"bookstores" poems
My essay, Changency, is a meme
This meme has been growing inside of me
I've been a carrier
Many of us have been
I'm not a benevolent character though
I've been purposely placing the memetic material on blankets
And leaving the blankets in local trading posts
I call these 'trading posts' bookstores, universities, colleges, schools...coffee shops, pubs, restaurants, etcetera
The beautiful thing is that these memes aren't really on blankets
The memes are encoded on the backs of knowledge, truth, and authenticity
They come from a place of pain
Evolution can be painful (but does it have to be?)
Three dimensions are easy to comprehend
Four, sure just add time
What about spacetime?
And a fifth dimension...I don't really know what that means...but some do and they're watching, listening, waiting, and loving us
Dec 2, 2014
Dec 2, 2014 at 9:52 PM UTC
Our city is painted with thoughts and feelings
Walls unkempt and overrun with expression
Made to fit movie screens with their perfection
Our city is lit by lovers and dreamers
They hold hands without caring and kiss in the daylight
Unlike me, they wouldn’t mind who was staring
Our city is a film still in my memory
Growing more valuable with time
The white becoming a little more golden with age
Our city is a privilege to me, a sacred moment
Not a city anymore but a nostalgic pang of laughter and a dull awareness of seconds
Always passing too quickly, like a reservoir that everyone knows will soon be emptied but that is drained anyway
Our city is bookstores and mountains
Dark cars and dim statues
Nightwalkers and busy streets
Our city is happiness and fear and youth and color and reckless and forward and awesome
But maybe Our City
Is just mine.
Jul 11, 2018
Jul 11, 2018 at 6:16 PM UTC
If there were a formula
for the way her lips seek out
for mine while I am still attached
to those of a boy,
I would plug it through with
the determination
of a scientist, feeding it
back and forth through the
machines until someone
could give me an answer.
She visits me
in my sleep, bleeds
through the walls of
our separate dimensions
until she finds a way
into my heart. From there,
she rides my bloodstream up
into my brain, she puts
her hands on my controls
and guides my dreams
through to her childhood
home, where she knows
I'll fall in love with the gap
between her teeth and the way
she practices the word
"kindergarten"
when she thinks no one
can hear her.
I could never find her
through the keys
of my Macbook,
she calls to me
through typewriters in
store windows, when I think
I've lost her, I go into bookstores
and flip through the pages
in the poetry section until
teasing
she gives me a word,
just enough
of a puzzle to hold me
until next time. I think
when it's completed
it will look like her freckles,
the eyeshadow she spreads
over her heartache, the lipstick
she wears to feel like a woman
on the days when she needs to act
like a man, if I were a man.
I'd no longer be captivated
by the mysticism
of their skin. No longer see
the revolutionary twisting
through their spines. But
if I were a man, I wouldn't have
the same parts as my lover.
Maybe then
we'd be
just different enough
for me to tell her
how I feel.
Mar 12, 2013
Mar 12, 2013 at 12:59 AM UTC
All these stanzas look alike
they talk about the same things
with the same words, the same poem
written over and over again
like voices, whispers, copying each other
unable to feel and trust experience
differently, socialized for homogeneity
unified but dull, strong but obedient
their writing seemed the narratives
of machines unable to innovate
plagiarizing voices they believed were
their own, authentic, pure
their literary journals were a politics
of masters of arts and agendas of contests
like car commercials without a proper
enjoyment of speed, or our favorite writers
whose names we only knew because
they were the ones who died at the right time
while somebody was looking, reading them
but the bookstores didn’t know their
metaphors were weak, or their life’s work
was merely symbolic, that’s the thing isn’t it
poets are only symbols, as poems are only
fluff, paper, the labor of writers-in-residence
while the rest of the world are more
interested in serial killers and which stocks
might be worth getting into, and when to sell out
investing in words seemed silly to them
and, in my selected works there was nothing
of how to be a Poet Laureate or how to win prizes
exceptional or not, publication was left to amazon
state grants, fellowships, visiting writers
academics who never felt truly how to write
poetry at its heart was a colonization of artists
few could share what that meant, we were
the first illiterate generation, spending more time
with the internet than with books.
