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Irate Watcher May 2017




                          as usual.
Irate Watcher Aug 2014

I realized
We were both born
in rotting soil,
plastic toys fed
by Arabia's oil.
Eyes closed,
ears behest
to broadcasts, we,
could NOT protest.

That was the beginning
of our mass destruction,
but cribs offsides,
we slept soundly,
thanking our stars,
proud to be Americans.

10 years dormant,
the lyrics laid,
enough to stick,
but their irony to fade.
Until grade school,
recess goaded,
as burning buildings
on our side exploded.
The imminent threat preloaded,
in airports we shed shoes,
forever coded.

The broadcast — our center
was the theorem
that planes, oil, and Arabs
risked everyone's freedom.
But when we raised hands,
to ask why, teachers said
hail red, blue,
and especially white.
We forgot our roots,
because the Ellis Island trip
was obviously cancelled.

So we read headlines,
instead of Orwell,
the day 911
called for a police state.
Trusted the government
and ****** Muslims,
the day turbans
meant hijacking planes.
Pledged allegiance
disguised as freedom,
the day war
was declared
on Saddam Insane.

Our flag revealed
a sham feeding flames,
we became.
With raised middle fingers,
instead of hands,
to Green Day lyrics,
**** Amuricans.

Because only idiots
press a red button twice,
when mass destruction is the price.
And only villains
make children orphans,
while victims drown
in New Orleans.
And only gluttons
eat caviar with silver spoons,
tainting forever
a nation's youth.

Entrenched in dunes,
we boarded blind,
to debt,
death, and
jaded minds.
Blamed by perpetrators
in dollars and change,
for a guerrilla war
fought in vain!
Voted Obama,
with Osama slain,
and soldiers withdrawn,
we hoped for change.
PLEASE, we cried,
We are CHAINED —
to a bulldozer
that has NO BRAKES!

So the broadcast said recently:
We are losing control
of the Middle East. And
Al-Qaeda is far from weak —
We just turned off our TV's
and looked up,
the kids who gave up,
thanked Musk — our atlas,
not yet shrugged,
whose vessels of stars
will rocket toward Mars,
from this godforsaken
built on hate.

And when you tell me, ***,
"We were both born in 1991,"
I can only sigh,
and breath sympathy,
for our dark history.
Thank you Justin for inspiring this poem. I am performing it next Tuesday at Da Poetry Lounge in LA so any feedback is appreciated :)
Irate Watcher Dec 2017
on top of me,
a body on the beach.
I couldn't breathe!
riptide pride
Irate Watcher Jun 2017
I want to be above it all.

Will I ever be above it all?
Isn't that why men made heaven after all?

Hell underground, earth uphill by free-fall,
I want to be above it all.

Sit in a comfortable chair,
turn on my satellite TV,
and enjoy the show.
Above it all.

I'll be the only person watching me,
watching Sims watch tv,
go to work and drown in pools.
Above it all.

8 stories high aiming for a blue spec.

Above it all.
Top and bottom.
The perfect mix of blue and yellow.
A circle of fifths.

But who says what's symmetrical, in-tune or
perfectly mixed.
Who says whose above it all?

Down here, the mimes do.

The mimes say all.
In fact, their vocabulary rivals
Oxford's own dictionary and
is equally fruitless to memorize.
They're all good people,
even if they point to the orchestra
everytime you seek a violin.
or provide canned fruit
for a sweet tooth.

I want to be


masked among mimes,
a top less vigilante,
sitting back
with my elbows crossed,
Irate Watcher May 2017
Warm brick glows every night;
a friendly embrace lighting the way.
Irate Watcher Nov 2018
A copy
A vacant
A hollow
A skeleton.
A shallow
A decoy.
A dupe.

This is existence.
Entangled in knitted sleeps.
Red and warm.
When will the brains
fall into the wake
wading far far far
to lap, lap, lap
hints of silence
blue and cool
glimpses untold
but felt.
Inspired by a dream I had where I couldn't make objects fit together like I wanted, because they weren't what I wanted.
Irate Watcher Feb 2017
The old man with no luggage
wears a pilling houndstooth jacket
and suede fedora with a
leather strap and horse-bit buckle.
Stark seams line his trousers.

