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Roberta Day Jun 2014
The future is a sparkle
a firework feeling in my hands
that billows out and expands
to flash multicolored wants
       while crackling needs
I hope it blows our minds
    exploding blissfully
before our eyes
painting the sky with
our names in starry white;
Innocence revisited,
awakened by possibility
Roberta Day Jun 2014
You can’t have your cake and eat it too. Not for long, anyway. Cake doesn’t settle well when it’s all you’ve had to eat. It’ll churn like butter inside you, and creep up your throat to project like a cannon, barreling through a wall. Cake won’t sit right with you anymore. At the mere mention of cake, your insides will crawl with disgust and an association of icing will replace your taste buds with *****. You will never be able to enjoy cake—at parties, as a delicacy, with ice cream—because you got greedy and wanted to eat your cake first rather than save it for such an occasion. Now all the different kinds of cake you fantasized about trying—black velvet, coffee cake, buttercream pound cake—will only be a reminder of your pitfall that led you to make yourself sick with desire, for cake. You can’t get the icing off your tongue, the smell of batter baking has festered in your nostrils wired to the pungent taste of red from between your teeth. But it’s all you can think of when you’ve been wronged by your favorite dessert. What sort of chemical reaction in the bowels of your stomach caused all of this sorrow? What rejected the cake? Your body has a way of telling you things—we should listen more. Cake is not sustenance, it has no value as a nutritious food. It doesn’t help, only hurts.
It hurts deep inside, a hurt you can't describe. You can't place where and you don't why, other than you couldn't bide your time.
Roberta Day Jun 2014
Darting specks of light
refract beams of ideas--
forever fleeting
Roberta Day Jun 2014
Art has escaped me—
drawing inspiration from
your composition
Roberta Day Jun 2014
I feel for so long like I’ve focused
on selecting the right words
and stringing them together poetically
my speaking voice has suffered
and word ***** ensues, bits of
chewed up residue from when I
had a coherent thought
I speak in breaks
          pauses
I peruse my inner word bank
and waste time deciding on
which ones to choose
rather letting them flow
as a stream of consciousness
Roberta Day Jun 2014
There’s magic in your easter egg shirt
just the threads make my stomach churn
in your bed, garments on the floor
making music behind your bedroom door
sweeter than anything else before
want to tell you that I wanted some more
watching you saunter ‘cross the floor
can’t wait to tickle your fancy

There’s magic in the words that you speak,
when they’re spoken, in my knees I get weak
all night long I’d listen to you breathe
just so I know that you’re here with me
I miss you more right after you leave
pulling all these words out of my sleeve
your magnetic gestures lead me to believe
I am the right sock to your two left feet
Roberta Day Jun 2014
This heat makes my pores perspire,
   makes my skin itch
There’s not enough water to quench
  my internal thirst
Basking or baking—
bubbling, irritated flesh,
deliciously inviting
minuscule beasts to feast upon
The sun beats me,
whacking me with its rays
  melting for half a day’s pay
I’ll be a puddle on the floor
swimming through cracks in
the cement. Work is a
"tradition" I often lament
Wrote this at work.
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