you said you’d stick by me
thats what you would say when you’d leave
but i always trusted you
cause i had nothing left to lose

every night i waited for you
restless nights just for you
always thought you’d come back
you are the thing that i lack

i understand you only want me when you’re lonely
when the other girls don’t seem to care

then you come back for a brief moment
my only wish is for that moment to last
for it to last an eternity

but you always seem to disappear
and what hurts is that you do it carelessly

being a poet is not planned

~for Gabriella Garcia~

~~

a sixteen old soul says she understands,
being a poet is not planned,
forcing an old mans re-collection of the first time,
he made love to a virginal white
papyrus with muscles trembling,
body bent, chest bursting a rockets red glaring,
eyes marking the sheets with salty drip spots

what possessed the wrist veins
to wrest a cheap ballpoint pen to transfuse pain,
in a semaphore of uncoded ink blotches,
what was he thinking

was he thinking?

that it was an ejection
that it was an *******
that it was a tribulation expiation
that it was a tribute explanation?

that it was an injection
that it was a circumspection inspection
that it was a circumscision surgery of emotional complexion
excising an infection with a written genuflection?

try, but no might, the first is subsumed
by the thousands that followed dutifully
though his one poem  flawless, expertly recalled,
it will always be the next,
and unplanned just like this one too

who anointed his brow, the hair and forehead,
with oil pure, dripping down onto, into his cut cain marker,
who is not answering a query relentless
is this his plan, his appointment,
is this his flawed excellence,
is this his imperfect penance perpetual?

knowing well and full
now

the unplanned is his plan,
it’s his faceted flaws
that refract his coloraturas

~~

upon this he reflects,
praying that
god protect the
young poets
from planning
____
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/2893127/unplanned

Each and every word
Written out by a worn out soul
Is a way of showing emotions
Without being face to face with another being

Having your hands ache
Each and every second of the day
Waiting for the perfect poem to be done

Thinking
Writing
Regretting
Crying

Digging through the darkest times
Looking for the best words to use
Making sure everyone understands
Being a poet is not planned

A friend asked me
how to be a writer.
I wanted to say,
lock yourself in a room,
scream until you have
a poem and no voice.
Open your veins and bleed
until you know that your bones
are pure words and sorrow.
Act as if you slit your own throat
and all you can bleed
are your own regrets
and all of the darkness
you boxed up for inspiration.
Write your mom a letter,
tell her you're leaving
and you won't be back for awhile
Because being a writer is traveling
through all seven layers of Hell
and denying anything is wrong.
Forget loving yourself
when all you have is a pen and paper
fused to your wrist
and Jesus is tapping at your skull
saying turn back now.
Warn the neighbors that if they smell burning
It's just your soul
clawing at the front door trying to get in.
Learn how to be alone.
Learn how to lose everything you have
in order to feel release,
learn how to only feel deceased
from now on.
A friend asked me
how to be a writer.
All I said was
don't

They will tell you
poetry is not art
but I always say
art is what the artist makes of it

Art is expressing your emotions
Showing what you feel

Writing all your troubles
Exposing all your needs

So go, show your art
Be proud of who you are

As I stare into my notebook
With some coffee in my hand
My mind is *******
I just sit there, blank.

Everyday its the same thing
Open up
Have a couple of thoughts
Write them out
Tear them down

Now, I wont stop trying
This is all I live for