Her hands were all too there,
And I felt their every move
I’m not comfortable.
I’m not comfortable.
We’re supposed to just be friends.

Is this claustrophobia
Or some secluded depression
I don’t like it.
I don’t like it.
How will the story end?

Maybe I’m just paranoid—
Repeating everything for conviction
You aren’t like this.
You aren’t like this.
I just need to get through the night.

She will see them always now
The angel numbers  and the simple signs.
With the hope of learning the strings
Of all you have to offer
While the day is still light.

She will see them always now
The plate numbers and the street signs.
With the hope of seeing the truth
Of the third eye’s offer
While the day is still light.

She will see THEM always now
The strayed hair and the warmed face.
With the hope of experiencing all
Of the moments to be reached
While the day is still light.

She sees a human.
She loves my blistered, worn hands.
She loves my dreams of impracticality.
She loves my memories.

Thank goodness she’s my golden hour all the time

J ust as you are
U ‘re perfect
L ove is a thing
I feel it for you
A nd I’d love for you to feel it too

I …

L ove isn’t a word I like at all
O ddly enough
V ery strange I know
E erie of me but true

Y ou however
O ddly make me want to yell it at the top of my lungs all day
U have my heart
    Do with it as you wish
:)

how do you know (when a broken human can be fixed)


https://hellopoetry.com/poem/2644586/how-do-you-know-when-a-human-is-too-broken/

supermarket checkout line, so lazy broken down dressed,
I’m probably arrestible for disturbing the peace,
my haired piled, and held together by a broken clip,
makeup at home in
a drawer labeled ‘why bother’
my t shirt, don’t please look too closely,
yesterday’s coffee spillage outline
only mostly gone,
and the skinny jeans that felt inappropriate
ten pounds ago,
now looking semi-completely ridiculous

is this a tv show?
wallet, a twenty and a single,
who knew a pound of ground blue mountain
cost the better part of the the twenty
in that case no need for a gallon of milk
and *** a box of chocolate frosted donuts
silently slid far far away,
evidence of a guilty plea of irresponsibility resignation

short $2.42 (cut up the credit cards)
and no convenient pit to fall into
when the teenager cashier snickers,
when a sam elliot voice says here ya are,
stammering a no, a thank you, and thinking getaway direction

truck safely, made it,
knock on the window
sam elliot soundalike is a lookalike as well
standing outside with my wallet in hand,
two heads taller than my ex-petite figurine

more stammering ******* could I look any stupider

but inside a piece of brown shopping bag torn
with ten whole digits
I’ve never seen prior to this disaster
saying call when you want to return my $2.42

turns out he got, no, he is glue and paste,
an eraser man for fine lines and sad times,
and a lasso to keep me held together,
a pocket red handkerchief hanging half out
of his back pocket, never without, calls it his tear catcher

pulled out that too tight blues-blouse
from back of my closet
that still complements my complexion,
wear it ever time that day rolls around

just dumb luck ain’t much of an answer
so I’ll rephrase, dumb luck is in the everything
cause his number was 917-242-2424
and he is a gambler in matters of the heart

bust his ***** when he says he’s a lucky man,
reply he ain’t got no luck at all
compared to me on that daft day

and every daft day thereafter
I glue his lips shut to mine, no escaping,
and paste a new $2.42
into his wallet
when he is sleeping mine,
no erasing our lines,
just redrawing them deeper and finer,
just making sure my
dumb luck is working overtime

I pull at the strands of his shirts, his sweaters and his jeans.  
I become a seamstress and know he will come to me.

He buys new clothes instead.

chasing shades across the borderline
Living shadows leave me misaligned
Shaking hands, release compounded ideas
Violent dreams

Slipping farther from an open mind
Blue and broken, for end of time
Parting ways, never could decide
Just how it should be

Counted down all the time i spent
Reuniting with my arguments
Running lists of all types, worthlessness
Not that hard to see

Lying flat in a river bed and covered in sheets of water:
this is where you will live.
Pure, ice-cold springwater flows
around and through, picking clean our bones like a vulture,
taking out the filth that collects like soot in chimneys.

From here only two roads:
To let go or hold on.
The instinct is to deny! hold tight, forever and ever, keep safe,
but you are here to learn the river’s lesson, to follow the flow, to be
carried away and let go.
Die happily, knowing.

Spread like sand
across the hills and gullies
peacefully dispersing
along centuries to form and reform,
learning that there are no endings.
And to know by cycles,
building familiarity, some core knowledge
which undoes the instinct that says “hold on”
and “not yet”
and “fight.”

Instead, become waterlogged.
Give up your boundaries.
This is the only way.