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Alastur Berit Jan 2014
I always read them, I'm excited to see when
she posts.
Her poems are like sarcasm being honest.
Or the color black buying a handbag
her writing is grey, the same grey as a high school uniform
or a cloudy day out over the water, whatever water it is you love.
She writes short
I believe in fluttery words because
I like the sound of my own voice but she
writes only the necessities. She packs away words
like someone who packs a backpack
when they're skipping class.
She is a high a lot, she tells us all.
She doesn't mind those words out there.
She writes her thoughts as if they
should fit inside someone's cloud of smoke
after an exhale on
a good hit.
She writes as if there is a quota
on her feelings. As if once there's too many emotions
she might lose her footing. She writes like
the color grey.
But she still lets us see, one word for a hundred moments.
It may seem like an unfair deal,
but I really enjoy seeing
those frames.
Alastur Berit Jan 2014
HEY!
I love you
I want to shout it to the world

The world could handle it
The world would think me! "Another love struck…"
Am I a girl? Or would I be a woman?
Anyways
The world could handle it
It would read my poems
In all it's circular logic it would tell me
You are so young! 22, a girl/woman, you are
And I wouldn't be able to say anything
I could only reiterate.
I love you.
And you, you would be silent.
You wouldn't be able to handle it.
You would tell me I'm moving too fast.
The world is the only one to keep up.
Spinning across the galaxy, thousands of miles
An hour and you would just say
Maybe nothing but definitely it would
Be too soon you would say and I
Think the only one to keep up
Would be the world.
You are beautiful.
I love you.
But you would say
Shhhhh
Like you are a secret
And I am shouting you
And you don't want
The world to hear.
I will hold you to my chest
Keep you underneath my clothes
Carry you around all day.
If you want I could keep you secret.
The world doesn't have to know.
Only I,
With you tucked underneath my skin.
Alastur Berit Dec 2013
But what if I want to say just
I like you.
Your eyes, how I can feel a core rigid beneath all your play
As if you've condensed all your jokes into something of substance,
like a diamond.
That I want to compare you to a diamond. that when I see you're home I get
happy.
That I'm spending a week away and half, at least
of what I'm going to think about is you.
That when I tell you my problems you actually have
something to say that makes me feel better.
That I look forward to your door like a bird
looks forward to the dawn so it can finally sing.
That I've started dreaming about you?
Should I really say what I want to say?
I want to keep this light,
cookies and cream against rich chocolate delight-
the beginning rays of dawn against midnight.
The drift of ink on paper against novels and history books.
You
Can I say what I want to say?
I want to know you slowly.
Like learning the horizon in a certain spot,
by waking up every morning and learning
how the dawn shapes the skyline of a city
learning every brick in that city.
But not in a frenzy.
I'd like to explore your depths... casually.
Too heavy?
Back off, just a moment.
I want to watch the light off your skin in
a thousand shades of day a thousand
angles to watch.
Back to the diamond thing.
Should I say what I want to say?
Telling you this would only seal you in,
a primer of expectations letting you know not what
color it will be but that soon some shade
will be applied to
you and I and I'd rather just
appreciate the color there now, rather than try and
paint you into some fairy tale I'll spin
expectations onto, the trailing cape of
a prince or the weighted click
of a clock over the course
of years, I don't want to tell you how this is going
to go in my mind before we get there I want to watch
the story unravel like the colors at dawn
behind a cityscape I haven't learned yet.
Alastur Berit Dec 2013
I'm trying not to write poetry
for him
but I can't help the way my words fall,
sometimes. A strong wind shoving me out
to sea.
It's always the sea.
I'm trying not to write poetry
for him
but laying in the warmth of
a shared bed
I can still feel his thumb in my fingers
as I try to hold on
to keep him from falling off the edge
of a peaceful morning into a workday.
I'm trying not to write poetry
for him
I imagine him reading everything I've ever written.
I blush a little, at the thought.
He shares my bed, yet
he does not share my poetry
the way beautiful strangers do.
I keep trying not to write poetry,
for him.
I don't want to give too much of myself
away but
I've never been one to do things
halfheartedly and he keeps drawing me in
real close
close enough to feel his heartbeat.
Close enough to be warm.
I am disgusting when I'm falling for someone. All I can write are love poems. It's a disease.
Alastur Berit Dec 2013
When you talk there are cracks
through your words that I can look through
and see something once of what you were
and what you're slowly becoming
and only time will tell if you're hatching
or if you're breaking but you've been
so warm and so close to me it sounds like
a heartbeat starting up.
When I lay next to you a fire
bursts through your skin and when I touch
you I ignite but there are deep, still pools inside me
that maybe you cannot touch, I wonder
if anyone can ever touch but at least
you can light them up.
I melt around you because
I've always felt like a razor blade
and my words like edges cutting into the
people around me but when I'm around
you I feel soft and that
I am not something
that hurts but maybe even
you like me.
Alastur Berit Nov 2013
I am going to see my sister
who will be horrified at my clothes
who will pretend to be disinterested in my life
but who will really be pleased when I ask her all
about the boy and her classes and her friends
despite her dismissals

Today I changed my sheets,
for my best friend coming over
and the sheets are just washed, but
there's still a stain. So there's a difference
between experience and *****. Which
she and I know a little bit of,
at this point.

My parents are going to be glad to see me
I will wrap myself in their smiles
I will eat their food and be lazy about helping
them clean up and possibly argue with a sibling
but they will love me,
anyways.

Today I will not think about
him as much as I used to,
but I might think about him a little
more than I need to,
and I will weave a tapestry of my life
for my friend and I to giggle over
and I will immerse myself in her past months,
and we will drink wine and
chocolate and I will be thankful,
as terribly tacky as thanksgiving can be,
I will be so thankful to have the sun on my
face and people who are brave enough
to love me.
Alastur Berit Nov 2013
Her poems are like
sound waves
they can't help the shape they make
arcing, cresting, jagging scores into the sky then
crashing
into smaller crescendos and puddles
refusing to stay still
adamantly holding their shape then
suddenly relenting
into smaller
smaller
lines
Then it HITS, her thoughts
They rip through the message finally clear
not even sure how my brain processes
these tiny wave forms not really sure
how these shapes make me feel
not sure how the words
can drift into my head
and make me feel
something
anythi
ng
.
.
.
This is just an idea I had as I was leaving the house. Definitely needs more work.
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