Sometimes I forget that I am a poet until I meter lost dreams into sonnets or I burn eggs into soot and draw out long lines in the pan
I forget that my fingers, though long and clumsy, routinely drum delicate cadences across the hard smooth surfaces of tables and door handles or even the soft hilly bits of flesh and fat
I forget the way that my teeth click and grind or the way that my toes dig and scratch into the rough patches under my feet
And the sound it makes
Or the rattle of my breath as I stomp and the room shakes
I forget that line that I inhale with smoke and exhale in contempt
I forget about the crunching of scratching and the rustling of shifting limbs
I forget about the restlessness in my palms and the sloshing of rough skin when they meet to make warmth
I forget about the words spoken under my breath when my eyes have glossed over and my thought are darting across islands
I forget about the tangibility of my shifting whims and the sounds that they make as they make their homes in the walls around me
And the residual letters that shed from the carcassed corners of whims left for dead
Sometimes I forget because I am fickle and absent
Sometimes I just forget…
But then I remember
That I am a poet
First poem in a log while
i raised my eye at that quip you made
juvenile and mirth
i raised my hand to brush the dust from the
tip of your nose, making you presentable
like grown men are
i raised my head and poured out from my ear into your mouth
nourishing the unblemished reaches of your being
i fed and raised you to be the man i needed you to be
but little did i know
i was raising you for someone else
If I could impregnate myself with my tears
My children would be innumerable and divine
Delicate as the lilacs at my feet
And as giving as my mothers hands
My children and I would dance wildly to the sound of the shaking leaves
And laugh until we cried at the absurdity of the decaying frames of the eternal surrounding infrastructures
I would gather our collective tears and water my children
Careful to sift the salt and reserve just enough for future implantation
My babies would nest in the tight curls of my crown and I would rock them to sleep in the gentle curve of my lashes
Blinking slowly and steadily to ease the restlessness of their being
If I could birth my children from my ear
I’d rest my head on a pillow and never leave
I’d rest my head flat on the soft surface
Turning my head only slightly to the left to give a final shake
Releasing my babies from their sack
I’d let them snuggle against my cheek as I sang to them the songs of the old Gods
And the new
I’d warm them with heat of my breath and nourish them with the saliva of my tongue
I’d listen intently to their soft whispers inquiring about the beams of light seeping through the cracks of the walls
The vines sprouting through the floor boards and climbing pillars on the bed
If I could birth my children from the scrapings from under my fingernails
I’d tear at my flesh until there was nothing left but raw nerve and blood
I’d dress them in gowns made from the weaved patches of hair growing across my mons *****
And I’d make them sun hats from the shattered pieces of my toe nails
If I could sink into the soil and grow my babies from my decay
I’d sprout a row of sunflowers
And the many seeds in its ***** would be my youngins
They’d fall away one by one
And run off uninhibited into the spring
Little pieces of me
Drowning in the sunshine
This poem is a work in progress
Breathe life in and expel out the myth-hood of obscurity
Life worth living is a life where breathing in the exquisities of sunshine are a must
Breathe in the vibrancy of natures yellows and
Taste only delicately the alluring blues of wall shaking emotion
Oxygenate yourself in the blood red rushes of movement
Douse yourself in the Violet's of Royal indulgences
Run swiftly through the greens of the leaves and
Let the brown branches snag only your insecurities
Run free into the wild night and be one with the erratic nature of the wind
Ascend into the sky and rest peacefully on the rainbow.
Release your tears during your slumber and let them drip through the clouds.
Nourish the lushness of the budding lilacs with the dew of your dreams
Wash out the tumultuous uncertainties of your nature
Paint the world into color with your tongue and blend the layers of the paints with the heart of your palms
Prune the garden with the hardened tips of your nails and pack away the nasties in your satchel
Let down your hair and bare the rawness of its strands against the paleness of your *******.
Angle your face towards the sun
Soak in all its light and let it burn through the soft spungy tissue of your eyes
Collect the soot and mud and sweat and snot and blood from under your feet
And stuff them into the gaping sockets
Blink and see the life you have made
Smile and rest and be at peace with yourself for what you have made
Wrote this for a friend who has been goig through a bit of a rough patch. She is brilliant and wonderful.
Ever been inspired beyond words?
Awed by the sunlight?
Licked delicately by the rain?
Breathed in deeply the sour green of the grass?
Ever plunged your fingers deep into a bin of beans?
Ran your fingers through hay?
Cried out under the stars?
Laughed at the wrong moment?
Or released with the wrong lover?
You are every ***** little tantalizing feeling ever.
You are the tingle deep in my bones.
You are burning me from the inside and I was naive enough to try and banish you with antacids.
You are that addictive feeling and I'm not sure that I can rid you
Or that I want to
We are a nasty little triffle
Yang and yang
We are the wrong side of the bed
We are Fire and air
We are poison
We are detriment
We are bound
I am bound
I am happy
You are my devil
You are sin
And I am your sin eater
And I will eat
Until we are both clean
Of each other
I made a lover of the sun
And it burned me deliciously
Every blister that rose on my flesh lingered there and stung me like a shallow kiss
And just before it abandoned me for the twilight
It provoked my soul
And once again I was lit
But exceedingly alone
Part of a developing series
My focus has been ****** since the day I was born
I was shot out of the womb, flipped upside down on my head,
And had my *** pounded until it was raspberry red
One would think that at that point in my life
My focus might have been on the colostrum
But being ****** to and fro is enough to pull anyones focus
Asunder, from the teet to the ceiling, to the wall, and eventually
Into pieces on the floor
My focus has been ****** since the age of nine
I wanted swing high on the swing set and play kickball with my friends
But my focus was torn by the torments of my ragged looks
The shame of my poor disposition
And the embarrassment of wearing my borrowed bra and donated clothes
My focus has been ****** since the eve of seventeen
When I thought that I was in love with a boy who never seemed to see me
I wanted to brush my fingers through his hair while we feigned awareness in American History
Or lie on his chest as he sang to me strumming on his ukulele
Which made it rather hard focus on geometry
But I was correct in my original assertion that he never ever noticed me
My focus has been ****** since the day I turned twenty-four
And I say that as I am sitting in class writing this story
Property is fun and law school is aight in general
But how could I possibly focus on executory interest
When failing out would ironically fair my nerves so much better?
Wrote this in class. I have officially checked out.