He has:

Wirey gray hair, calloused wrists,
a popped blood vessel neath his thumbnail,
and deep crevices in his palms.
He folds his boarding pass into a kite,
as he looks into the sun
through the tiny cube of a window.

He sees:

The geometric shadows
cast in early afternoon.
And skyscrapers.
They cut through the sprawling
grid like an artery.
I noticed this man on my way home from SF and I was struck by his character.
Irate Watcher Dec 2018
You left my head
spinning like a dime.
Perplexed, suspended
in gooey time.
Us, a quandary, for sure--
never have I felt
a love, so pure.
Unrealized moments
melding an overture.
I'll miss you lots,
platonic or not.
Hugs goodbye
never enough.

Kindred spirit --
swirl like the wind
and send it.
I'll wait
eagerly as the snow melts
and reveals green
and we're hiking again.
Till then,
I'll miss you, dear friend.
One of my good friends are leaving and I'm going to miss him dearly.
Irate Watcher Sep 2021
You gave me a shread
of love and affection
and I fell over melting.

I'm not used to accepting...
love, or giving it
feels like a simulation
I must get through
I must finish quick!

The sky is hazy
the mountains painted blue
am I truly me
are you truly you?

And I find myself
starting over again
on my way to an island
I've never been.

And i find myself
scarred and wild
a shame to know
the doubts I held.

I never thought
I would lie to my self

I never thought i'd
sideline myself

The clouds blend into
the mountains now
a foggy sunset
at my back.

I'm wondering when
the horizon will end
When it will fail
to illuminate.

When my silhoutte
will shivver and quake
the cool breeze
from the mediterranean
drying my sweat
Some draft
Irate Watcher Jun 2017
A fly flew directly
into my eye,
Irate Watcher Sep 2014
salt stings soldiered eyes streaming
i am not crying —
just releasing a weekend of wine and Netflix,
a relapse i can't admit
when people ask what I did last weekend.
Muscles burning in the agony,
their capability
long squandered,
by lazy nights and wine.
Monkey mind zombied to flashes of LED light.
Docile strides to somewhere I have to be.
oh TV, you are so tempting to a binger like me.
I think about the last episode
when I should think about the road,
leading to my forgotten sanctuary,
where limbs stretch, teachers chant krishna
and rub students with essential oils.
But as I listen to the
sitar in shavasana,
by iPhone rings,
teacher grasps the money
from the donation box greedily.
I feel slightly annoyed,
but mostly pity —
three students
thirty five dollars
for an hour.
But I think
this is what happens when
yoga becomes a
Like TV — a fix,
not a spiritual experience.
So we'll pay the minimum,
or stream it illegally.
different needs.
Irate Watcher Feb 2017
In the arena,
success means everything,
and potential means nothing.
And everyone with tattered sleeves
is written off as vague, gray, and
lost to the doldrums of dreams.

No one wants you to be lost here.

It was cute when you were younger,
but you're too old to pretend.
Just be successful at being you,
whatever it is, that you do.

I want to go back to the playpen,
but not just to **** around.
I want to be a puppy with potential,
not what you perceive
to be the success
or failure of my identity,
Because my potential
is what makes me successful
as a human being,
so, believe in ME!

Mother, please believe that
my zigzagging monogamy
is a rainbow array, not color theory.
I'm sorry you'll have to wait
for grandchildren to play
in your backyard...
with my future husband...
What if they were playing...
with my future wife?

Lover, please believe that
when I open my heart
I'm not doing it
to capture and pin yours down
I just want to feel it beat.

Stranger, believe that
I am not trying to win your praise,
I am ignorant, naive,
and ambivalent to white lies.

Friend, believe that
I am actually concerned
with how YOU feel.
I'm not just asking to be polite.

Boss, believe that
I am not the title
you use to assign and reward me.
I am a human.
I'm good at learning the rules of these games.

Audience, believe
that I am not a poet.
I just feel strongly
and write those feelings down.

Ego, believe that
I am smarter than you, wrapped up
in other's presence about ME.