Oct 18, 2014
Oct 18, 2014 at 12:04 PM UTC
my future partner,
Hi, I’m anna. I guess we’re co-writing this chapter of our lives together. I’m sure it’ll be epic. It takes a while for me to viscerally latch onto another being, so congrats to you for stealing my heart
because if I’m with you, that probably means I really love you.
I like sushi a lot, empty bookstores, and tea sipping sessions with my cat, xiaoxiao, who you will probably hear me talk about twenty-four seven. I hope you’re a cat person.
Within the realm of the arts, I like to write poetry and play piano. But my secret hobby is photography. It’s the best way to know someone without really knowing them. And if you hurt me, I’ll probably create an entire musical composition or a playlist of poetry about it. But I’ll forgive you instantly.
I might make mistakes, too. For instance, I’m horrible with directions, remembering events, deadlines, or anything unrelated to pedantic learning. My erratic and changeable moods can be quite the predicament as well, but I promise to be as tolerable as I can be through my storms.
I’m a biomedical science major with a minor in neuroscience. Assimilating an array of medical innovations, education, and terminology is, personally, my zenith of academic interest. I have a love and longing to help others. But sometimes, moving towards this ultimate vocation is strenuous and I do hope you understand how much medicine means to me. This means late night MCAT study sessions, mountains of neuroscience books, stacks of terminology notecards, homework, and paramounts of stress.
But I want to work on that. I promise that whatever I love, I love to a seemingly boundless depth- “from the tip of my apex and beyond,” if you’re into medical puns. I promise I’ll take you out to dinner, plan cute dates, and spend as much quality time with you as I can. I promise, we’ll travel to so many places, eat all the food we can in all the countries we visit, dive in every ocean we can find, and fly over every country we can point to on a map.
Most importantly, I promise to give you reasons to continue the chapters in your book. Because I struggle with that too.
Whether it be in a month, a year, a decade, or a lifetime...
I promise to love you, see you soon
Apr 14, 2019
Apr 14, 2019 at 8:42 AM UTC
when i was young,
i only lived
between the pages of a book
between the words of a sentence
between Privet Drive and Baker Street
between bookstores and libraries
where I did not have to speak
to make friends;
where I made friends
who would not leave,
where I could leave
and return to see
that nothing had changed;
nothing, except me,
but only a little.
now that i’m older
i’ve been twice
to the other side and back;
i think i’d also like to live
between time zones and skylines
between silken sheets on starry nights
between your fingers and your eyes,
where conversations are passports
to other worlds in
in other hearts beating
in other bodies;
if only for just a little.
Apr 20, 2016
Apr 20, 2016 at 11:21 AM UTC
Today I walked into Barnes and Noble to buy my summer reading book which just so happens to be super thick and its boring **** me now!) Anyways, while we're there, out of curiosity, I asked if they had any John Green books (because everywhere else, they're either sold out or on hold) and they did. The lady brought me to a table. A few of my friends had recommended his works. Scanning the table of books, unsure of what to chose, a guy walks up to me. He looks about my age, maybe a year or so older. He's pretty cute, which is quite the pleasant surprise because usually guys don't talk to me. He says, pointing to The Fault in Our Stars, "I couldn't help but kind of overhear you talking, but I read this and it was amazing." He points at Looking for Alaska. "My girlfriend read this... said it was pretty good." So I say thanks and something awkward like 'I'll have to check it out,' and get The Fault in Our Stars. This small gesture has restored my hope in our generation. The guys in my school are mostly arrogant airheads with no taste in music, in my opinion, anyway. In addition to this experience with a stranger, today, while at a shopping center, I saw a girl wearing a 5 Seconds of Summer shirt, as I had mine on, too. I complimented her and she smiled and said, "Thanks, you too." This small gesture has also restored my hope in our generation. Today I learned that not everyone ***** and that makes me really happy. I guess that if you put yourself out there, ever so slightly, in the right places, you might learn things or make new friends. What if I'd talked to the girl about 5SOS? Or asked the guy about other books he's read? There are so many opportunities every single day to improve the quality of our lives and we pass them up, because they're things that are thought of as small, but can have huge impacts. I believe that if each and everyone of us tried, just a little bit, to talk to strangers, the world would be a better place. Not everyone wants to hurt you. I'm not saying to invite some random person into your house, but to talk to people with common interests, or compliment someone on their shirt. Little things like that, as they did to me, can make someone's day. I walk to my mom with a pile of books. She turns to me and says, "Since when did cute boys talk to you at bookstores?"
