i’m typing this
as i’m waiting for you to get back
from the bathroom.
in the starbucks
cozy acoustic music is playing
and your mocha frappucino
is on the table in front of me.
your lips have touched the lid
and i don’t want to be
but i wonder.
i wonder how it feels
does it know that it’s lucky.
can it tell me its secrets
how does it do that?
get you to open up
and let inside the warmth?
i’m not jealous.
you should be back any second now.
you might walk out
back to our cliche little table
and ask me
what i’m doing
what i’m typing so furiously
what i’m so passionate about.
i will want to say you.
i love you
right here right now right time right place
i won’t though
maybe i’ll say
“i forgot to finish this paper
that’s due at 11:59 tonight”
or maybe i’ll say
“i just got an urgent email
about my political science class tomorrow”
or maybe i’ll say
“an old elementary school friend
just sent me a Facebook message
and i need to reply”
or maybe i’ll say
nothing more important than our coffee.”
maybe i’ll just close my laptop
because it’s true.
nothing is more importa
don't use me
as your broom
to sweep up your feelings for her
cause every time we kiss
every time we touch
i can feel her coarse dust
rubbing through my skin
it starts with the wave of a hand
a simple introduction
'hi, what's your name?'
it starts with looking and seeing nothing but what is there
skin and bones and blemishes and human
it starts with feeling no cliche butterflies in your stomach
and no additional voice in your head
amongst the others
and no rapid pulse in your still-beating heart
somewhere along the way the waves turn into inside jokes and small smiles
crinkles by the corners of eyes
and light chuckles
and glancing just a millisecond too long
and, well, glancing just a million times too often
and you write poems in attempts to make yourself believe
to drown yourself in denial
to avoid confronting the - nonexistent - blooming bud growing
sprouting from all angled corners
and cracking curves
and jagged edges of you
spoiler: it doesn't work
and it's strange because apart from seeing what is there you see more
or really you don't see what is there
you see what you want to be there
you see skin and bones and beauty and freckles and stars and constellations in eyes and ethereal -
except perfection doesn't exist
and what you see doesn't exist
it's just your unrealistic expectations piled up from miles and smiles of movies and books and manga and everything
and you know this
but it goes into one ear and out the other
and it doesn't stop you from claiming
you're in love
if love is just infatuation with a physical manifestation of your ideals without their consent
then i guess you're right
there are butterflies bending, banging on you, begging to be released
you wonder when your definition of beauty became a name and a face
and you wonder when love became synonymous to pain
the butterflies turn into birds and then bears and then freaking buildings
except these building are moving and apparently earthquake proof because you can't seem to break them down
instead the buildings are breaking you down
but the truth is no, no they aren't
don't you see?
you're breaking yourself down
how do you heal if you are both the poison and the antidote?
if only you could rewrite the story
but how could you?
how do you rip the pages
how do you erase the sickeningly sweet
slow stabs slicing through your spine every time a smile is sent your way
how do you mute the thudding in your brain telling you that this could never be
how do you ignore the extra echoes in your head yelling at you to get yourself together
how do you get yourself together?
you've been asking so many questions lately
but you know the answer to all of them
there's a small voice
a minuscule, malevolent voice whispering maybe
whispering maybe and perhaps and potentially
maybe you're not the only one who wants to hold on just a little longer
it's funny how the story starts with two people and now it's just one person with an overactive imagination
illustrating a person as something more
but you're not creative enough to keep your illusion for too long
and soon you start to see less of what you want to be there and more of what is there
skin and bones and blemishes
human is ugly and human is cruel and human is wretched
but human is somewhat
in its ugliness
and human is raw in all its dishonestly
and human is real
even if you made it out not to be
you will never truly now human
you will never truly know anyone or anything that isn't a figment of your imagination
but it's enough
it starts with seeing nothing but what is there
skin and bones and blemishes
and then it ends
the story ends somewhere
but it ends
it always ends
maybe I didn't want to kiss you
maybe it just didn't feel right
your hand up my top
and your other on my thigh
maybe it felt strange
maybe I preferred us as friends
maybe it was foolish to think
that a boy and a girl
could just be friends
maybe I was wrong
why do I feel as though I owe you something?