I am just ME,
yet I rarely feel like ME.
I often just feel like trying to be
what you want me to be.
Ego, I must remind you everyday
to leave ME at peace.
Irate Watcher May 2018
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
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.
Irate Watcher Sep 2014
My blood is sparkling.
I am alive.
Irate Watcher Jun 2017
All we want is to swing
until we want down
down mommy down.
Irate Watcher Jul 2017
Somewhere between all,

and most.
Irate Watcher Sep 2018
The scent of being alone is on me.
They smell it as I walk in,
staring at me and I staring at them?
I could of have seen you tonight
at a different bar, not alone,
but that would be no fun.
The scent of indiscretion and
cheap drinks
all you can afford.
Im tired of you. Spending loose
change next door,
when there is a whole
wide world.
It's too wide
for most of us to wrap
our heads around.
Irate Watcher Aug 2014
Upon typing
the last verse
she jumped
from the chair
forgetting to close
the windows
and ran through
the wooden halls
of the country house
outside into the
joyous wildflowers
swaying like pendulums;
The afternoon breeze cool
and **** like green apples.

Joy was skipping
until the summer air
froze her heated throat.

Clouds brimmed purple
dewing her nose,
head buried when
droplets fell,
summer's ecstasy
melting into lukewarm pools
on a trail leading to
fallen firs.
Worried the curtains
at home were soaked,
by clear pellets,
she was lost.

No friend to tease,
pine needles
from tangled hair.
Irate Watcher Nov 2017
The fallen flag of inspiration
is stained with passions.
Irate Watcher Apr 2018
I should cherish hugs more.
They come too frequently,
and leave too soon.
They are the farewells
of friends and lovers,
and life.
I could die any second,
and have missed
too many second hugs.
I love you
so much I don't
want to let you go
type of hugs.
Even the shallow, shy hugs
I'd miss. The nervous
quick, hard ones I should have
actually tried softer.
I say I will hug better next time,
but then I forget.
Next time arms are
around me too quickly,
or there is no next time.
The bottom of my throat
tells me there will be
more time.
When will I die without a hug?
Better hold on to the last one
like it's my last.
Irate Watcher Nov 2016
Live IN it:

The breeze brushing soft skin,
glowing in cavernous autumn.

Me solo:

astounded by the world.
astounded by my own hands.
standing on my own feet.
lead by the volition of discovery.
filling empty space
with MY understanding.

What is mine:

Calling dibs on myself.
Thinking about pleasing someone else
and being fraught with anxiety.
Continuously forgetting
things emerge slowly until:
EXCITEMENT of being at the end of things,
hold on tight.

Peeling from my chest:

DIGNITY reminds me
to be uncomfortable
with familiarity.
Beauty is knowing
I'll just miss out on singularity.

So I just LET go:

blow cross shallow water,
bask in uncertainty, and
startle people with my pace.
Irate Watcher Oct 2014
She sat across me
in Starbucks
for 10 minutes.
I smiled shyly.
She said nothing.
Held a black plastic bag close.
No coffee.
I wanted to say:
Hey, how you doin?
But I thought such electricity
might shock the plugged round us.
I wanted to say:
Hey you ok?
Cause she wasnt
Looking at a phone
Sittin alone.
She didnt drink anything.
Where was she before?
Looking up at an
Angle like her bun
Weary like
Military fatigues.
I wanted to ask
Where she come from.
I pretended to read.
And everytime I
Looked up she was
Lookin at me.
Black eyes waiting
To hear a salute
To humanity.
My lips parted
But my thumbs
Texted: Hey how
You doing? to an
Acquaintence in England
With the same brown skin.
In front of me she sat
Time to waste and
I feared wasting her time.
So after 10 minutes
With no glance back she rose and left
Three bags she shouldered.
Must have been a traveler.
I wished I had heard her story.
I apologize for random caps wrote this on my phone!
Irate Watcher Apr 2018
We woke.
Ants had invaded my kitchen.
We parted ways,
I mortified.
Then a genocide;
the queen drowned.
Her colony mourns
their loss.
Irate Watcher Jan 2018
I keep telling myself
all of this will make me
But every day crawls by
and ends with me standing
in the same place.
Dizzy watching the trains
rush by,
for things to be alright,
because this
chaos should
give up,
Irate Watcher Nov 2014
Hold my hand like stars hold the sky,
you make black space bright.
Don't let go
Cause your valleys fill my ridges,
and as our fingerprints sync
we lie together alone.
So please,
don't let me go,
don't let the unknown go,
because five minutes ago,
we were strangers,
and now...
we are holding hands.
I can't believe we are just holding hands,
eyes closed,
strokes stimulate electrodes,
heads who just want
hands to be hands,
rush with finger's innuendo
to images of stripping off clothes.
But it's not the right time.
Shoulders shrug goodbye.

