your humor is clay
it’s thick and often dark
fun to grasp
naturally occurring
unpredictable yet familiar
something that delighted me as a child
and has only become more precious now
as we grow taller
as the nostalgia grows thicker and
as the time carved out for such things
grows shorter and thinner to match

your humor is clay
and i miss laughter
i fear that if i took time
for sculpting pots now
i wouldn’t remember how
to make everything symmetrical
i fear my pots
would look like tears
and yours would still
look like suns

You didn’t know what you were doing
and I think that was the worst part,
the fact that you just threw her heart
right away without even taking
the time
to break it first.

That’s it I guess–just that
you didn’t know and that
you didn’t break her heart
not because you loved her too much,
but because you didn’t want to feel the guilt
so instead you flattened out her breath and built
an airplane out of her lungs to fly
her heart to her
so she could break it herself,
alone in the dark
with a box full of tissues
a text to her mom
7 unanswered calls
and a silver hammer
for good measure.

You didn’t know,
you didn’t know what you’d done.
You thought maybe you both had won
because you both got sent your hearts
still intact
but you were wrong.
It doesn’t work like that.

Her lungs
were creased by your hands,
remember?
made sharp by your distinct ability
to see her vital oxygenation
as an art project,
just some ancient origami solution
to make pain look pretty.

Sharp lungs
biting breaths–
they pierced the heart
that sat on them;
it shattered the moment she lifted it
from their folded wings,
the ones that could still
feel your touch
on their edges.

You sent her her heart in the mail.
You didn’t break it you
didn’t even
break it.
Do you think that’s love?

So much to be said, done, written -

I am far too tired
to make sense of the universe,
of the dark energy in our veins.
I'll just sit here and trace
the constellations of leaves
on the sidewalk
and let the wind blow
the dust off my bones.

I'll just sit here
and practice the art
of breathing,
for there is a certain poetry
in being still long enough
to feel the subtle
undulating of the earth,
the quiet panting
of life.

Tell me will you poet?
tell me sweetly in my ear,
tell me of your darkest sin,
and of your hidden fear,
then I will tell it back to you ,
and jot it right down here,
so tell me if you go with it ,
just what you wish to hear?

( I'm listening )

I can tell you that you're perfect,
that you're nice as nice can be,
an I'll tell you that I am your friend,
that you have a friend in me,

( ugh...not so much )

I'll tell you-
you're the handsomest,
as handsome as a star,
the dreamy one from childhood,
who lives somewhere a far,

( I wish... )

I'll tell you that you're wonderful,
that you're honest -
and you're sweet,
an I'll be at your beckon call,
just waiting at your feet,
I will be the sweetest girl,
that you will ever meet,

( Oh boy )

I'll curve the pretty world you view,
an distort it if I must,
tell me will you poet,
are my words the ones you trust?
I can tell a sad goodbye,
or sheets we tangle up in lust,

( ....uh..notta chance, but-)

I can tell of heated passion,
of heated lovers in the night,
while some have heated *******,
some others have a fight,
either way with all that heat,
there's hope they both ignite,
an when you cut your own hand off,
it's only YOU-
you spite,

( OK don't get pissy )

So I can kiss you with my paper,
I can caress you with my pen,
I can leave you feeling anxious love,
or I can leave you feeling zen,
I can be beside you there,
just name it where and when,

( hope not tho )

I can mention that you're genius,
just the smartest guy I know,
except for when it comes to love,
and then it's all for show,
or I can just omit that part,
so no one ever know,

( I'm sure you'd prefer that )

I can tell you any fake thing,
so sweetly in your ear,
it may not be the truth though,
and there in lies the fear,
if I tell you only truth then,
when I'm drawn in really near,
then tell me will you poet,
what should I say my dear?

( oy vey )

Because some objectified objects,
well they have opinions too,
and flattery gets you no where see,
even if these facts I say are true,
it's only in a certain light,
when you tip it all askew,
so that everyone can finally see,

The real "beauty" there in you,
as it all comes out,
now so clearly into view,

And I wonder why would I-
ever waste a single precious breath?!

Ma Cherie © 2017

It all came to a standstill,
A day when time stood still,
A beautiful world, fogged and grey,
Grief was its own land, okay?
But the sun arose the next day,
And we woke up anyway,
When the past was  a distant land,
Time stood still, not so grand........

The warrior that kept trying
And never gave up
Fought her way right through
Until she reached the top
Possessing a strong will
Led this warrior to victory
Reading and studying everything
Forever showing her resiliency