Jun 19, 2013
Jun 19, 2013 at 11:20 PM UTC
Poetry is just scratches on paper
forming dramatic words
by an overemotional character
Poetry is certainly
not a pen that digs trenches
for the blue blood to follow
draining a soul to a sterile existence
Who Needs Poetry Anyway?
Poetry is all
roses are red
violets are blue
blah, blah, blah
I'm so in love with you
Nobody cares about books
Notice how the poetry section
in the bookstores continue
to diminish with every look?
Poetry is certainly not as profound
as the inert words
lay gutted by the rapper
which boasts his materialistic empire
that his target audience consumes
yet cannot honestly digest
And you'll find the album
in an abundant display
set in the center of the bookstore
Who Needs Poetry Anyway?
Poetry is just something studied
from history books to obtain credit
A time before the internet
and a true social status
Before days rapt in vanity
Poetry is certainly not a self sacrifice
to explore the wilderness of the heart
and the shutters to the mind
An outlet to tread another day
Who Needs Poetry Anyway?
May 11, 2016
May 11, 2016 at 6:00 AM UTC
A Woman of Many Words
I am a Woman of Many Words
I am drawn to all those places
That words congregate:
Libraries and bookstores
Road signs and billboards
Ticket stubs and subtitles
Nametags and license plates
Each one a journey driving inside me
I am a Woman of Many Words
I love the way the shapes feel in my mouth
The skittle taste of syllables
I am drawn to especially long words
With their phonetic entities stretching out like tentacles to reach new corners of pronunciation
Words like
Bibliophile and flippant-irreverence
Evanescent and Insouciance
Mellifluous and Effervescent
Mondegreen and Labyrinthine
Words like
Onomatopoeia and Tintinnabulation
I appreciate their weight on my tongue
The way my hands appreciate the thickness that is a fat book
I am a Woman of Many Words
I am attracted to their multitude
The space their figures take up on a page
The calligraphic punches
Typed up by keys
The carefully constructed
Brush strokes
Spouting
What is sure to be, nonsense
But I do enjoy the sound of nonsense in the morning
I am a Woman of Many Words
I cling to the lettered skyscrapers wherever I can find them
Because the familiar scent of scribbles across parchment is comfort food for me
I find them
On the backs of cereal boxes
And in Popsicle riddles
In fortune cookies
And alphabet soup
From magnets on my fridge
To junk food logos
And I hold on to them for dear life
For fear that silence should find me
And leave me empty
For fear it will take away the music of maracas
Made by words
Dancing the salsa inside me
I am a Woman of Many Words
because Words
Answer my Questions,
Soothe my fears,
and Humor my Whims
They are not always Right
But they are always Constant
They are not always Honest, in fact,
Mostly
They Lie
But ever so often
They tell such a Beautiful Lie
That you wish it were true
They sing from the rocks
offering Escape from
Terrifying,
Suffocating,
Mind numbing Silence
that echoes off my skeleton
I am afraid that silence will hollow out my insides
and leave me abandoned
with nothing between my Bow and Stern
my Forecastle all torn up
I am afraid of the skeleton inside me
So I am a Woman of Many of Words
For fear of silence
And contempt for truth
Because my words are sirens
And my shipwreck is home here
Nov 10, 2015
Nov 10, 2015 at 5:12 PM UTC
I got braces when I was 16
that year I never kissed anyone
but I made boys steal things from pricy bookstores
I measure time by my teeth
every year they get more crooked
the older I get they seem to shift back to old territory
old habits
old
now even smoking cigarettes feels boring
when I walk into bookstores
I leave sticky notes with advice I wish someone would have told me then
they did
but maybe if I had found it somewhere I was looking
I might have paid more attention
my retainer sits in a shelf collecting grime
Feb 7, 2018
Feb 7, 2018 at 3:44 PM UTC
It’s been years.