And it's a bright day outside.
A stranger held my hand this morning for 7 minutes.
Irate Watcher Jul 2014
Put your head down
and werk.
Put your feet up
and twerk.
Run quickly
and watch the  
pavement blur.

Don't ask questions.
Love you answers,
and explanations,
your valuations,
and justifications.

In the mood for pizza?
Cause the shop's on your left.
In 0.5 miles, it will be on your left.

the protocol is exactly THIS,
not THAT.
So just do it.
Nike said so.

Just buy it.
we suggest it.
Just try the Quesarilla
#tacobell #mexicanfood #foodporn

How bout a selfie
where you look miserable
and unhealthy.
But you're a celebrity.
Rub your likeness
on me and
I'll get you publicity.

What happened to real pain?
And did dissonance disappear?
Why must I hide my tears?
And be bright and happy
And ogle guys with fohawks
trimmed so carefully.
And live a lie,
of numbers and rye
bread is the worst,
sandwiched in bursts.
We all live
and we all hurt
and we all deserve
a life like hers.
who you say?
Kim Kardashian,
of course.
Irate Watcher Nov 2017
The news said:
"It's entirely likely,
in fact, it's more likely,
that we are living in a simulation."

The circus and the chorus lines
are just for the architect's amusement.
When the leotards on the high wire
fall, he laughs the hardest.

Measuring the moon with his hands,
does anyone knows its' circumference?
"If someone can measure the moon,
we are better off."

Everyone forgets
the fallen artist,
and stares at the moon.
Some shout indiscriminately.

Three engineers
create a proof,
that creates an equation,
that is widely believed
for the next 100 years, before
proven later to be false.

The artist nurses his broken knee.
"Can't anyone see I'm suffering?"
Everyone stares at the moon.
Irate Watcher Aug 2014
You found friction,
when so many told you
to slip down with them.

You were the safety
to a gun-wielding chorus screaming:

Shoved from the Fourth
you fought to protect,
to being snowed-in,
half a hemisphere away
from the coconuts
and palm trees you fled.

Hotel room to hotel room,
the flesh from your skin dissolves,
piece by piece —
like a nation's artifacts.

Resigned to watching
a comedian's suicide
trend on Twitter —
an individual who made it easier
to laugh and forget the words:
"Liberty and Justice for All."

You should grimace.
Silenced. Snowed-in.
Unable to even say,
"America — please shovel me out."
I made this poem into a video!

If you like, share with #shoveloutSnowden
Irate Watcher Apr 2015
Cash pounding in 3/4 on mahogany.

June: lets go to Jamaica.  

We all swallow our tongues and chew our food.
Irate Watcher Sep 2014
The router's a strobe light;
I can't connect.
The microwave fritzed,
I can't heat.
The circuit shut;
guess no electricity.
Ayo no technology.
Let's talk ancient
NOT whether
Beyonce is a feminist.
Let's have a bonfire
and roast meat
cause none of us
were vegan
before this.
Let's light candles
in the streets.
Pray batteries die
on LCD screens.
Cause we were alchemists
before technology,
the versed probing
the multiverse,
lighting our golden
embroidery on life.
Now were just bored.
Coy toys to tied strings,
webs that touch
but the space between.
Declaring Sunday a sabbatical from LCD screens.
Irate Watcher Jun 2018
Is it possible to appreciate beauty without wanting to conquer it.
I feel intimidated by the worthy
I'd rather kiss and forgive myself
he's not what I wanted.

Our history is a machete chopping down the thickness
agile cougars watch indignant.
as we chop down a home
we are too stupid to find comfort in.
I wrote this four years ago but feel like it still applies.
Irate Watcher Nov 2017
Blue light,
night sky,
quick write
before my phone dies.
Irate Watcher Jan 2018
Anything that can be said,
can be said
It's almost if,
it seems as though,
it's dependent on
the weather.
Irate Watcher Jul 2014
Tangled by reeds
in the trash-ridden bay
of sunny Acapulco,
I brush your hair.

Dried gel
builds under my nails
and satisfies me.

