unread by him.
As he lifted skirts and fell in love
or got too drunk and ran off with a
foreigner.
My tears soaked pages
and he wrote them poetry....
It killed parts of me
and some are still dying.

Months now, we're back together.
Only took a plane ticket,
night clubs
and fancy dinners
with white cloth napkins.
There I asked to be his again.

He doesn't write to me
like he use to.
At  gunpoint alone
will he pick up the phone
and type
me a quickie.
He tells me,
that he can't Bukowski it up
for me,
as he did for the others.
Their writes were ****, raw
emotional
and love soaked.

Is it wrong for me
to want what they had?
what I use to have?
I surely don't know
and any god of your choosing
hasn't answered me
but one other poet did.
He replied poets can be selfish.
I believe he was speaking about me.

The crickets are chirping
and I finished my cigarette
not holding my breath
for my own
Bukowski poem.

We've been reading lately.
Between video games and silence
he gets inspired and starts to write.
"Can I continue to read, " I ask
He's already struck-
the pen has him
by the *****.
So I sit
and
wait.

I decide to pen a quick one myself.

He writes confessional poems.
One by one each gets tapped away
on the phone. Says he writes about
his thoughts or his day.
So maybe- just maybe
this one will be about me.

Why not, I tell myself.
I'm part of his life
his poetry is about life.
I get myself a little excited.
Then try and play it cool.

He asks, " Do you want to hear it?"
"Of course," I reply.
He reads
and my balloon is
popped
another brilliant piece,
yet again not about me.

It's fantastic to be with a poet.