Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
She is the best thing
My mind can see
Long amethyst waves
An unscarred wrist
Talking sometimes
I can hear her voice
In silent letters
Through the phone
And now what she is
Is a beautiful presence
A lovely evanescence
That sleeps with me
And guides my dreams
From miles away
With her blender fish tank
Someday I fear
All that she will be
Is a ghost of a dream
Forever lost to me
I've had two dreams about her now.
What
-            Even
    .     Is
a                  poem
A "poem" every day
.       Quiet
                      -s           Quiet

Quiet ~
A "poem" every day
The place smells the same. Garlic, undergraduate angst, oven flame.  The menu hasn’t changed. The Antony and Cleopatra.  Italian sausage and snake meat. The Macbeth. Cooked in a cauldron.  Blood sauce won’t wash off. The Julius Caesar.  Served bottom side up.  You have to knife it from the back. The Timon of Athens. Only bitter, separate ingredients, overcooked to black. The Frankenstein.  Assembled from ingredients at hand.  Served smoking from a jolt of high voltage. The Dramatic Irony. It’s a surprise.  Everyone at your table knows what you’re getting while you cover your eyes.

You said tragedy means playing out a ****** hand. The game has to end badly. Bigger Thomas. Joe Christmas.  Hamlet.  Everybody dies.  No choices. The end. I said, no, it means you have a fatal flaw.  Macbeth and Ted Kennedy—ruthless ambition.  Gatsby—pride. Lear—vanity. Richard Nixon—douchebaggery, deep-fried. Bad choices.  

“Can’t be both,” you said.  “One is character, the other one’s fate.” “What if character is fate?” I asked smugly. “Then we’re *******, Heraclitus. It’s late.”

I smoked a pipe.  You wore a beret and severely bobbed hair. I wrote sarcastic love letters to the universe. You wrote hate lyrics to Ted Hughes, love notes to Jane Eyre. We kept relations on an intellectual plane. You had a set of big firm ideas, dark-eyed principles, and a dimpled scorn of life’s surly crap. My eloquence was tall, square-jawed, curly, tan.  Together we solved the world’s big problems as only undergraduates can.

“Can pizza be tragic; or is it merely postponed farce?” I wondered. “Here it is clearly both, though not at the same time,” you said. “Does tragedy plus time equal comedy?” “Sounds right.” “No, tragedy plus time is any order in this place on a Saturday night.” After what seems like decades our orders finally arrive.  

“What did you get?” I asked.  “Looks like the Double Tragic,” you replied. “Flawed choices and fate. I leave you. You were unfaithful to every love sonnet you ever wrote.  Yet you are the first man who makes me feel loved, the only one who ever will.  I strain for that feeling again and again but it becomes a boulder that keeps rolling back down the hill. And fate—my beautiful ******* that got so much attention from men will **** me.  The only thing they will ever nurse is a cancerous seed. You?”

“The Too-Many-Choices, done to perfection. Choosing everything means choosing nothing. Loving too many women, I love none.  I follow a simple path home but try to stay lost. Living in the space between lost and found has a cost.  My life becomes a solitary pilgrimage to no place.”

“Let’s not reduce our lives to a Harry Chapin song,” we agreed. So we toasted the beauty of what never was. I went back to my hotel to write, found my way to a few easy truths, and called it a night.
By. Lauren

I never wanted to be here.
Not here.
Not in this room.
Not anywhere.
I never wanted to be me.
Not in this body anyway.
I've always wanted to leave here.
Leave me.
Leave this body that has treated me so unfair.
I never have given any care.
Not to this body.
It doesn't care for me anyway.
I never wanted to slice it open.
See its blood.
I never wanted to see my blood.
I never wanted to see it drip.
Feel it drip.
Make it drip.
I've just never wanted to be alive.
Not here.
Not in this world.
Not where I have been treated so cruel.
I've never liked all the slurs.
The hurtful things they scream.
I don't want to hear them scream.
And I can't.
And I won't.
And I still stay.
Stay silent.
I just want to leave.
I've never wanted to be here.
Not here.
Not there.
Not with them.
Not in this body anyway.
I’m proud of you, still
For admitting it to me
I don’t know why
I was the first to say a **** thing
And the last
There is an art in meaning something to someone and not being able to convince yourself otherwise
And I can’t
Not with you
I can’t remember if you wore braces when we met
But I miss your crooked teeth
‘Cause it says a lot about growing up
You don’t see many adults without perfect teeth
Unless they’re like me and can’t afford a couple wires in their mouths
Unlike you
And the thing is that you’ve never judged me for it
It’s so hard not to say “well I’m poor” to everything when you’re surrounded by people who don’t think of 20 bucks as the week’s budget
And you’ve always had this understanding that kids like you don’t have
I’m thankful for it
You said that you check my poetry website
And admire the things I write
Though they’re little nothings meant for no one to see
I’m honestly surprised you never ask who they’re about
But maybe this one is about you
And how I think you’d look a little better with your head held high and a new kind of mentality
Like
“I’m a genius and I’ve got this”
I know you don’t like the spotlight all that much but I think it’s cause you’re always watching your buddies from backstage
You ought to know by now that the backstage is my job
So you get that costuming and stumble on stage, write demands on the hands of everyone who ever told you to quit
And know that even though you’ve got a good six inches on me
Your head still fits on my shoulder if you need someone to cry to
Or my lap if you just want someone to play with your hair while you complain
I get it
Boys are dumb
And so am I
So are you
A secret, though
I’ve never met a ******* with no confidence
So you gotta let us know you can take a blow
And build it up
And sing these odes that I’m writing ‘cause if I wrote these bibles than ****, your voice could make you the priest or the church choir
Up to you
You can’t be stupid without confidence
But know one thing
It’s pretty stupid that you thought you could be friends with a poet and not have em write anything about you
I build whole castles out of these lines, and you were gonna need a room in here sometime
After all, you’re one of my closest friends
And I’m much too grateful for it
Ouch,
I got braces today.
Yay! :(
A "poem" every day
Next page