You dive with me
into the ocean of fire
to wash our hands.

My heart beats red;
Leaking, it soaks
your white playera

It hangs high and dry,
but will never wash clean.
Irate Watcher Jul 2014
we don't touch.
Irate Watcher May 2018
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?
Irate Watcher Jan 2017
Everytime I let
the men on the street,
feast on my anatomy,
I lose body parts.

The first part to disappear
are my fingers,
leaving me unable
to touch.

The second part to disappear
are my feet,
leaving me unable
to walk.

The third part to disappear
is my throat,
leaving me unable
to talk.

If a fourth part were to disappear,
I fear it would be my heart,
leaving me unable
to love.

I search for my body parts
in hopes of
becoming whole again.
But they are scattered
among hungry dogs
wide-eyed and salivating,
always wanting more.

I face forward
and avoid eye contact,
repeating silently:

I must protect my heart.
I must protect my heart.
I must protect my heart.
Irate Watcher Aug 2017
I am bohemio.
Of shrubbery
ridden riversides,
walking above
the line that separates
each to their side.

I am intrigued
by stray dogs,
eye contact, smiles,
and tangled hair.

I am lost.
I am crazy,
especially in other's gazes.

But I think...
it's ok.

It's finally...
Irate Watcher Apr 2015
I've grown into a bonsai avatar tree —
trimmed and transplanted,
sitting potted aside a window.

Waiting until I'm ready.


I'm finally, I think I might be...

I'm not sure, but

I  am 99% positive

that I want the...

universe to shine upon me.
For rain ruining my day
to just water me.
To shed the seeds
that sowed me.

And branch accordingly.
So ready.
Irate Watcher Aug 2014
They call me Subject B.

Belly full with the pills
they fed me, still hungry,

legs pumping
to pendulum this swing,

inside a playground
that ignores my miming,

shrieking and throwing feces,
at hairless beings who nox me.

Dreaming of melting
the swing's chain, I fly
feet dangling over
cages of sick chimpanzees,
to a distant galaxy
that grows banana trees.

Awaken I see
empty syringes strewn
outside the crisscrosses
of my cage, trenchcoats
storm like flurries.
I still cannot read my nameplate.

I hope on my swing,
pumping my legs
back and forth,
back and forth,
back and forth —
glassy eyes watering.
Irate Watcher Jan 2015
Your coldly convenient
of a compelling captain.
I see the seas
and we're in it,
but your watching the
current, not me
like I'd like you to.
Irate Watcher Aug 2014
If Rihanna and Bob Marley had a baby,
it would be her. She was as fierce as peace can be.
Born in the suburbs, I had never seen
coffee-colored rastas with caramel tips,
pulled back from a shaven head
into a ponytail.
She skated in an oversized hoodie
across San Marcos square — a watering hole for
porteños playing hippie.
Mad man strummed ukuleles wildly;
couples dancing interpretively; jugglers rode on unicycles,
as if they were all training for a jester convention.
Still, I couldn’t tear my eyes from her
broken strands tied in knots swinging freely.

Her sea-foam stare met my blue gaze.
I looked like a dork; my hair plastered
and sweaty. I wore a black tank top,
waiting for another bus to another city.

She dismissed her band of perros
and grasped my hand, asking me
if I wanted to sleep by the river with her.
It was late so I said yes.
We walked from the yellow lights
of the town square.
She grimaced.

No more bones for starving dogs.

I wasn’t starving, just lost,
a traveler,
dried from a bucketful of adventures,
I dreaded repeating as empty stories

O Celia,
you were a coyote wearing a hoodie;
no one could tame you, refracted by the white
light of the moon that embraced each
of your steps by the shrubbery-ridden riverside.
I stumbled as we approached
an embankment sheltered by magic trees,
the glistening water chilled waves to perked ears;
reflections of villagers, we pitched tents together,
tipi-ed by the ritual
of finding niche in transition.
You built the fire; I prepared the mate;
your weary locks whispered callejero wisdom.
Your stories were everything I wanted to say,
but too timid to be.

You were dancing in my basement,
bathing in moonlight *******,
unashamed to say how good the water felt.
You probably lost your virginity in your tent;
shadows of leaves shaking a disturbed night,
unlike I, crying, semi-drunk, wishing I hadn’t.

