come & find me
i've left my phone plugged
into the wall because i can't feel
you breathe through your fingertips
and i can't read your lips through emoji
your belly-button doesn't look right shrouded
in 8 mega-pixel dust and i want to touch you instead
of a keyboard on a screen and tell you about my day because
even though it's written doesn't mean it's real meet me offline because
i don't want a five second snapchat victory snapshot of your *****-line
i don't want my silly romantic poetry to be re-grammed on your insta
framed against a picturesque city skyline or a stoic mountain lion
with hashtags and sexting doesn't turn me on like the sound of
your voice i can write you letters until my fingers bleed but
they always arrive seven days late and you never cry
when you cut them open with a knife and i'm not
looking for a pen pal anyway or a friend
instead i seek a mirror with glowing
teeth or an outlet to plug
into and charge
me up

Like a baby
thirsty and hungry
For nourishment
I cry for Mother
In the worst of times
Wanting her
To make the pain go away
For she's where it all ends
And she loves us all
No matter what

My days at Penlandia definitely reached its afterglow
Now it’s hard for me to find my rhythm
Hopefully, the soul of some of my poetry will find their mark
If not unto someone’s head, then to somebody’s heart

I hope my words are not just vandals on the wall
Nor merely a stain on the paper
I created them to touch, stab, **** and make love
To bring peace unto hell and create fire in the sky above

It’s up to your eyes now, my dearest readers to magnify
Hate my stuff or love them
What's the reason why I’m inches away on parking my pen?
Voices from the other side echoes within my ear again and again

That’s why I’m writing this poetry as if my last
But if one day you’ll see me deploying another poem
I hope you enjoy stories with an unexpected ending
Besides, even the afterglows have a little radiance remaining

Mysterious Aries

11/19/2015

My mother was
a first generation lesbian.
My father,
a first generation divorcee.
His father was the one child
of a public school teacher.
He found my grandmother at 18.
A farm child, one of seven.
A painter, a baker.
My mother's father
a single boy to three sisters.
His aggressive masculinity
kept the line clear and thick.
He found my mother's mother at 17.
A middle of seven Pentecostal children.
A beauty queen, an agoraphobic.
Each had five children.
The door-to-door salesmen/
homemaker and mother of boys duo
bet it all to open a hobby shop.
They were by far the poorest of the
watermelon farming siblings.
They were artists and explorers.
The high school graduate and ladies man,
was a logger before a father.
And the single mother of 25 he left
scarcely left her home at all.
Neither pair made it big.
But they made my father.
A lonely, post middle aged man.
The poorest of his brothers.
A used to be pilot,
and could have been teacher,
a want to be pioneer.
A nuclear family super fan
who never got his way.
And they made my mother.
A nervous, eccentric hippie
who doesn't know how to talk to her siblings.
A woman working her *** off to excel at lower middle class.
A builder, a fighter, a **** good mother.
Even if accidentally so.
She has plans to travel.
He has dreams to live by a lake.
And they made me.
A single girl among three boys.
A quirky, nervous tomboy.
A thinker, a gardener, a climber.
A loser and a dreamer by blood.

your name echoes in my thoughts.
bright lights spell it out
racing, my mind can't stop
you're all I've ever asked for
craving your response
evidently my heart beats a little faster when you're near
night turns to day and you're still here.

we aren't perfect,
more like a shifting puzzle.
we have our turning points,
better times.
other days I wish I hadn't woken up for,
but in the end
we make an exquisite masterpiece.

some people admire our artwork,
others only find its flaws.
but what are flaws?
peoples definitions of imperfect?
because "imperfection" is just an opinion.

however, one day you decided art wasn't your forte.
our painting was no longer on display.
it fell off the wall
the painting broke along with my heart.
it left scars and imperfections on the wall.
without the painting, the wall looked bare.
the wall lacked character.

now when people see the painting they just shrug thinking about what it used to be.

however I am the painting.
a jumble of colors thrown together in attempt to make something beautiful.
I was just hung up until a better painting came along.
then I came crashing down
and thrown into the pile of unwanted art work
only looked at according to my flaws.
longing for my pieces to be put back together.

but how could a broken painting ever compare to a brand new one?
it can't.
but that "shiny" painting won't last.
it's only for looks
as for me, look deeper.
because when you aimlessly try to put the pieces back together
there's always something missing.
and that something is you.