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Riq Schwartz Jul 2014
Even with the mood lighting inside
this lethargy induced spiced chai
I find these things elusive
like good cell phone pictures of concerts
or, dare I say, a happy poet.

Despite generations of artistic indulgence
I find these things apathetic
androgynous, as it were
with indiscernible discrepancies drawing
daft conclusions from the quick-sought eye.

I too struggle to find the truth behind the lines.
I craft as though I know my medium.
I create broad sweeping arcs across
my own right side brain
but see them smudged and distorted, distended,
dripping their dynamics through the cracks in my floorboards.

Cinnamon vanilla maple ginger
shots at first class from coach
and here on my three foot throne
I squander the warmth of my ******* latte.
Riq Schwartz Jul 2014
Less notable
than the day we set still our pens
and let rest our wandering muses
is the day the sun
does not rise.
Riq Schwartz Jul 2014
My time with you is
the first few seconds before
all your flavor's gone.
Riq Schwartz Jul 2014
Everything she writes is tagged

You break my heart, know.
Even with these chemical
bonds holding me together,
these frail spiderwebs
weaving around ventricles,
you shatter them like a
calm breeze, playing child,
a secret told to the wrong set of ears.

The characters in (y)our plays [on words]
are the crux of (y)our matters.
We're all ancillary like stepping stones;
pity (y)our destination begs leaving
no stone unturned.

My stepping stones are tablets, though.
20mg doses of baby steps,
crossing voids like I see in (y)our eyes.
My mouth is cavernous,
my throat the steps to hell
(wide and steep and too easy to trip down).
Each night - a crusade to save me.
Each morning - a body count.
One. Good enough for me.

Each time I sign on - the body count grows.
I have a bad habit if writing poems that are too personal about people I don't really know. This is one of them, so I threw in a bit about myself for good measure.
Riq Schwartz Jul 2014
Love is found not
in fixation
obsession and attraction to
the point of abstraction.
Love does not demand
sacrifice of soul and will,
sitting still, sifting
through emotional ruminants.
Love does not need me.

Love is what I need to be.

(S)he finds me trapped
strength sapped
and gives me heart to heart
This is love.
I am free to die and weep
and hate and wallow;
love is unfettered by languish,
not lackluster if let to age.
In time, we find, we see the truth
of love's supposed strength in youth,
and instead see
grows vines around our walls, and through
windows and doors, inside and out.
Now, when we crumble into dust,
our framework cracks like cheap glass,
we find this love, slow and insidious,
to be the only thing holding us aloft.
*This is your heart becoming mine.
I can understand X's point, but I wanted to make my own argument.

Original post:
Riq Schwartz Jun 2014
His name was Adam Chester,
          and I killed him.

He was something early thirties
still built like twenty-two.
His eyes were as green as life
and the corners of his mouth could
shine enough certainly to

He was dying.

I was something late twenties,
young enough in Hollywood
to still be exposing my ******* for parts.
My hair still had more red than shame,
and my body still looked like a
parenthetical aside
in all the right places.

I had never felt more dead.

He said he saw me in some room
with some people sometime
and that the spark in my eyes had
restarted his heart,
cause he was surely dead,
just waiting to die.
I said I understood,
and I drank daiquiris.
Later, he would tell me
my skin felt softer than the
Egyptian cotton sarcophagus
entangling our legs,
that my lips tasted like cherry,
my breath like alcohol,
and my skin like so many
     squandered summer nights,
     bikini tops and Tanqueray,
     riding solar flares between friendships
     and not taking no **** from no one.

For weeks and months we were together. He didn't seem to be wasting any way but spiritually, and I didn't seem to be wasting anything but time. He told me that everybody dies alone, and that he would give anything to break the trend. I told him that of course I would help, and that I didn't love him, but I loved the thought of him, and that in me that thought would live forever. I promised I would find a way. He would touch my hair and smile without showing his teeth - either because it seemed too aggressive or too disingenuous. He told me how our lives resembled Moulin Rouge, except that he was the one on the clock, and I just wanted to drink and ****, and that was precisely why he chose me; perhaps if he was never alone, he would never have time to die.

It was the kind of arid night that makes you want to water your plants compulsively.
The air had our lips cracking like sarcastic smiles
and skin too dry like a sense of humor,
unable to turn the pages of our paperbacks.
I asked him to be my chapstick.
He asked me to be his lotion.
I told him that he was gross.
He told me to go to hell.
               I told him...
          He told me...
     I told him...
He told me...
I told...

I woke in the cold embrace of solitude.
She kissed my neck and called me Lover.
I told Solitude to leave me sleep.
She told me she was lonely.
Told me I was breathing, if barely.
More than could be said for some.
She kissed my neck.
My heart stopped.

Time flows not like grains of sand,
but like grains of wood,
back and forth, swaying, dancing,
some ****** understanding within itself
which we have no place in,
no fate with or without.
I saw him laying alone,
saw him stand beside himself.
Saw him wonder
where I had gone.
Saw him go.
Saw him, gone.
When you die alone, you leave even yourself behind.

I went back to bed,
back to my body,

where Solitude could have her way with me.
Every living creature on earth dies alone.
          ~Roberta Sparrow, "Donnie Darko"
Riq Schwartz Jun 2014
I count my steps,
my heart like some
mis-ticking pedometer
uneven and syncopated
disassociated and dislocated
     with my head in the clouds
I found, retracing my steps,
my foot in my mouth
all the while we kissed.

No wonder, then
that you tasted like
the roads we traveled together,
each time more insipid than the last,
and each word I spoke
was muddled
dry and bland
or saturated and sticking
under fingernails
between your teeth
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