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Douglas Goins Feb 2018

I find myself waking up.
With the intent.
Of it just being another day.
But once I go out.
My eyes fall upon you.
& for the first time.
In four long years.
Your eyes fall upon me.
In a way that freezes me.
Where I can barely stand.
In a way that consoles me.
Where I can hardly breathe.
In a way that moves me.
Right to where you are.
& where you are.
Is a place.
Where I find myself.
Always wanting to be.
Because the way you walk.
I will always follow.
Because the way you talk.
Will always be heard.
Because the fragrance you spray.
Will always be appealing.
& appealing to me you are.
& always have been.


I find myself waking up.
Replaying a dream.
Over & over.
In my head.
A simple dream.
Where the sun is shining.
The birds are chirping.
The flowers are blooming.
& my love for you is showing.
But I'm afraid to speak it.
I'm afraid to have it heard.
By those beautiful ears of yours.
Because its my secret.
One I find so dear.
One I hold so close.
To my heart that beats for you.
Wishing one day.
It could beat for us.
But I say it anyway.
Because all I keep thinking.
Is what's life without love?
What's love without you?
& the answer I receive.
Is one I cannot accept.
Because my life is you.
& I love every bit of my life.
Dream or no dream.


I find myself waking up.
To meet you at a coffee shop.
You're heavy on the sugar.
But there doesn't seem to be.
Anything sweet about your life.
Or better yet said.
You don't see anything sweet.
About your own life.
Because you're cautious with your speech.
You're picky with your people.
You're harmful to your heart.
& you're partial with me.
I would like to save you.
From the very essence.
That is you.
Because the you that I see.
Is who I believe.
You're meant to be.
So you can tell me you hate me.
You can push me away.
Just as long as you know.
That my love for you.
Is here to stay.


I find myself waking up.
With you right next to me.
Half clothed.
Lips half parted.
With your curly dark hair.
I can't bring myself to wake you.
Cause that just means.
The moments at its end.
& from the moment you kissed me.
Which made me lead you to this bed.
Where I shared heavy breaths with you.
Where you shared nail marks with me.
Where we shared our humanity.
I can't bring myself.
To have this end.
Because I didn't ask you to leave.
I didn't not hold you close.
I just watched you sleep.
Until the curtains on my eyes.
Finally decided to close.
Where I dreamt a dream.
Of us being together.
Even after the curtains of our life.
Decided to close.


I find myself waking up.
With the impression of your body.
On the right side of the bed.
Where you should be.
Your scent.
Is something you left behind.
But as for a note.
A simple goodbye.
That seems to be missing.
Following you.
Right through the door.
& for someone like me.
Who is accustomed.
To being the one missing.
To being the one to not say goodbye.
To being the one whose text replies are short.
It kills me to receive.
Each one you send back.
Because I'm not a stranger.
I'm not suffocating you.
& I am the same.
As I was on Monday.
So tell me why.
You create distance.
Tell me why.
You define enough.
By looking into ***.
& multiplying your past.
To produce an answer.
That I am not even a part of.
But in your eyes I have to be.
Because how could I.
Just love you for you.
When no one else could.


I find myself waking up.
To find myself growing up.
To find myself being enough.
Enough to be toe to toe.
Ear to ear.
Eye to eye.
Face to face.
With you.
Telling you everything.
That I have been wanting to say.
Needing to say.
For four long years.
& I know.
You may not believe me.
You may still walk away.
But here & now.
I'm leaving it all in the air.
Giving it all on this floor.
So when you do choose.
I know I said everything I could.
I know I told you everything I felt.
I know there was nothing else.
That I could do.
Or could have said.
So here I am.
Fighting for you.
Not just because I love you.
But because I need you.
Because you are my savior.
When no one else could be.
My entire life.
I've never felt that feeling.
That I felt with you after ***.
When a man is the most honest.
Those fifteen to twenty seconds.
When everything is done.
You are the only one.
That I wanted to stay.
That I needed to hold.
That I felt for.
Felt for way more than just physical.
Felt for way more than just emotional.
I just felt love.
The purist form.
What God intended.
That it should be.
& not what everyone else.
Says love should be.
I can't promise you.
That I won't upset you.
That I won't make you mad.
But I can promise you.
That I will love you everyday.
No matter if you are sick.
Or annoyed.
Without makeup on.
& everyday I will fight for you.
Being your knight in shining armor.
Saving you.
From strangers.
From friends.
From family.
& mostly yourself.
So that you can be.
The princess you're supposed to be.


