Do I write because I've things to say,
or things I don't want to do?
Is sitting here typing away,
a decoy for the blues?

I know there's things long overdue,
but there's nothing that cannot wait.
Could it be though that my poetry,
is just a way to procrastinate?

I have stuff to put away and sort,
and things to be thrown out.
But I'd really rather sit and write,
of that there is no doubt.

Perhaps I should accept the fact,
and get somebody in,
who's not attached to all my crap,
who can throw it in the bin.

And then I will be free to write,
my conscience will be clear.
If only I could find my pad,
I'm sure I left it here...
somewhere...

we sit; we wait
for one of us to break
this silence in the midst
of our chatter filled fits
this may sound outragious
but our feelings are contagious
and we are stuck going over
every dirt covered bolder
known as an obstacle of travel

we talk; we take
every breath we make
seems to cause tenseness
in our teenage census
words collapsed with desire
like an anaerobic fire
just waiting for some replies
on why our hearts seem to cry-out for a touch
for a feeling we want to clutch
and our minds no longer repent
for free the souls of the innocent

I fear the way you love me:
That tender-touching kiss
Seducing me to nightly
Sink deep in your abyss.

Those smooth caresses take me
To places that I dread,
Your cunning fingers rouse me
To plan such lies ahead.

But while we writhe and tumble
In lust's hypnotic hold,
I fear the final stumble
That will see the truth unfold.

Come and travel with me
Together we will journey to lands never imagined
We will see sights that could never be
Side by side our creativity shall be awakened

Take my hand in yours
I will show you everything you could dream
We will crawl through the rabbit hole on all fours
And we shall follow the river downstream

And if ever we reach the end of the ledge
Hold my hand tight as I cling to yours
Then you and I shall soar over the edge
Safely carried across to foreign shores

Then when our adventure has reached its end and we lay
I will look into your glittering eyes, and you into mine, both hoping to stay
And as we rest in our bliss
I shall summon the courage and lean in for a kiss

Lying to myself;
I can't admit the truth
Lest something should go wrong,
There's so much more to lose.

Not quite sure what he's feeling,
Not sure I want to know.
Not quite sure of anything,
Even myself, on this road.

Not sure if he likes me,
Not sure why he would.
Not sure if I like him;
Scared to admit that I do.

Not sure where we're going;
It's up to him to decide.
I will just keep lying because
There's so much more to lose.

He had a hole in his jeans.

I remember, fidgeting with it nervously the whole evening.
Hole, whole.
I can’t even remember his name.
(Now you know that’s a lie. His name escapes you no more than you escape yourself.)

Driving somewhere, someone’s house. Board games that make no sense.

Kisses you can’t escape. And then we slept, I on the couch and he on a camp bed.

Lost my socks, sometime in the night, lustful and half asleep. Don’t remember what we did, though he swears we didn't. I don’t know, I was asleep.

He drove me home the next day, and I fidgeted with the hole in his jeans.
(They weren’t jeans they were some sort of corduroy.)

Never did find my socks.

Look, I just want to move you.
Woo you.
Shake you loose but never lose you.
I want to
Savor the glazed reverent silence
Of your gasping, ungrasped breath.
Sip it down till there's nothing left
Yet still explain all the rest.
See, it's time I unearth some gold.
Nothing here sold.
Just given freely to slurp up,
served up cold.
But I dare not go it alone.
Not when there's so many heplping hands
Beyond my own.
So I first court Eloquence.
She's an easy mark to find,
volubly masticating volumes
while leisurely lathering her tanned,
Leather skin.
Dolloping her monocle-bodied features
In librarian sin.
She says...
"My dear boy.
Berate them NOT
with your false start,
lethargic oddities.
Your penchant,
Melancholic falsities.
You must but grunt through the trudgery
Of your muddy misgivings,
And birth only accessible
Pertinent notions.
Neither precarious nor
Incongruous to the truth!
Robby.
You must simply relinquish your
Intrepid, frenzied paucities!
So I dismiss the diss.
Since
her big scary words are kinda lost to me.
Evidently, though,
I must need a Joe Blow.
An Everyman.
A Streetcorner Clairvoyant.
I turn to
(drum roll)
Raunchiness.
His beer belly **** and **** jokes
And dollar store aftershave suggest
A pleasing 'pull-my-finger' charm
that just might turn the trick.
He licks his lips,
And chides through a buck-tooth,
Spit shine smile.
Sheeeooot, boy,
That there one's easy.
All you gotsta do is
Go down deep
And speak from your gut.
Tell em how you feel..
How you REALLY feel.
Tell em..
shoot, tell em they rub you just right,
You might well feel as ***** as
Your gas gauge after a good pump.
As ***** as a McD's wrapper
Corner-pinch-discarded like
A used diaper hammock.
Yeah! You tell em your as ******
As a receptacle
For used diaper hammocks!
Hells yeah.
Girls will eat that **** up!
And say you're as gay as rainbow gold
As straight as an arrow-head.
As misled as finding your folks are still *** fiends
or as contradictory as ***** like me!
Boy, you are as con-fused as the
Lumpy, stumpy, pimply dimpled teen who finds out
Santa Claus IS real!
And he's hanging out loose
In every single Hustler Magazine!
Now hear me boy.
If they still don't care,
Or they see that you're scared,
Just say you feel as guilty as midnight dials
From parents of Girls-Gone-Wild,
sneering,
"Well shoot, sugar plum.
You sure ain't been feeling
Real secure in awhile."
And as he loosely labels me
As awkward as **** thermometers,
As misunderstood as **** plugs,
I give Raunchiness a dismissive shrug,
And return to the mystery
Of what I've missed from me,
Whatever still may be
My own poetic style.

if you gently take my hand
and lead me
into the ocean of your love

don’t be surprised if,
when you leave me there to drown in your piercing silence,

i destroy myself,
fighting to get back to shore.

-Jenny Jen Cat