Jenna Vaitkunas

Jenna Vaitkunas Feb 2016

Remember to breathe,
breathe in slow and deep,
remember how they smell
and the way it makes your heart feel.

Remember to hold your tongue
when they talk about someone else,
When they talk about love
as if you never knew love,
Hold your tongue

Remember this wasn't clothes pulling, skin touching love,
this was soft breathing, fluttery heart love,
the kind of love you find with your best friend,
before you mention that you don't want the other kind of love.

Remember that love is not always kind,
It was that 13 missed calls, 8 voicemails later love,
it was the I cannot marry you, but man, I wish I could love.

Remember that doesn't matter
because you love them,
Love.
stop pretending you don't
and love them
Love
I have your clothes packed in a cardboard box
Love
She has your clothes draped across her back
Love
I have not slept in three days
Love

is not a *** toy
it does not like to be ****** with.

Dec 2015

Dylan Thomas

Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on that sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Jenna Vaitkunas Dec 2015

Skeletons in the closet

He sends me a card every year for my birthday
and he signs it
"Love always".

Not long after I get a call,
"you've grown so much,
you're absolutely beautiful,
I love you.
How old are you now?"

I ignore the phone everytime he calls
But my mom always finds a way
To pass the phone to me.
"Who is it?" "Just talk"
I don't want to talk.

She makes me thank him for the gifts
And the money and the cards.
She makes me thank him.
"He's always thinking of you".
I too am always thinking of him.
Even though i don't want to,
Even though i would rather forget him,
But i take the phone and say thank you.
"Its polite" my mom states matter of factly.
As if everything is okay,
As if she doesnt notice I hold my breath until the very moment i give the phone back.
As if I dont know why he's on vacation.
Why hes been on "vacation" for the last 6 years.
It should have been sooner
I couldve stopped that.
I didnt know.
She doesnt know.

this is about a scumbag abuser :-)

Jenna Vaitkunas Dec 2015

1109

MAYBE I'M JUST TOO IN LOVE WITH SOMEONE WHO DOESN'T WANT TO BE LOVED.

Dec 2015

Katie Katie

Modern poetry

I'm a modern poet

The white paper wasn't bright enough
My favorite pencil didn't write bold enough
My black final-draft binder wasn't modern enough
My black final-draft binder might as well be waste of time
Because instead of writing by hand with love and mind
I can select, copy and paste, relax and unwind
Instead of sitting-up in my bed, copying neatly or erasing the lines
I can repeat or forget, without blinking an eye

The words are more significant than this...
Than minuscule, locking it, hiding it, pocketing it

My fingers replaced my pen
A white glow replaced the lines
Instead of writing away unrestricted, I
have-an inch above my finger- the time

Before, I would sketch the date & time at the top-right
Now it appears effortlessly, automatically, without my permission
It's not only my paper (or screen) anymore, I mean, I didn't write that

With a push of a button I can perfectly align it to the right
I can no longer be identified by unique handwriting
A "go-back button" replaced my eraser
I can no longer hold words thin in my grip

I no longer have to protect it from getting lost, crumpled, or ripped
It's as safe as everything else here;
Not any more sacred or precious
If I'm a modern poet

The ease of art is at my fingertips, literally
And it disappears when the device locks

I don't turn the page, hear the paper sound
I scroll down with one quick swipe
I may no longer write the way I have
I'll type it out on a $200 iPad
Rather than a cheap scratchpad
Is my new version of 'scrap paper' more valuable than my work?

The words will remain in my mind
I'll **** them out one at a time
Somehow demeaning them with this
Sensational technology that corrupted mankind

So, I'm sorry, poetry, my outlet, my friend
You poor, pure thing, let us pretend
I gave you more time, and effort
Just as should for everything you really care about

Sep 2015

E. E. Cummings

I Like My Body When It Is With Your

i like my body when it is with your
body. It is so quite new a thing.
Muscles better and nerves more.
i like your body. i like what it does,
i like its hows. i like to feel the spine
of your body and its bones,and the trembling
-firm-smooth ness and which i will
again and again and again
kiss, i like kissing this and that of you,
i like, slowly stroking the,shocking fuzz
of your electric furr,and what-is-it comes
over parting flesh….And eyes big love-crumbs,

and possibly i like the thrill

of under me you so quite new

Sep 2015

E. E. Cummings

Here Is Little Effie’s Head

here is little Effie’s head
whose brains are made of gingerbread
when the judgment day comes
God will find six crumbs

stooping by the coffinlid
waiting for something to rise
as the other somethings did—
you imagine His surprise

bellowing through the general noise
Where is Effie who was dead?
—to God in a tiny voice,
i am may the first crumb said

whereupon its fellow five
crumbs chuckled as if they were alive
and number two took up the song,
might i’m called and did no wrong

cried the third crumb,i am should
and this is my little sister could
with our big brother who is would
don’t punish us for we were good;

and the last crumb with some shame
whispered unto God,my name
is must and with the others i’ve
been Effie who isn’t alive

just imagine it I say
God amid a monstrous din
watch your step and follow me
stooping by Effie’s little, in

(want a match or can you see?)
which the six subjunctive crumbs
twitch like mutilated thumbs:
picture His peering biggest whey

coloured face on which a frown
puzzles, but I know the way—
(nervously Whose eyes approve
the blessed while His ears are crammed

with the strenuous music of
the innumerable capering ******)
—staring wildly up and down
the here we are now judgment day

cross the threshold have no dread
lift the sheet back in this way.
here is little Effie’s head
whose brains are made of gingerbread