I find myself waking up.
To an empty bed.
To no texts.
& no calls.
So I find some clothes.
Lace my shoes.
With the intent.
Of it just being another day.
Because in all it is.
I said what I said.
I did all I could.
I am in love with a girl.
Who doesn't love herself enough.
To believe anyone else can.
I walk the streets.
Going to all the places.
That I think she might be.
But I only find my thoughts.
& they accompany me.
Through the rest of the day.
Until I unlace my shoes.
& get rid of my clothes.
Do I hear a knock at my door.
You stand in sweats.
& your hair is a mess.
You tell me you love me.
But that you aren't what I need.
You wish you could be.
Because you believe.
In someone like me.
You thank me for everything.
& go to turn to leave.
But I just can't let you leave.
Because this home.
Is big enough.
For the both of us.
& my heart.
Is patient enough.
For your love to mature.
So don't say no.
Just say you'll try.
Because I can't go another morning.
Finding myself.
Waking up alone.
Mikaila  Aug 2013
Waking Up
Mikaila Aug 2013
Sometimes I stay up nights waiting for you, just so I can pass the days that follow them asleep and not awake to miss you.
The daytime is always harder, the waking up.
Staying awake into the small hours of the morning, that is somehow a bit numb and detached.
Late at night I can even stand to think about some things that hurt me from behind the glass of my own fatigue, protected from their full effect.
I stay up as late as I can, in times like this.
If I can whittle away the hours and the next day delay my wakefulness,
I do it wholeheartedly.

Waking up is a vile thing.
No, not just because mornings are drowsy and too bright and too quick and I never feel rested if I get up in the AM.
Waking up is terrible in a different way than even that.
It is insidious.
It is the departure from my dreams.
Even the awful ones are better than the waiting.

Going to sleep I adore, truly, because it is an escape from living without the permanence of dying.
But ah, the waking up.
That is what makes me hesitate long hours in the dark depths of the early morning.

I dread waking up.
All the illusions are shattered, good or evil,
And I must taste the bitterness of reality.
Every day it gets a little more sour.
I suspect it's this way for many people. I don't know, though.
I know only that in the first moments of waking up each day, my heart is seized by this wicked, burrowing grief,
And so I begin each of my hours of awareness with the painful sorrow of loss.
That is why I stay in bed so late, most days:
I lay there and before the haze of sleep departs I think, "Oh no, not yet, I can't bear it yet."
And in fear retreat back into my stupor.

I don't know what it is, this feeling.
If I had to put a name on it... I'd say it feels akin to disappointment, regret, and....
Shame, all at once.
It swells up inside me and fills me to my fingertips the moment I decide to leave my bed for the day, sometimes even before.
And the fact that it can fill me everywhere reminds me that that space is usually unoccupied by anything of substance.
The only comfort I've ever found for it was the safety of your arms, and even then only a few rare times when you and I were truly honest with each other and I clung to you like I always want to.
It's like I am only a shade,
Made of glass thin as paper and hollow,
Only in the shape of myself,
Until the moment you wrap your arms around me
And only THEN am I flesh.
And when you aren't around this cold hard seed of panic and bitterness rattles around inside, making an awful high pitched tinkling sound and chipping the brittle walls.
I'll be waiting a long long time for you,
For this feeling of total loneliness that comes upon me each day as I open my eyes to the world to dissipate and anything of any real joy to take its place.
So to make it easier on myself, sometimes I stay up nights,
Waiting for you,
Just so I can pass the days that follow them
Asleep and unaware,
And unconscious,
And unfettered,
And unable, in my innocent ignorance of all the world's harsh, brutal reality,
To miss you.
Until the headache that comes with too much sleep forces sunlight into my mind,
And I must wake up,
And face the day all over again.
Oh, I just loathe waking up.
Edward Coles Feb 2014
I keep waking up
to greet the day,
to strangle thought
and keep away
all the doubt within my mind,
of perished hope
and truth confined.
I keep waking up
to find the beat,
to find where reason
and reality meet,
to find a place of simple joy,
of lantern light
and reading boy.
I keep waking up
to do the same,
to plant my crop
and learn my name,
to call myself a useless part
of human waste
and vanity's art.
I keep on waking up
without a cause,
without a flame
to light the gauze
of life's shadowy stage
for platonic dreams,
of Aquarian age
and pyramid schemes.
I keep waking up
to find myself,
to read the books
left on the shelf,
and of all the doubt within my mind,
I promise to you
that I shall find
a way to keep going,
as I fall to a mess,
a way to keep showing
the way that you press
belief to my being
and hands to my chest
and now, all that I'm seeing
in dreams never whole,
is how you alter my state,
how you fill my bowl.

