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Nov 9 · 27
War Flag
Quixotic Nov 9
I wear my heartache like a battle standard.
It ripples above my head declaring:
This is who I am, all I am.
This is what I feel.
This is where my focus will be
This is the core of my identity.

As high and plain as I am,
conspicuous still not
worth a second glance.
No threat of harm to anyone,
and undeniably unalluring.

It simply moves through the warfield
no more than an unmet presence
November 9, 2019
Jul 12 · 89
Wrists
Quixotic Jul 12
My whole life
people have talked about hands
and arms
and hearts
plaguing them in their solitary sorrow.
But since I let you go
I've found that isn't true.

I miss you in my wrists.
Your hands spilling over mine,
our wrists meeting,
kindling soft warmth in the tender places.

Your bicep trapped in my hands,
my fingers traveling streams beneath your skin,
my wrists hidden away in the reservoir of your arm,
still and secure.

I miss the spots where my wrists would meet your neck
each time you kissed me,
when my fingers twisted in your hair
and I could feel your pulse beating beneath mine.

The thought that I made a mistake--
the fear that I'll never
find that
again--
is what haunts me.
The pain of it travels with me
always sitting in two places
and it knows no rest.
Keeps me sprawled and awake in the night
Keeps me sullen and numb in the day
Keeps me scattered from focus at work
Keeps me docked on the precipice of tears:
Hastily duck under my desk to wipe at my eyes with a shoelace.
Talk too excitedly to disguise my bright eyes,
Fake a sneeze to blame my sniffs on pollen.
Force laughter at things that aren't funny.
Chug water to account for frequent trips to the restroom.

Massage the base of my palms to try to soothe the aching.

The place I miss you is my wrists.
June 2019
May 15 · 61
TOO MUCH
Quixotic May 15
Hey.
I honestly don't know if you even exist.
And I know people say that all the time about the person they are meant to be with but they always find someone but I am different.
I'm just like everyone else in a LOT of ways but in this matter I am so wholly different.
I am broken.
I want too much of so much.
And I have no reason to believe that there is someone out there who will be what I want, no matter what those two dreams I had ages ago suggested.
Because I have had SO MANY experiences where I took comfort in something that turned out to be COMPLETELY wrong.
So who's to say those dreams meant something?
Probably they just meant nothing.
And I'm angry.
I'm angry at myself for still wanting something I don't honestly think I'm any good at.
I'm angry at myself for not being able to let it go.
I'm angry at myself for sharing too much of myself and expecting people to not be freaked out by it.
I'm angry at myself for just BEING so much.
Too much.
Too much body,
too much voice,
too much emotion,
too much passion,
too much inability to weather my feelings.
Too much.
Why should I hold on to hope that someone will come along and suddenly see all that as good things?

I shouldn't.

I am too much.

I hope for your sake you find someone who will be perfect for you.
I hope you live a long, happy life and that when you die you make it to heaven.
I hope your dreams come true.
My dream was you, but I hope I can find a way to let that go.
Anyway. Bye. I wish you joy.
May 11 · 265
5.10.19
Quixotic May 11
Have you ever
held flower petals
picked before they completely
unfurl?
While they're still
fresh and untouched
by insects
or sunshine
or any of it?

Being told I'm beautiful
by you
feels like that.
There is a power to be found in being told you are lovely by the right person, as if someone that matters to you can look into you and see that you are ready to burst forth and bring the world a brand new sparkle and wonder
May 3 · 170
Spiraling
Quixotic May 3
Take a bite
Swallow
Take a bite
Swallow
Take a bite
Swallow
Take a bite
Swallow
Take a bite
Swallow

Take a bite
Swallow

Another bite

Swallow

Swallow while the bird on the plate peers up at you with sparkling eyes

Why can’t you eat like a bird?
Peck into a seed
One by one
Peck
Swallow
Peck
Swallow
Peck
Swallow
Fly away

Tiny stomach
Hollow bones
Floating on the wind
Spilling feathers
Nature’s confetti

Distract yourself
Rub your dog’s tummy while she peers up at you with sparkling eyes

Why can’t you ***** like a dog?
Gorge from a food bowl
*****
Gorge
*****
Gorge
*****
Bark at a car

Narrow waist
Powerful legs
Streaking through the field
Spilling fuzz strands
Nature’s confetti

Distract yourself
Gaze into the mirror while you stare out at yourself with sparkling eyes
Why can’t you be the girl in your dreams?
Weep
Breathe
Gag
Breathe
Pills
Breathe
Sink to the floor

Bulging belly
Thunder thighs
Writhing on the bathmat
Spilling saliva and tears
Failure’s confetti
April 9, 2019
Apr 17 · 179
National Haiku Day 2019
Quixotic Apr 17
Spring breeze blows the fringe
From her eyes; the sun sparkles
Down on fresh blossoms.
Feb 7 · 112
Untitled
Quixotic Feb 7
Like a raindrop felled from its cloud
this separation makes me less than I was.
I travel the world
the ground the sea the air
trying to find my love again.
Nowhere does he condensate.
Will we ever again join to travel the heavens?
Feb 7 · 68
Unwelcome
Quixotic Feb 7
I have no compassion
for myself.
This loneliness
has become a monster
blooming dwelling residing
within my flesh.
I want it to vacate my body permanently
and
I do not care what means it uses.
Jan 26 · 325
Inoculation
Quixotic Jan 26
Brandishing a scalpel
I chisel free my heart
Lift it thumping to my lips
Taste the first brawny bite
My own lifeblood drips down my chin
as I smirk in victory.
In matters of the heart,
one must consume or be consumed.
Nov 2018 · 125
STUPIDITY
Quixotic Nov 2018
• Stupidity is doing something even though you know you shouldn't.

