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Sep 2019 · 240
Has it even bloomed?
Lindsey Grace Sep 2019
They say
Their morning glories have bloomed
With the rise of the sun

The look of a flower that will stay blossomed
The fullness of the flower
Looks to never
Lose that form

A continuation of sweet flavors
and validation
Now asleep
Only asleep
With the rest of the town

Now
With the moon lit
Mine must have
Fallen back asleep

But now there is nothing
No blooming
No whispers of kind comments
nor ear for reciprocation

The space now looking an awful lot
Like when the morning glory was just planted
Like the morning glory was never planted

Was there even a flower to begin with?
I simply don't believe so.

I'd promise to not anticipate it's bloom tomorrow
But I cannot make that promise
- Is it all in my head or is this truly the cycle of this disappointing plant
Nov 2016 · 211
Because you suck.
Lindsey Grace Nov 2016
with every hour I do not see your name appear on my phone
the red light that reads "Exit" grows brighter and brighter
you will see someday that you were wrong
about who you though I was
you'll wish you would've
gave me a
chance
;
Lindsey Grace Oct 2016
The music filled my silver SUV
It matched the sky,
my car that is.
My mood.
The music.
Grey, with a twinkle.

Looking back now I can feel the velocity of the car
pulling at my body
Around the gradual turn,
the road is wet
from the snow melting.
Next to the deep grey asphalt
that screamed for summer,
There are sad looking piles
of it
that glimmered with soot.
It was one of those weird days one the cusp of spring
where it was
like
40 degrees.

I was on my way to the tall boy's house
the one who tears at my heart today.
What I would give to feel that moment at its fullest again.
The vibrations of the song
I fell in love with,
filling the vehicle.
The chill of the seat,
The heat on full blast
and leaving it there when I became plenty warm.
I had my driver window open an inch
to snag a whiff of the clean
still crisp
winter air.

I want to be where I was,
comfortable;
in my warm car
singing harmonies
to that one Lumineers CD
Holding on to the hope you will interpret this how you want.
I promise mine will not match.
Aug 2016 · 247
His
Lindsey Grace Aug 2016
His
His kiss didn't taste like candy
or blooming flowers
on some "crisp spring morning"

He tasted like human
a good
hygienic human

earthy almost
like a kiss on the neck
it lingers through my senses

I am addicted to his
all of those hims

there seems to be new hims every month
a new mouth

but his tasted the best by far
Aug 2016 · 320
The Critical Juncture
Lindsey Grace Aug 2016
I forgot
I have forgotten who I was
and why I came up onto this roof
why I do this so often

I come up here to simplify

In my house, there is internet and music
and my computer, TV, nick nacks, memories, the past,
the future
the now
it is all down there

Up here...
up here there are clouds
sometimes stars
trees, grass, a shed, two sheds,
a road that no one travels on
occasionally music in the distance
from a house near the lake
the one that parties too much
full of the nows
but here
birds, crickets, cicadas, bats
the earth moves around me

Up here
I have what I always will have
even if I lose everything
I will have this simple beauty
and they will keep believing
that as long as people come to their party
they have it all
see Undiscerning for the prequel to this poem.
Aug 2016 · 1.0k
Undiscerning
Lindsey Grace Aug 2016
I have never seen such a blue sky
on the rooftop after a long shower outside
Drinking hot chamomile tea

I am happy
In a new top
the color of the trees that surround the cottage
I pity any being who isn't me at this very moment

Though hold on...
My chamomile tea has been polluted
with vinegar
I try to accept the new taste
find pleasure in it
but the vinegar comes back to snap the back of my tongue

This moment has been altered
and the neighbors don't know how to use their quiet voices
my phone is dying
and I spent the majority of my time up here trying to get the perfect picture for Instagram
See the Critical Juncture for an extension of this poem.
Jul 2016 · 257
Sick of here
Lindsey Grace Jul 2016
Sick of the metaphors
Tell me the truth

Here I will go first:
There was a boy
who I thought would change
because I was different

But I am not
and he is still using me
to get what he wants

and I will continue to let him
because I need to be in his life
whether it was this or that

and life will continue
and, eventually, without him;
and I will continue to do this until I realize I don't need him.
which is far away from here.
Jul 2016 · 311
For Him
Lindsey Grace Jul 2016
I'll buy expensive things
shiny
sparkly
red
sensual things
for him
I will bite my lip
and hold my tongue
I  will paint my nails
I will cry when my thighs touch
and eat skip meals so
i can
look
T
H
I
S

B
I
G

for him
untag myself in ugly
memorable photos
and ya know what is really ******
I don't even know who he is yet.
Jul 2016 · 617
Redundancy
Lindsey Grace Jul 2016
They don't say what they feel
they wear the same shirt
for the same people
because they know they'll like it
over and over
and over
again
They will tell the same joke
because she knows they will laugh
and no one will realize
Jul 2016 · 326
Things my Anxiety Tells Me:
Lindsey Grace Jul 2016
Scared
Scared
Help her
Save her
Scared
Scared
Let me tell you
Let me tell you
Let me tell you
I want you to know
Help her
Help her
Sweet things
Help her
Save her
Listen to me
Listen
Interesting things
Go numb
Numb
Be good
Give in
Give up
Help her
Kisses
Kisses
Kisses
Kisses
Just go numb
Just go numb
Don't go numb
Just don't go numb
You're feeling
Feel
Feeling
So scared
Just so scared
Just so scarred
or tells me
to tell them
Lindsey Grace Jul 2016
I saw you on the bus yesterday.
The first thing I saw was your leather jacket
The one with the orange patch
Your hair was golden brown
And its waves fell down to your shoulder
You pulled out a book
And I see the small scribble of a tattoo on your right hand
As hard as I tried I couldn't see exactly what you were reading
I imagine it was something done by Faulkner, Twain, or Hemingway
I imagine you listen to jazz and drink black coffee
You play the banjo and guitar
You order scotch on the rocks
Every ******* time
You write poetry for your friends sometimes
And You claim its terrible
And your friends claim it brilliant
You would write me some,
and I would recite it when we fight
You would take pictures of me when I wake up in the morning
with nothing but your shirt on
You would take them to the dark room
and hide them in your drawer
You would laugh at me when I put on your ******* glasses
and I at you when you would tell me bad jokes
You would drag me with you
to see all of your favorite shows
And I would joke like you actually had to drag me
I would drag you shopping
but you never minded as long as it was a thrift store
Our apartment would be small
Because neither of us cared too much about being wealthy
We would follow our dreams
I would paint
and tell people how they are feeling
And you would play music
and sing
and write
and tell me how I am feeling
We would be rich
with love
The love girls pray for every night
before they go to sleep
See, we would wake up every day with that feeling
like the one you get when your crush in high school says hello in the hall
We wold be mad for each other
But I don't even know you
There on the bus
I watched you, a stranger, walk on
and walk off
In this amount of time
I have constructed
a whole new path of life
A path I might have taken
if I would have picked up my bag
sit two seats closer
If I wasn't so nervous of what you may think of me
and asked you about your book
Do you like it?
What is your name?
If I were to have asked you out for coffee
Life today would be different
I would be saying your name over and over in my head
I would have started the book you are reading
Maybe I would be texting you
right now
Instead of writing a poem
Maybe I would be writing about the man I met on the bus
not the man I never met
Maybe you would break my heart one day
But we may never know now
Maybe I will see you again
Maybe then I will ask for your name
or the book you were reading in February
But this city is a big City
And there might not be such a thing called fate
And so I will miss you
And your scribble tattoo
And the path I was too scared to take.

— The End —