So for you I'll keep waking
and for you I'll stay here;
in the hope that somebody
will hold me so dear.

All that's still living
is in the sigh of my soul,
how you keep me from sleeping,
and how you fill up my bowl.
One foot in front of the other.
Amelia Oct 2015
yeah, but you're not.

waking up next to a girl you don't love feels like
waking up next to a girl you don't love feels like
hoping she doesn't leave her smell on your sheets
waking up next to a girl you don't love feels like
scrambling for your clothes the second you notice sunlight peeking through the blinds
waking up next to a girl you don't love feels like
washing your hands of the smell of her ****
waking up next to a girl you don't love feels like
brushing your teeth before you kiss her
waking up next to a girl you don't love feels like
******* in the morning is just as ***** as it was at night
waking up next to a girl you don't love feels like
waking up next to a girl you don't love feels like
howling until your voice is hoarse and your mouth forgets how to form words

"it'd probably be really nice to be in love with you"

sure, but i'm not
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
I feel my fate in what I cannot fear.
I learn by going where I have to go.

We think by feeling. What is there to know?
I hear my being dance from ear to ear.
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.

Of those so close beside me, which are you?
God bless the Ground! I shall walk softly there,
And learn by going where I have to go.

Light takes the Tree; but who can tell us how?
The lowly worm climbs up a winding stair;
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.

Great Nature has another thing to do
To you and me, so take the lively air,
And, lovely, learn by going where to go.

This shaking keeps me steady. I should know.
What falls away is always. And is near.
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
I learn by going where I have to go.
Gareth  Jun 2017
Waking Up
Gareth Jun 2017
Waking up

Last night we chose to ride those Chill Pills
Now,Waking up, I am trying to shake it
The Memories flash like a B rated movie
Just who was that woman with the heels ?
Here I am trying to waking up
Edge of the bed, watching the slides in my mind
Its like moving through a wasteland
haze and  daze
Far out
Still trying to tune in
Am I waking up
.................not yet
Need a trip to Vitamin Village
Solo Flight 101
Short trip to Rio
Gather the scattered thoughts haunting my mind
It's time to wake up
Take my red orbs outta this pad
Slowly, ever so Slowly 
this cat is
J e n n Jun 2014
waking up to you
is like living in a dream,
you have no control what-so-ever,
you are aware of the fact
that it is not realistic

waking up to you
is like falling
face first into
oblivion below

waking up to you
is like a cold morning
when the sheets have been stripped
away from you
and you're left alone

waking up to you
is wrong

waking up to you
is lonely
and that's why
i must go

Keith J Collard Jun 2013
The Quest for the Damsel Fish  by Keith Collard

Author's  Atmosphere

On the bow of the boat, with the cold cloud of the dismal day brushing your back conjuring goose bumped flesh you hold an anchor.  For the first time, you can pick this silver anchor up with only one hand and hold it over your head. It resembles the Morning Star, a brutal medieval weapon that bludgeons and impales its victims.  Drop it into the dark world beyond the security of your boat--watch the anchor descend.
        Watch this silver anchor--this Morning Star--descend away from the boat and you, it becomes swarmed over with darkness.  It forms a ******-metallic grin at first as it sinks, then the sinking silver anchor takes its last shape at its last visible glimpse.  It is so small now as if it could be hung from a necklace.  It is a silver sword.  
Peering over the side of the boat, the depths collectively look like the mouth of a Cannibalistic Crab, throwing the shadows of its mandibles over everything that sinks down into it--black mandibles that have joints with the same angle of a Reaper's Scythe.  

