Do not make me write a poem about you
WRITTEN BY: Mandie Michelle Sanders
WRITTEN ON: February. 25, 2016 Thursday 5:44 PM
I refuse to be one of those people
that everyone chooses to love once she is dead
Don't wait until I'm lifeless and can no longer hear you
to start giving a **** about me
If I wasn't good enough for you while I was alive
I sure as hell won't be good enough for you when I'm dead
If there is something you need to tell me
do it while I can still hear you
If you want to see me
make plans with me
If you love me
tell me while I am still here to love you back
Do not wait until I am a pile of ashes
to confess everything you ever wanted to say to me
WRITTEN BY: Mandie Michelle Sanders
WRITTEN ON: February. 25, 2016 Thursday 6:04 PM
It's so easy
to write while grief spews from
the greatest depths of your character.
needs to read about the heartbreak,
the lingering heartache that makes
life decisions feel like clouds.
And it's so easy to give in
and put pitied pen to paper,
and the beautiful only
blossoms with agony, angst, and anger.
can you really find the blood curdling words
that turn ache into anything but
agony. Only then
is a poet born.
my throat still burns when 11:30 comes around
it gets late
and i think about the way you used to hold me
the way you saved pet names for goodnight
the way it was always sweetheart
(it didn't occur to me until now that you
probably called her that as well)
the way your pain meds would knock you out for hours
and i'd watch you sleep and snuggle up with your dog
and i'd wish i could help
the day you went into surgery
my throat stayed closed like this
but that all worked out fine, didn't it?
i was a bigger problem than a broken shoulder
It's been almost a year and I haven't forgotten.
Paris sleeps. Her naked body,
all soft lines and faint curves,
is captive to the sheets.
Where restlessness ****** her limbs
only moments ago, now
she knows the happy side of rest.
I wish this had been a different
morning--any other morning.
The freckles on her face
deserve to be counted,
to be hoarded away.
Who needs diamonds
when you have Parisian constellations
on an alabaster canvas?
She makes sleep look like
a Monet, all the brushstrokes
of her breath and the roots
of her blonde-dyed hair,
every dot of color placed with
a Deity's unshakable hand.
This one will probably have to be improved in the future-- it was a simple exercise for creative writing class, but I'm happy with how it turned out for having been thrown out in ten minutes!
I met my soulmate years ago
A love I never got the chance to know
However I try to push past it
I just can't seem to mask it
All my attempts to numb this pain
Strand me to shoulder my own blame
All these conversations all this history
So well known yet such a mystery
Even as I pen this line
I know she will never be mine
Love is simply complicated
In a sea of souls I'm isolated
Somehow not myself without her
There will always just be something about her
Some feelings never completely fade, these recurring themes fill me with both joy and sorrow.
ice cubes crack once you pour a liquid over the top of them
hear them crack if you are not too distracted by the sound of yourself cracking instead
maybe when you are pouring your favorite soda over ice straight out of the freezer you will hear it crack
but maybe when you are pouring your favorite alcohol or just any alcohol, probably not even the good stuff, because you finished that off last night and you haven't been going to work
you haven't been leaving your bed
you don't even remember what it feels like to leave your bed
so maybe you stopped hearing the cracking in the ice when you're pouring the only alcoholic, soul numbing, beverage you have left into a ***** glass because the dishes have been piling up for weeks and the only thing that even crosses your mind when you walk into the kitchen is who will clean the dishes once you're gone
but you've been gone and nobody even checks to see if the dishes should be done or if you might need more ice.
what is enough
when you crave so much