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A seventeen year old girl, just trying to find herself. I love writing. I use poetry as an outlet. Not just any outlet, I use …
Nova Scotia
Poetry is a HUGE outlet for me, if something's troubling me, I write about it. Officially have a published book of poetry for sale on …
26/Non-binary/In between
"One day I will find the right words, and they will be simple." Jack Kerouac, The Dharma Bums
Poems
CJ M
Apr 2016
Alicia, Alicia
Reminding me of a once blissful time. I wonder if you ever think about it. Living a life of laxity and becoming a being of chill from attitude to soul.
You are so beautiful. You remind me of the possibility of our probability your name a legend in my heart.
I still hear your voice telling me goodbye the first time, just smiling with books in your hand… I never stopped smiling that day.
But only a year later, you left for good. I don’t blame anyone, I understand you had to go.
But I want you to know that I watched you walk out that door. I felt solemnity in that last hug and could taste your tears when I kissed your baby brown cheek.
Alicia, Alicia
Where are you now, baby girl?
What’s on your mind and who do you taunt now?
I must have a problem falling for phantoms, for when I finally open up and show my real personality, she always slips past my numb fingers and away into the dark.
Reminding me of a once blissful time. I wonder if you ever think about it. Living a life of laxity and becoming a being of chill from attitude to soul.
You are so beautiful. You remind me of the possibility of our probability your name a legend in my heart.
I still hear your voice telling me goodbye the first time, just smiling with books in your hand… I never stopped smiling that day.
But only a year later, you left for good. I don’t blame anyone, I understand you had to go.
But I want you to know that I watched you walk out that door. I felt solemnity in that last hug and could taste your tears when I kissed your baby brown cheek.
Alicia, Alicia
Where are you now, baby girl?
What’s on your mind and who do you taunt now?
I must have a problem falling for phantoms, for when I finally open up and show my real personality, she always slips past my numb fingers and away into the dark.
old ones..... Lost in my own mind like a mirror gets lost in its reflection.
onlylovepoetry Mar 2018
Friday night immodesty I
onlylovepoetry
Mar 2018
Friday night immodesty
theater on East 4th street @ 8:00pm,
so the girlie stuff commences on schedule
90 minuets a-priori and the medley music
(adele+amy+alicia+ pink bach for some zing)
a harbinger, a pioneer Greek heralding of
Friday night immodesty
the clothes laid out upon the bed, the shoes,
pumps selected and already on,
(always a puzzler to me,)
the subdued lower east side jewelry possibilities,
on the dresser drawer,
indifferently hoping for selection, but
casually beaming quietly,
like those kids waiting for interviews in the waiting room
of the college Admissions Dean’s office,
all with serious smiles
and tiny tearing eyes
aside:
helloooooo, I am in a poetry polo with my best jeans ready to go
2 hours before the curtain calls out,
hellooooooo
she sits at the makeup mirrored desk,
clad in only her underneath garments of varying utility,
when I sweep in imperially
and with one hand twist gentle her hair upwards,
betraying
her neck nape which is again
the sujet of a poem aborning
lips,
like a Greek lyre strings, pluck, the tiny hid hairs never seen,
her instant moans at the never fully expected motion poem,
beg more mercy but no quarter given despite repeated cries
of you’ll mess my makeup,
the best defense known to a lady!
god gave men two thumbs to lift up,
simultaneously stimulating,
slide down each of the thin black brasserie strap invitations,
upon each, a writ,
upon her flesh colored shoulders,
stating
“what was she thinking!”
my lips,
now polar explorers, those power (filled) poles side by side,
(east/west for the designer was a smart
bipolar guy-person);
the lips play silent night progressive jazz,
tinkling with higher noted keys,
nape to shoulders moving down to the back’s prefrontal lobe,
the small of her back, the body’s quivering,
a con-federate flag of surrender
her last defense swept aside, we drink honey and milk,
celebrate the week’s mellifluous finish with immodest touching,
the lower east side will belong tonite
to only the hipsters, the millennials,
as our hips are milling and otherwise
pre-theater and post, occupado
some hours later, watching TV and eating delivered Chinese,
she laterally and literally arm punches my arm
intensely to mark her discontent,
still annoyed,
for I
1) messed up her makeup,
2) best blouse to the dry cleaner and
3) the tickets wasted, and worse,
hits me again!
after I laugh and giggle upon proffering
most modestly, most assuredly,
seconds of
onlylovepoetry
9.21am Saturday
theater on East 4th street @ 8:00pm,
so the girlie stuff commences on schedule
90 minuets a-priori and the medley music
(adele+amy+alicia+ pink bach for some zing)
a harbinger, a pioneer Greek heralding of
Friday night immodesty
the clothes laid out upon the bed, the shoes,
pumps selected and already on,
(always a puzzler to me,)
the subdued lower east side jewelry possibilities,
on the dresser drawer,
indifferently hoping for selection, but
casually beaming quietly,
like those kids waiting for interviews in the waiting room
of the college Admissions Dean’s office,
all with serious smiles
and tiny tearing eyes
aside:
helloooooo, I am in a poetry polo with my best jeans ready to go
2 hours before the curtain calls out,
hellooooooo
she sits at the makeup mirrored desk,
clad in only her underneath garments of varying utility,
when I sweep in imperially
and with one hand twist gentle her hair upwards,
betraying
her neck nape which is again
the sujet of a poem aborning
lips,
like a Greek lyre strings, pluck, the tiny hid hairs never seen,
her instant moans at the never fully expected motion poem,
beg more mercy but no quarter given despite repeated cries
of you’ll mess my makeup,
the best defense known to a lady!
god gave men two thumbs to lift up,
simultaneously stimulating,
slide down each of the thin black brasserie strap invitations,
upon each, a writ,
upon her flesh colored shoulders,
stating
“what was she thinking!”
my lips,
now polar explorers, those power (filled) poles side by side,
(east/west for the designer was a smart
bipolar guy-person);
the lips play silent night progressive jazz,
tinkling with higher noted keys,
nape to shoulders moving down to the back’s prefrontal lobe,
the small of her back, the body’s quivering,
a con-federate flag of surrender
her last defense swept aside, we drink honey and milk,
celebrate the week’s mellifluous finish with immodest touching,
the lower east side will belong tonite
to only the hipsters, the millennials,
as our hips are milling and otherwise
pre-theater and post, occupado
some hours later, watching TV and eating delivered Chinese,
she laterally and literally arm punches my arm
intensely to mark her discontent,
still annoyed,
for I
1) messed up her makeup,
2) best blouse to the dry cleaner and
3) the tickets wasted, and worse,
hits me again!
after I laugh and giggle upon proffering
most modestly, most assuredly,
seconds of
onlylovepoetry
9.21am Saturday
thank you all who liked this tale of
the poetry in the details
of our lives.
olp
the poetry in the details
of our lives.
olp
Norman Crane Aug 2020
Alicia