I am scared looking at this sinking phantasm.  I see something from my youth down there in this dark cold Atlantic.  I see the silver Morning Star again, now in golden armor.  I remember a magnificent kingdom, in a saltwater fish tank I had once and never had again.  A tropical paradise that I see again as I stare down into the depths.  This fish tank was so beautiful with the most beautiful inhabitants who I miss.  Before I could lift the silver anchor--the Morning Star--over my head with only one hand, turning gold in that morning sun-- I was a boy who sat indian style, cross legged--peering into this brilliant spectacle of light I thought awesome.  I thought all the darkness of home and the world was kept at bay by this kingdom of light...

Chapter  1 Begins the Story

The Grey Skies of Mass is the Name of This Chapter.

 Air, in bubbles--it was a world beauty of darkness revealed in slashes of light from dashing fluorescent bulbs overhead this fish tank.
Silver swords of fluorescent energy daring to the bottom, every slash revealing every color of the zodiac--from the Gold of Scorpio to the purple of Libra combining into the jade of the Gemini. 
In the center, like a dark Stonehenge were rocks. The exterior rocks had tropical colors like that of cotton candy, but the interior shadows of the rocks that was the Stonehenge, did not possess one photon of light. The silver messengers of the florescent energy from above would tire and die at their base.  The shadows of the Stonehenge rocks would stand over them as they died.

          When the boy named Sake climbed the rickety wood stairs of the house, he did so in fear of making noise, as if to not wake each step.
   Until he could see the glowing aura of his fish tank then he would start down that eerie hall, With pictures of ghosts and ghosts of pictures staring down at him as he walked down that rickety hallway of this towering old colonial home.  He hurried to the glowing tank to escape the black and white gazing picture frames.
                    The faint gurgling, bubbling of the saltwater tank became stronger in his ear, and that sound guided him from the last haunt of the hallway-- the empty room that was perpendicular to  his room.   He only looked to his bright tank as soon as he entered the hallway from the creaky wooden steps.  Then he proceeded to sit in front of this great tropical fish tank in Indian style with his legs folded over one another as children so often would sit.
  The sun was setting.  The reflections from the tank were beginning to send ripples down the dark walls. Increasing  wave after wave reflecting down his dark walls.  He thought they to be seagulls flapping into the darkness until they were overcome as he was listening to the bubbling water of his tank.
                " Hello my fish, hello Angel, hello Tang, hello  Hoomah, hello Clown and hello Damsel … and hello to you Crab...even though I do not like you," he said in half jest not looking at the crab in the entrance of the rocks.  The rocks were the color of cotton candy, but the interior shadows did not possess a photon of luminescence.  All other shadows not caused by the rocks--but by bright swaying ornament--were like the glaze on a candy apple--dark but delicious.  Besides the crab's layer in the rock jumble at the center of the tank which was a Stonehenge within a Stonehenge--the tank was a world of bright inviting light.
                The crab was in its routine,  motionless in the entrance to his foyer, with his scythe-like claws in the air, in expectation of catching one of the bright fish someday.  For that reason the boy tried to remove the crab in the past, but even though the boy was fast with his hand, the optical illusion of the tank would always send his hand where the crab no longer was.  He did not know how to use two hands to rid the crab in the future by trapping and destroying the Cannibal Crab ;  his father, on a weekend visit, gave the Crab to the boy to put into the bright world of the saltwater tank, which Sake quickly regretted.  His father promised him that the Crab would not be able to catch any of the fish he said " ...***** only eat anything that has fallen to the bottom or each other..."

