Kimberly Eyers

Kimberly Eyers May 2016

I don't want to rekindle old flames.
I want to let sleeping dogs lay.
But my curiosity
gets the better of me.

I want to know how you're doing.
What you're doing.
If you found someone to open up to.

Ignore this letter,
If you don't want to hear from your
(whatever I am to you)

Or don't.
And instead exchange
A few letters
With me.
That's all
this has to be.

Kimberly Eyers May 2016

Coffee Shop

It's in a strip mall
With a nutrition store, a pharmacy
and across the small lot,
a bank.

Tall screens with trees,
And teeny tiny tables tucked together.

It's where I used to meet with my case worker.

To discuss my case.

Once I went to meet an acquaintance
To be interviewed
For a study on
Strong poets.

She eventually made it about the standards of cool.

I'd go there to study,
but you only get an hour of WIFI.

Still, I love it.

Right down to the rat poison behind the counter.
And just beyond the top of the hand written chalk board.

I'll go there
just to read
from now on.

Kimberly Eyers Apr 2016

Strangers in the Street

We passed today like strangers
In the street.

You saw me, and glared-

But said nothing.
You are very good, after lots of awful practice,
at saying nothing.

I'll beg you one more time, say something.

I've composed this message a million times
in my head.

But seeing you-
hating the feeling that you hate me
becomes unbearable.

Because I tried my best to love you,
and yet
I am worse than a stranger.

Once the clingy thing you could not stand,
Now I'm blamed for abandoning you.

And back I am again.
Feeling it is fitting:
We barely knew each other anyway.

#breakups

Apr 2016

h

Techno touch

techno touch of tripping eyes,
flooded lungs filled flightless
feelings of birds above
and the bickering birds below.
Brushing bitterly breathing
heavily, heavenly hearts
and sighing in silky silhouettes.
Flowers folding fiddles,
defying gravity in great,
gruesome, detail. Eyes electric,
daffodils digging deep down.

#alliteration

Kimberly Eyers Apr 2016

Ghosts

My head is full
Of ghosts

Of ideas,
things people have said,
and the way my heart crumpled.

Memories are for people
Who aren't haunted.

Ghosts are for people
who've been driven to the edge of sanity
and back again.

Always back again,
but not without
the ghosts.

#memories #sanity #ghosts #haunted

Apr 2016

Deyer

Giving Meaning to my Matter

I sit high on my Mount Olympus,
a chair from Staples with an Executive
appearance (so the box said). I'm faced
with a vacant canvas, and the knowledge
that one day,
I won't have time to fill it.
1A
I decide then to fill it with whatever
comes to mind. Stars sparkle from my
fingertips after painting the whole thing
mostly black. I place them in shapes
that could be confused for a belt, a warrior,
a goat, or a saucepan to those without
vision. I pause, placing large reptiles
on a green and blue dot that floats
around one of the smaller stars. It entertains
me for a short while, but I decide to
start anew with a smaller, weaker, but
smarter animal.
And then I observe.
I watch as first they stand upright,
their distant relatives still using sticks
to catch ants in their homes.
They spark stones using friction, and
I'm delighted while feeling my first tinge
of fear, for I sprinkled my own intellect in them
like stars on a black canvas.

They thrive, expanding out in every direction
until they share air, exhaling while others
breathe in their exhaust.

I watch as they cut all the greens, take
clean and cover it with cement. They burn
the core, slowly, to power machines that
take them anywhere. They fight; oh how
they fight.
        The core dissipates and they fight over
it, and they fight over me and I don't
understand. All their ideas are the same,
other than those who assume that they
are in my favour . . . Location, as I've
grown to see, impacts culture; it can not create
hate.
They look to me, pray to me,
and I can hardly intervene. A new
world, it seems, is all that I could do . . .

1B
I think of my dad, who left a thousand
jokes yet to be told. Before I paint or print,
I think and think and nothing comes.
Then I paint the sky with tiny points
of white, wasting no more time on thinking.
A scene opens up before me, and it
consumes everything
that I am, or that I ever will be.

I paint my own light into the dark
abyss, bliss kissing my cheeks as
my working wrist grows weak.
I write, if only to last a second
longer than my body. I write
to continue (to matter).

Kimberly Eyers Apr 2016

Integrate

Splattered
Like spaghetti sauce
On a baby's white highchair-

That's your inner life.
Red, dried, this is going to stain.

You swallowed bullets, and then they shot inside you.

Like an old broken computer,
You're bigger, and you look fine,
but you whir (and hum) at the slightest touch;
overheating.

Like not wearing underwear under your clothes,
everything is scratchy and a little raw and you feel more vulnerable.

You feel everyone must know. How could they?

Only if they notice.
Or
If they lure you into taking off those "I've got it together" clothes.
Which nobody can do anymore.
Because ******, you're going to integrate that ****.

Wear that rawness like the Emperor in his new clothes.
Be your own mischievous taylor.
Laugh like a baby at the spaghetti stain.
Spit the bullet shards out
at kids so they don't do the same thing you did.

#bullets #pain #molestation #psychosis #integrate