A response to "how are you?"
that's more than just "fine."

Wanting ten dollar guidance
in exchange for a dime.

Then deciding to share
everything in your mind.

Expecting acceptance
when you choose not to lie.

Trying not to feel foolish
when you show your grim side.

• BUT stupidity is also:

Allowing your shame
to convince you to hide.

Thinking nobody cares
since they're so hard to find.

Wishing to end it
'cause you're tired of the climb.

Believing the only
way out is to die.

Forgetting this moment's
a point on a line.

Ignoring that nothing
can heal you like time.
4.27.2016
Nov 2018 · 96
Heat Lightning
Quixotic Nov 2018
It starts out soft
As I'm leaving your house.
The gentle rumbling
Sounds like a giant's hungry belly—More like
The worries tumbling noisily inside my mind.
The clouds glow with nebulous heat,
Atmospheric stress that can't be contained any longer.
I pull onto the interstate as
The echoes grow louder,
While a forgotten song
Plays through my car's speakers.
I hear the familiar words and
My raging mind is stilled,
Marveling at the occasionally baffling timing of the universe.
My eyes feel prickly and
I fight that urge to sneeze the tears away.
The song ends—but
I start it over and
Over and
Over.
Deep thunder claps vibrate inside my hollow chest.
Turquoise veins of lightning slash across the sky and
Down towards the trees and hills on either side of me.
They scar my world with bright green dagger wounds.
The trickling rain in my eyes works to clear my hazy vision,
While the torrential tears on my windshield make the panorama I see a watercolor.
The lightning is chasing me—
I swear the car in front of me was just sizzled.
How can something you love so dearly
Also make you tremble in fear?
Squinting out the windows,
I see many fellow travelers
Who stopped when things grew frightening.
I look out through the waterwall and
Wonder if I should stop as well
Before things get any worse.
My hands grip the steering wheel,
Fingers tapping with indecision.
I know what's to fear:
I've known all along.
But
I've always loved a good storm.
6.24.2016
Nov 2018 · 171
Windshield Wipers
Quixotic Nov 2018
Driving down the interstate,
Staring into the dash,
Hydroplaning (lost in thought and
Glowing by too fast).

At first I think the droplets
Lay down smoothly on the glass,
Like a most precious mosaic
Painted in the distant past—

But NO.
This holds no loveliness at all:
No orderly blueprint here, just
Clearish blue that splatters
And perilously bars my eyes
From seeing the road ahead.
I notice how the teardrops hit
With no apparent pattern.
They land, the wipers swipe them down,
A moment of clarity—
Then immediately more rainbombs fall and I'm blind once again.

The wipers and raindrops speak to each other
With the voices of my soul.
The rain is yelling:
LOOK AT YOURSELF. YOU ARE WORTHLESS.
In every wipe I hear the frustration:
LOOK AT YOUR LIFE. YOU SHOULD BE HAPPY.

Splash
"Look at that, you're fat!"
Wipe
"People tell you you're beautiful all the time."

Splash
"Look in the glass—you're as pretty as an ***!"
Wipe
"Appearances aren't everything."

Splash
"True for some, but not for you; you have no talents or smarts in you."
Wipe
"But you got a degree! In a field that you love!"

Splash
"Three prospect-less years have gone by; maybe you're just not meant to fly."
Wipe
"You have people that love you—even a cherished man!"

Splash
"Love me they do, I know it's true; still they grow tired of my ever-gloomy hue."
Wipe
"............."



Driving down the interstate
Staring into the dash
Noticing the ceaselessness
Of the raindrops on the glass.

I know the storm will never end;
It will always bring me grief.
The only escape from the tempest
Goes against my own beliefs.

I'm certain how this night will end:
With the dull scrape of relief,
Back to my vice that helps me cope
With demons underneath.
8.21.2016
Nov 2018 · 108
AU REVOIR POETRY
Quixotic Nov 2018
I've decided to stop writing poetry,
(Not that my words will be missed),
You see, every time I set out to form lines
I discover my point goes amiss.
It's not that I have no opinions—
I have cloaked depths I long to convey—
But each time that I start to inscribe what I feel
I'm scared off by the wonder of "they."
This "they" can inspire,
Challenge, remake, and cheer,
With words of a worthier life,
While the letters I press
And the words I create
Are bogged down by mankind's common strifes.
So from this day forth
I endeavor to stop
Seeking phrases within my own head;
The challenge I pose is to stop WRITING poetry,
And to start LIVING poetry instead.
8.20.2017
Nov 2018 · 174
A Sounding
Quixotic Nov 2018
Sprawled longways 'neath the blankets on your mattress
My ears fervently absorb you through the walls.
Hazy rivers cascade from your shower head—
The cadence soothing and familiar.
Lathered soap foam leaves your skin and slaps the floor—
Deep-voiced Goliath strugg'ling to roll his Rs.
Then the giant goes still.
All is silent but the overhead fan.

Curtain sliding
Towel drying
Muffled footprints 'pon the carpet...
The bedroom door creaks open
To the whisper of my spreading smile.
9.4.2017

— The End —