         A scream from the living room downstairs ran up the rickety wood and down the long hall and startled the boy.  His mother sent her shrieks out to grab the boy, allowing her to not have to waste any time nor calorie on her son; for she would tire from the stairs, but her screams would not, allowing her to stay curled up on the couch.  If she was not screaming for Sake, she was talking as loud as screams on the phone with her girlfriends.  The decibels from her laugh was torture for all in the silent house.   A haughty laugh in a gossipy conversation, that overpowered the sound of the bright tropical fish tank in Sake's room that was above and far opposite her in the living room.
               " Sake you have to get a paper-route to pay for the tank, the electricity bill is outrageous," she said while not taking her eyes off the TV and her legs curled up beside her.  He would glad fully get a paper-route even if it was for a made up reason.  He turned to go, and looked back at his mother, and a shudder ran through him with a new thought:  someday her appearance will match her voice.  

              Upon reaching his tank,  Hoomah was trying to get his attention as always.  Taking up pebbles in his big pouty pursed lips and spitting them out of his lips like a weak musket.  The Hoomah was a very silly fish, it looked like one of Sake’s aunts, with too much make up on, slightly overweight, and hovering on two little fins that looked incapable of keeping it afloat, but they did.  The fins reminded him of the legs of his aunt--skinny under not so skinny.’

               The Tang was doing his usual aquanautics , darting and sailing was his trick.  He was fast, the fastest with his bright yellow triangular sail cutting the water.  Next was the aggressive Clown fish, the boy thought she was always aggresive because she didn't have an anemone to sleep on.  The Clown was strong and sleek with an orange jaw and body that was built like a tigress.
  Sake thought something tragic about the body if the  orange Clown and the three silver traces that clawed her body as decoration -they reminded him of the incandescent orange glow of a street lamp being viewed through the rainy back windshield of a car.   The Clown fish was a distraction that craved attention.
The Clown would chase around some of the other fish and jump out of the water to catch the boy's eye. 
                 Next is the Queen Angel fish, she is the queen of the tank, she sits in back all alone, waving like a marvelous banner, iridescent purple and golden jade.  Her forehead slopes back in a French braid style that streams over her back like a kings standard waving before battle, but her standard is of a house of beauty, and that of royal purple.

                    Lastly is the Damsel Fish, the smallest and most vulnerable in the tank.  She has royal purple also, rivaling the queen. Her eyes are lashed but not lidded like the Hoomah.  Her eyes are elliptical, and perhaps the most human, or in the boy’s opinion, she is the most lady like, the Hoomah and the Queen Angel come to her defence if she is chased around by the Clown.  Her eyes penetrate the boys, to the point of him looking away.  

                      Before the tank, in its place in the corner was a painting, an oil painting of another type of Clown donning a hat with orange partial make-up on his face (only around eyes nose and mouth there was ghost white paint) and it  had two tears coming down from its right eye.  The Clown painting was given to him by his mother, it seems he could not be rid of them, but Sake at first was taken in by the brightness of the Clown, and the smooth salacious wet look of the painting. it looked dripping, or submerged, like another alternate reality.  The wet surreal glaze of the painting seemed a portal, especially the orange glow of the Clown's skin without make-up.  .  If he tried to remember of times  before the Clown painting that preceded the Clown fish, he thought of the orange saffron twilight of sunset, and watching it from the high window from his room in the towering house.  How that light changed everything that it touched, from the tree tops and the clouds, to even the dark hallway leading up to his room.  The painting and the Clown fish did not feel the same as those distant memories of sunset, especially the summer sunset when his mother would put him to bed long before the sun had set.  
Sake did not voice opposition to the Clown.
Then he was once again trapped by the Clown.  
            The boy was extremely afraid of this painting that replaced the sunsets , being confined alone with it by all those early bedtimes.
Sake once asked his mother if he could take it down, whereas she said " No."  That clown would follow him into his dreams, always he would be down the hill from the tall house on the hill, trying to walk back to the house, but to walk away or run in a dream was like walking underwater or in black space, and he would make no distance as the ground opened up and the clown came out of the ground hugging him with the pryless grip of eight arms.  He would then wake up amid screams and a tearful hatted clown staring somberly down at him from the wall where it was hung.  Night made him fear the Clown painting more;  that ghost white make-up decorating around the eyes and mouth seeming to form another painting in entirety.  He could only look at the painting after a while when the lights were on, and the wet looking painting was mostly orange from the skin, neck, and forearms of the hat wearing clown.  But the painting is gone now, and the magnificent light display of the tank is there now.  

