Bella 4d

My boy told me the other day
That he didn’t have a mother
He only had a babysitter
I say my boy
The boy at my daycare
The boy with seven siblings
Ripped from five of them
Gained another in the process
Losing mothers like pencils

The mother he has now is a teacher,
No summer job,
But four foster kids to her name
Her summers are free
Her pockets are full
But my boys

They’re still in daycare
Six to six
Or longer
They come with bagged eyes
one in pull ups at the age of five
My boys

Their sister in the other room
Their mother sits at home
Doing nothing
Probably drinking
Or anything but mothering

Right now
She’s out of town
There’s a babysitter at home
She picks them up late and drops me off early
They're cranky
And tired
They're getting six hours of sleep
Plus one at naptime

My boys never sleep at nap time
None of them but Isaiah
He loves to talk about his home
Not where they sleep at night
But at home
In Africa
He’ll tell you if you ask
It’s beautiful to hear
The joy filling his face is fixating

But then you see his legs
How they wobble in at the knees
When you see how he sleeps
He rocks himself the whole time
Rocking even through his dreams
It’s all from the orphanage.
The workers couldn’t help him to sleep.
He just turned five.
He starts kindergarten soon,
And he just learned how to spell his name
Everyone else here can read all the names
His and theirs
My boys

I love them with everything I have
And they know that,
But I leave soon.
In a few weeks we all go to school
I’ve been doing this for years, but them,
They haven’t
It’s their first
And I’ll pray
But I hate that all I can do is pray
They deserve more than that.
They deserve attention and love
They deserve hope and security
I can only hope that the next teacher will give that to them
To my boys
To my wonderful boys


I spend all my days
Wanting and forgetting you
Leaving and breathing you

The absenent taste
Burns bitter
Like ashes
All around me
My teeth grin
With pain

My own absence
Ignores me
Then wakes
Me alive
Just to come
Back down

Why must I
Ever come down

When you are
My bed
Hurried dry dying
To become a
Strawberry stain

They say we’re all different
That we are like snowflakes
Every one of us a special creation
I believe I am more of a snowman
Because every time I see you
And your smile
I melt
The guys around me say
They want to see you without
All those clothes
That they miss the summer
I love you the way you are
I love the idea of laying in our
Puffy coats and making snow angels
Building a snow fort
And drinking hot chocolate
Sitting on the couch
In front of my fireplace
A fire and no other light
The flickering flames
Illuminating every feature
Of your perfection
One at a time
And you look at me
And I look at me
And I am just a puddle
I saw you and

First snow of the year has me thinking...

Thread breaks the seams
as it dances along your fingertips and into the fabric
it takes form in art, not traditional or too abstract.
A modest and humble artform that you can call your own,
as it pairs with your gentle demeanor against the harsh
red light of the city.

Yes, the soft-spoken words of a tailor.
The velvet, cotton, suede.
Floral patterns to lull me
into a soft daydream.
An escape from the scum and the scag of a city, where
beauty is lost or forgotten or
crushed beneath the boot of the next abrasive king.
You remind me of a time gone by.
A rose-tinted past where I did nothing wrong.
I yearn to learn more of the tailor who gives me hope
in the place I lost mine.
A thousand voices stir and I wonder.
When again will I see you?

Jay Dec 10

I am alone
I am alone to the
Deepest parts of myself
Down to the very bone

I am alone
My mold must've been
Cast in solitude
And covered in heartbreak

I am alone
It is more than
Not having a friend
Standing next to me

I am alone
It goes to the point
Of standing in a room
Full of best friends
And still
Having not a single one
Brush my soul

I am alone
I have no one
To say that I have
No one I would ever want
To sentence to being my friend
For that is a curse
None should have to bear

I am alone
I think that my heart
Must be burning cold
That no one can really touch it
So I am isolated

I am alone
And I am numb
Empty and afraid
Because I am alone

I am alone
I battle myself
By myself
For it's easier not to worry
About the collateral
When it's only me

I am alone
And I will stay that way
For the good of others
Over the good of myself

I am alone
It hurts me this way
But it's better this way
So I'm the only one
Who ends up damaged

I knew all along
you were the rail spike,
I was the sleeper

and in my old life
I was deader
than dead anyway...

so I jumped.

Jumped from the platform--
of my mediocre existence
     to risk the tracks

I didn't trip on to them,
carelessly,  like
some might think


I flashed my stoplight
green eyes in consent,
gave the 3rd rail a nod,

perched myself right
over the vibrating steel
and waited

I knew without knowing
what I was doing

its primordial
older than the cave itself

this  instinct to follow
certain men anywhere.

Fading stars
Hazy gray
Soft feet creeping
Wait for light of day
Blazing colors warm the skin
Blinding sphere of light rise up
Waiting calm
Breeze and trees.
Feathers light.
A branch
The crunch of leaves.
As you please.
Silk-smooth fur
Soft brown eyes
Looking up.

Slender and graceful
Do I dare?
Need to survive
Tender and tasteful
Deep breath
Focus. Concentration.
Steady now, not a sound.

TM Dec 9

It meanders
in us

like a melody
of wishes,

suspended softly
between our desire -

beneath the skin,

it was ours to have

like gifts
in someone elses past,

for hope
we never had,

we never held,

to believe in love.

We want what cannot be.

I drink to get drunk
I smoke to get high
I do this all
Just to get by
Since your love is the drink
Your love is the drug
You are my dealer
You are the plug
So I can’t get drunk
And I can’t get high
All just because
You can’t be mine
You send a shiver
Down my spine
At least you’ll see
That this poem rhymes

Finally I made a rhyming one...

I drew on the flesh of your back with the tip of a mechanical pencil.

Your existence is art.

You make my soul smile.

You are a perfect torn canvas.

You were carved and pieced together by broken and exquisite materials.

Art imitates you.

You touch, I flinch.

Gonna do a short series from my “book o poems” of just drabbled stuff I wrote. Titles will be dates.
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