You actually played the guitar;
you bought it yourself;
it was tied to the skateboard
you drug behind on open roads.
I got a guitar for my birthday after
watching Lindsay Lohan be a rockstar in a movie once.
I was inspired to play for a while.
Then it just sat in my room.

So you taught me your favorite song, Legalizenla
We didn’t even have a porro — you wished we did.
But all I wanted was to memorize those chords
So you listened to me play them out of tune for hours,
pressing my fingers on the fretboard like butter.
Strums shuddered my soul.
You wrote the lyrics in my journal
with the note, con mucho amor.

Now, each time I dust off my guitar,
I warm up with that song  
to remember your vibrations.
Honest opinions here? What do ya'll think?
Irate Watcher Nov 2016
Papers and pens expensive,
careful the words selected.
Politically correct

But since the advent
of cheap communication,
words are thrown
right and left,
democratized into existence,
bullied down before anyone has time
to grasp the meaning
or the consequences complicit
to disrespecting the dialectic.

I wonder:
Where can I find those mourning
the death of conversation?
Perhaps resigned
to the penance of unabriged silence.
Irate Watcher Nov 2017
Miniature lief.
A pixel. A byte.
Irate Watcher Aug 2014
life run amuk

resets with human *touch.
Irate Watcher Aug 2014
Close the tab —
I want to be a writer.
Not because I'm mightier
than you,
but because it's all
I know how to do.
Irate Watcher Aug 2014
What kind of server
scribbles haiku's on receipts?
A deprived poet.
See Close the tab.
Irate Watcher Feb 2019
Im straddling you
and tearing up inside.
My kisses are solemn
and shaking.
I tell you I'm nervous
It's been awhile.
You moan with delight
as my jeans grind
against yours.
I'm doubting the
authenticity of this
exercise but you seem to
like it so I continue.

My eyes water
like someone chopping onions
yours are closed
rolled back into
their sockets.
I tense,
waiting for you to notice
salty tears
streaming down
my face
but nothing is said
and we just continue.

I come up with a couple
explanations for my back pocket
where you hand currently
grasps the fleshy part of my ***.
I'm sensitive.
I'm about to get my period.
I get emotional sometimes.

All partially true
the truth is is that.
I feel bad.
Not bad, but bad.
closing my mouth while kissing you.
stoically replying to I miss you.
It probably seems like
I'm damaged in some kind of way.
And I probably am,
But I don't think that's why
I'm acting so shy and strange.

I think I already
gave my heart away.
The receiver
just doesn't know it yet.
See with him,
I feel shy, but never strange.
My protective instincts
melt away --
I guess he makes me feel safe.
I don't know why you don't.
But I find myself
shutting you out
so I can let him in,
one day.
Maybe it's the sound
of his voice,
or the thoughtful pauses
between enigmatic takes.
breaking through the
static I've dreamt
of changing it's frequency.
Your own is loud,
booming. Not so fluctuating.
I didn't hear it before we met.
I didn't have the opportunity
to imagine
the head neck and throat
it was attached to.
You were just there,
all 6'3" 200 plus pounds of you.

You treat me nice,
pay for my meals,
make me laugh...
Yet when
you lean in
I turn into
the turtle version
of myself
pulling away.
Maybe I'm afraid.
It's stupid but I
feel like saving
my body and feelings
for him
despite many
touching them before.
I want to be available
when he's ready,
even if ready
takes a long time.
I don't want to
let myself be content,
and forget about him.

He would notice I
was crying right now
and ask what was wrong.
He notices everything.
Sometimes it's annoying
when he asks if I'm ok 50 times
but I can't help but love it.
I don't even want you to ask.
See I'm uncomfortable
being open
when I'm half-committed,
in body,
but not in spirit.
Irate Watcher Dec 2017
I heard him take her
against a wall.

I was lying
on a mattress
on a floor.

I was sure it was fine.
And I was tired.
to be in the same room.

I don't remember her calling
out my name.
Her muffled mouth
smothered neath his sweaty hands.
I didn't hear anything.

At least I don't remember...
hearing much.
I didn't think...
My head in the pillows.
Face down.
Dead to the world.
Irate Watcher Aug 2014
s u n
e a r t h

d                                c
e                        ­                    l
s                                 i

tired of fighting
over the

m o o n.
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