                Sake pulled out the fish food, all the fish bestirred in anticipation of being fed.  The only time they would all come together; and that was to mumble the bits of falling flakes: a chomp from the Clown, a pucker from the Hoomah, the fast mumble of the Tang, and the dainty chew of the Damsel.  The Queen Angelfish would stay near the bottom, and kiss a flake over and over.   She would not deign herself to go into a friendly frenzy like the other fish; she stayed calm, yet alluring like a flag dancing rhythmically in the breeze, but never repeating the same move as the wind never repeats the same breeze.  She is the only fish to change colors.  When the grey skies of Mass emit through every portal in the house at the height of its bleakness, her colors would turn more fantastic, perhaps why she is queen.

                 He put his finger in the top of the watery world; the warmth was felt all the way up his arm.  After feeding, his favorite thing to do was to trace his finger on the top of the warm water and have the Damsel follow it. She loved it, it was her only time to dance, for the Clown would descend down in somewhat fear ( or annoyance) of the boys finger, and the Damsel and he would dance.  The boy, thought that extraordinary.

                     Sake bedded down that night, to his usual watery world of his room.  The reflective waves running down the walls like seagulls of light, with the rhythmic gurgling sound and it's occasional splash of the Clown, or the Hoomah swooping into the pebbly bottom to scoop up some pebbles for spitting making the sound "ccchhhhh" --cachinging  like a distant underwater register.  The tank’s nocturne sound was therapeutic to the boy.

                      Among waking up, and being greeted by his sparkling treasure tank--that was always of the faintest light in the morning due to the grey skies of Mass coming through every portal to lessen the tropical spectrum-- the boy would render his salutations " Good morning my Hoomah.....good morning Tang, my Damsel, and your majesty Queen Angel.....and so forth.  Until the scream would come to get him, and he would walk briskly past the empty room and the looming family pictures of strangers.  His mother put him to work that day, to "pay for the fish tank" but really to buy her a new cocktail dress for her nightly forays.  The boy did not care, the tank was his sun, emitting through the bleak skies of Mass, and even if the tank was reduced to a haze by the overcast of his life, it only added a log to the fire that was the tropical world at night, in turn making him welcome the dismal day.
                  On a day, when the overcast was so thick, he felt he could not picture his rectangular orb waiting for him at night. He had trouble remembering what houses to deliver the paper.  He delivered to the same house three times.  Newspapers seemed to disappear in his hands, due to their color relation to the sky.   Leaves were falling from the trees—butterfly like—he went to catch one, he missed--a first. For Sake could walk through dense thorned brambles and avoid every barb, as a knight in combat or someone’s whose heart felt the painful sting of the barb before.  He would stand under a tree in late fall, and roll around to avoid every falling leaf, and pierce them to the ground deftly with a stick fashioned as a sword.  He could slither between snow flakes, almost like a fish nimbly avoiding small flakes.  
                  After he finished his paper-route , he went to his usual spot under an oak tree to fence with falling leaves.  As the other boys walked by and poked fun he would stall his imagination, and look to the brown landscape of the dry fall.  The crisp brown leaves of the trees were sword shapes to him.  He held the battle ax shape of the oak leaf over his eye held up by the stick it was pierced through, and spied the woodline through the sinus of the oak leaf lobe.  The brown white speckled scenery, were all trying to hide behind eachother by blending in bleakfully; he pretended the leaf was Hector’s helmet from the Illiad—donned over his eyes.
“ Whatchya doing Sake?” asked a young girl named Summer.  Sake only mumbled something nervously and stood there.  And a pretty Summer passed on after Sake once again denied himself of her pretty company.  He looked to the woodline again, a mist was now concealing the tall apical trees.  It now looked like the brown woodland was not trying to retreat behind eachother in fall concealment, but trying to emerge forth out of the greyness to say "save us."