beware when you fall in love
with an artist
be it a painter, a singer, or poet
for the artist will
with strokes and hues
in shapes of every kind
sing about you
with heartbreak lyrics
and feelings which rhyme
write about you
with the simplest words
and a secret message she wants to say
beware of the artist,
and her love
one wrong move
and you're an artwork in her display
sometimes you're like homework
and i just stare at you
yet you're important to me
it's so hard to finish you
and i lose inspiration every now and then
but when i get high as my grades
i come running back to you
i can't wait to graduate from school
get rid of this infatuation
we would be adults by then
and hopefully this mess will be sorted out
You were the first man that ever broke my heart. It was the day I was born. You held me in your arms and made me a promise that would rip us both apart. You promised to love me unconditionally from the start. But time passed and over the years those words faded from your heart. In the presence of a war when you had one foot out the door. There are vacancies in my memories where a father should have played a part. Like teaching me to drive a car, or telling me don't believe boys that say I love you from the start. Instead, I looked at every boy with tears in my eyes and willingly accepted every single lie, thinking maybe if I part my thighs they'll learn to love how broken I am inside, but they never do. Just like you they leave without a single clue and I'm left alone, used, wishing my daddy would have loved me too. And I'm not writing this to blame you, or break you, or tell you I hate you. I've made mistakes too. Ones deeply rooted in my relationship with you. And I get that maybe you didn't have a clue that your daughter was struggling in the world without you. But I relied on you to set the standard for boys I would let into my heart. By the time I was sixteen, I felt like a tortured piece of art. I learned to love myself of course. Over the years of ripping myself apart I learned to chart the darkness in my own heart. I don't blame you anymore for my broken parts. I'm healed from being angry at you. I'm writing this to tell you I'm sorry for failing you, and I'm sorry you failed me too.
The apple never does fall too far from the tree.
I tend to love
And sometimes, I get broken
by the things I love.
Do you know what these men say to me?
eyes and their mouths
when I walk on the street.
With a grin and a nod
and a look up and down.
A wink and a kiss
and a cat call heard from downtown.
With my skirt short
and my top
It’s a cold world daddy
doesn’t mean no.
Daddy do you know
how these men look at me?
Like I’m a piece of meat
strutting down the street?
With my head buds in
and my favorite song on.
I’m asking for it Daddy,
I’m in the wrong.
Do you know how it feels
not to wear what I like?
To walk a little faster
when I’m alone at night?
Daddy the world is my predator
and I am it's doe,
Daddy what happens
when I can’t say no?
She’s more fun when she is drunk
At least…until she’s not
Because she’s puking in the toilet
And regretting her last shot
She’s more confident when she’s drunk
Gorgeous and ready to score
Until she looks in a mirror
And feels even uglier than before
She likes herself more when she is drunk
Until that feeling goes away
When she is so far beyond gone
That her self-hatred comes out to play
She’s happier when she’s drunk
All her issues leave her brain
But they all come crashing back at once
And cause her so much pain
She likes the world more when drunk
It’s filled with so much good
Until one little thing sets her off
And she hates it all more than she should
She likes life more when she’s drunk
Her mind for once feels still
Terrified of losing that feeling
She soon wants to end things with a pill
But she can stop any time she wants
Or so she’d have you believe
Because alcohol makes her seem so happy
That is, until all her friends leave
Edit: (3/10/17) Oh my goodness! I haven't logged on in a couple of days and boy did I miss a lot!
I am doing my best to respond to all your messages and comments now! Sorry for the wait!
Thank you all so much for such an overwhelming amount of love and support <3 You guys are amazing
For those of you who struggle with addiction of any kind, hang in there, and I hope you all find the help and support you need <3
Best wishes to you all. And thank you again <3
Alrighty, so I just got a very long message that without going too into details accused me of poking fun at alcoholism with this poem. I would just like to be very clear that this poem was in no way inteaded to make fun of the illness that is alcoholism, and if it came off that way to anyone else, I am truely truely sorry. Words can not express that enough for I very much wished the opposite intent. Alcoholism (and addiction in general) is a very serious illness that I take very seriously. I sinceraly hope that anyone who is struggling with it gets the help they need and those of you who are in recovery, I am proud of you. Stay strong and continue to work towards it <3
Once again, my sincere apologies again to anyone who was offended.
Love to you all <3 - Willow-Anne