Am I so committed
to being a scribe
in my beat up denim
and faded sweatshirt?
On the fringes,
cleaning the corners
of my story,
wondering if I'll ever
get *****
in the middle
of it,
or remain relegated
to the seams.
I want so much
to be in the textiles
but I get bored
of the pattern.

Rhythm has always been
difficult for me.
Strumming the strings
so meticulously
I nail the meter,
but butcher the groove.
Or catch the groove, and
miss a beat.

I'm land-based,
but am jumping
like a dolphin
to catch
every breath.

A misanthrope,
a mirror,
a life well-lived?

I've been in these situations
too many times
gazing at a pretty face
seemingly stunned by
a perfect beauty.
Everything I would
say in response
an attempt to alleviate
the awkwardness.
Every pose I'd
try inspired by
ones before.
I'm jaded.
I'm afraid
to move.
I don't know how to touch you
in ways you'd find stimulating.
I don't expect to be your first,
or even the best,
although I'd hope for the latter.
I just want to be a different flavor
you haven't tried before.
Not just your new girl.
Not just a blur of blonde hair
in your face.
I want to be...
bold.
I want to be
deep.
But I am timid and shallow.

I'm not disappointed.
I'm just confused
when the hands on my hips
are disembodied.
And the excitement of the thurst behind
diffuses into a dull pain in my right side.
The lip exchange...
a requirement.
Anything
to escape this display
I can't do justice.

You look upon
her frail worn thin
frame with worry.
Frightened by the wire
thinning, wondering
when you'll see a plump
red face flush with meat
and a comfortable roll
over her jeans again.
Mother, that's was just a phase.

I have transformed since then
requiring
fewer calories to function,
I try to explain
the shadow of an alien
lanky, pale, hyper-extended
in places fat and foreign.

Someone else's daughter
maybe, but yours? No.
The loose draping of my cloak
hiding the bony figure below? No.
Ok for a model, but for a 26-year-old soon to be bearer of children? No.
Not skinny, but slender yes. A little extra
perhaps in the chest, would be nice.
If only I had more of a *****, would prove I eat and am healthy.
But this rail thin high fashion model wannabe, can't be.
It's not healthy.
You're too skinny.
What are you doing to get so skinny?
If you aren't dieting, you're not eating.
If you aren't working out, you're sickly.
You look skinny, disapproving
she repeats and repeats and repeats,
until I start to believe,
until I count every spoonful,
I eat and eat and eat.

It's been two years and I still don't feel comfortable sleeping in other beds.
Our perfect polarization made
me an ice cube,
and now I'm frozen in place.
I dont regret anything...
I think we're better apart,
but am not sure
I can be better again,
or as good as we were...
Anyways.
Everything is downhill.
I can't climb up.
My skin is tight and red,
and my back hurts.
My outlook is pragmatic.
I rarely run and jump and skip.
Even though I listen to love songs
on repeat, it just doesn't happen.
How was I able to love you like lyrics?
I don't remember the expressions or
the kisses.

It hurts to look back
at the obscure, the abstract.
Everything is cloudy;
I can't see past you anymore.
I'd go back one time,
if I could but,
I'd still be going forward.

I don't really think about you often, but I
can't think about anyone else.
I'm a silent movie with no captions.
My duplicious gaze full of passion,
and yearning -
It's fake.
It's all a game, half the time
I forget I'm playing.

All I do is **** people
over, then leave.
When they tell me they love me,
I smile and nod affirmatively,
while thinking
of how it will end.
Sounds sociopathic.
I don't know what to do about it.
My heart is dead.
I didn't give it away - it just died.

You tell yourself
and the other person
they are perfect.

You see no flaws,
where there are flaws.

You feel lifted,
and enlightened
when you're around them.

Everything is new.
Everything different.
No controlling it.

It is just happening -
like it was meant to.

They are just perfect
like they were meant,
for you.

You wait and wait
and ride the wave
knowing it should end,
eventually.
But it doesn't.

So you just keep talking
and talking about
the perfect, not so perfect,
perfect things you do
And they just keep
telling you what you
want to hear.

And you bask
in the light
of their gaze
like an estranged
puppy with a new home.
Drinking their praise praise praise
like it's water and you're ******* thirsty.

I follow you
to the places
that are good for me
more frequently
than I would normally.

There is where you are.
And,
I want to be there too,
admittedly,
more than I want to self improve,
but somehow that happens too.

It feels like we took
a shortcut together.

The best poems
you forget
as you are writing them
in a trance
barely thinking
a filter for the
words that come next.
It's almost as if
you can't even see them.
Each stroke a surprise
what sentence will
grow from this pen?