“ Damgf” he uttered, and could not even grasp a word correctly.  His head lifted to the sky repeatedly, there was no orb, and the shadows were looming larger than ever; fractioned shadows from tree branches were forming scythes all over the ground.
             He entered the large shadow that was his front door, into the house that rose high into the sky, with the simplicity of Stonehenge.  He climbed the rickety petrified stairs and went down the hall.  Grey light had spotlighted every frame on the wall.  He looked into the empty room, nothingness, then his room, the tank seemed at its faintest, and it was nearing twilight.  He walked past the tank to look out the w
Tylie  Jan 2013
Im waking up
Tylie Jan 2013
im waking up
to the pieces in my life
that i just cant change

im waking up
to the experiences i've had down the line
that pierce my soul

im waking up
to all the good, bad, and ugly
memories that i must let go

im waking up
and its about time
to step up
and claim whats mine
Daniel Ruiz Aug 2018
I'm here sitting
the smell of coffee runs through
my veins,
some music i probably will forget
in a few years arguing with
the thought of you,

But I'm here,
I'm here,
writing about what's happening

pretty boring huh?

i call myself a poet
but i can't use high metaphors,

i call myself a poet
but i can't describe fully
how you make me feel

i call myself a poet

but what am i?

I'm just a kid
scared of life
finding new ways to cope
searching for someone to love,
not holding unto my dreams
how can i choose with my mind
what's right for the heart to choose.

and you see?
don't you see?

don't worry i can't either

i can't see how great i am
i can't see how other people see me
i wish i could.

i want to believe this was a dream
a nightmare at that.

But at last.
I'm here wishing that in another life
i could be with you,
maybe in other deaths,

i crave your touch,
i crave you..
with coffee waking up my senses
like a kid in summer waking up early
to go play with his friends.

i wish things were different,
so i wouldn't have to wish.
Kimberly Rose  Mar 2019
As I wake
Kimberly Rose Mar 2019
Waking up in the still of the night
Waking up while you're holding me tight
Waking up when I feel your little shivers
Waking up to tuck your feet in the covers
Waking up then planting a kiss on your nose
Waking up as you angelically doze
Now she wakes up while you are sound asleep
As I'm waking up without you next to me
My dreams whisper sweet things
And surreptitiously speak to me
My waking words are rote and empty
-spilling with hypocrisy
Yet their comforting embrace
Simply bring smiles to my face
Filling my mind while I'm asleep

They send messages lined with silver That vanish when I wake
To bring about a dull and listless form Who is shaping my last mistake
You see I wake in a storm
Simultaneously feeling constrained
To my bed
I can't get up while there's no filter
For the rush of noises in my head

If there's a difference between
What you know and what you believe Then why is it not as easy
To imagine my reprieve
Why can I only experience a vivid life
While I sleep
Then once again wake up
To this Fear Doubt and Anger
Choking me

Invoking me by pushing buttons
Of their endless promises
To for certain be found in youth
While my vision is livid sinning
Contemplating and pinpointing
Who too close is uncouth
You sit there and feed my veins
An explanation to your lies
With all the compromised
Washed up water
Memorized methods
Coping mechanisms
While it's your heart that remains

Then sit there in desperation
Reiterating as if you know
The deep introspective answer
When any fool can see your wisdom
Is wrought in the vanity
Of a talented dancer

If you lost the truth of sanity
Would you retrieve it for ten cents
Or would you search inside
Before hiding from the confines
Of a necessary moment
I'd rather die or sacrifice my life
Before cowering from what's hidden
The message so raw
That counts your flaws
Like there was some proof
In what is missing

But ultimately I guess
It comes down to the small decision
The chip on my shoulder
That became a boulder
When I reached out
For my inner vision.

So while I feel so disparate and alone
In the trenches losing my senses
Will I be the hero or be the villain
Will I let the poison make me it's toy
Or take the penicillin

*Some days my life feels as heavy
As that last breath left over
From how loudly I shout
But I guess a general synopsis to you
Of how I sometimes feel inside
Is a decent first step to waking up
While I'm down and out
I realize that a lot of lines were taken from other poems of mine. It's supposed to be written like that

— The End —