I thought time would wash
over the muddled traces
But it has only left a resentment to the words.
The sense of longing
never quite leaves my chest.
So I pickup the painful memories scattered
here and there.
even though the features I knew so well are fading,
I can’t help but search for your figure.
Your eyes.
At the bus stop, on the street, in the corners of bookstores,
even though I know I won’t see you.
It’s fine though, because when the moon shines through my bedroom window,
you haunt every part of me.
And the words I resented are so clear.
If only I had spoken these three words.. would things have been the same?
Jul 1, 2018
Jul 1, 2018 at 4:15 AM UTC
People say, bookworms are antisocial, quiet, and pretty much unattached.
these are not true, alright? no. bookworms are not like that.
let me enlighten you by telling you about the bookworm I fell for.
1. on meeting her for the first time, I was minding my own business. I was in class and it was the first day of school.
then all of a sudden, she suddenly points out the game I'm holding and screams *** *** *** that game!! and after that we just talked on and on and on and on pretty much about random things. so no, they are not antisocial.
2. on trips to bookstores I'd always end up walking out of one with ym body hurting. why? Whenever she sees a book that she doesn't have, she'd gasp point grab gasp point grab and repeat. on seeing a book that she can't buy. she'd hit me with it! I mean who does that? on seeing a book that she's been looking for, for a long time, she'd throw a tantrum! so no, they are not quiet.
3. When you look into her eyes, you'd see all the things she's been through, the masks she wore, and the wrinkles in her smiles for faking them so much. It came be from a lot of things, A past lover, a long-term problem, an old friend, or betrayals. whether it's fiction or non-fiction it would pain her no matter how she lies about it. She's been attached to too many for too long a time, that she'd try her best not to get attached. So on a bookwrom being attached or unattached, in the end it's all up to you whether she becomes the first or the latter
Sep 13, 2015
Sep 13, 2015 at 3:24 AM UTC
I’ve wanted pretty, soft, hands for as long as I can remember;
thin fingers,
long nails.
The kind that pair well with coffee mugs and bookstores.
The kind you don’t hesitate to kiss;
but mine are riddled with anxiety.
There are scars on my knuckles from walls that didn’t deserve my anger
and I can’t seem to stop biting at my fingernails.
I will never be the pretty girl with soft hands and thin fingers.
I am the strong girl
who scales mountainsides
and presses my hips into the walls I once used to punish myself.
My hands haven’t been the same since I covered them in chalk and started gripping onto what has become a lifeline for me.
So,
no,
I will never be the pretty girl with soft hands and thin fingers.
I will be the strong one.
Oct 25, 2020
Oct 25, 2020 at 9:37 PM UTC
Lately, I’ve been dating myself:
Beaches,
Bars,
Bookstores,
& Bedrooms…
Self care superseded structure,
I’m the happiest spinster,
Because for once,
I’m myself.
Aug 30, 2013
Aug 30, 2013 at 7:14 PM UTC
I would rather write
About this world than
Live in it
I would rather play
Music all day and read
Or wander around
Or waltz into bookstores
And run my hands along
The wooden shelves
I would rather remain
Indifferent to the world
That exists around me
I would rather watch
Humans than actually
Be one of them.
Jul 31, 2018
Jul 31, 2018 at 5:30 AM UTC
With so little time I could not decide.
Shelf after shelf filled with book upon book.
The likes I've dreamed of reading.
Most bookstores have there signs posted.
Opening and closing time.
But this, this was something out of the ordinary.
Not a soul wandering through the isles.
No checkout line.
It was intimate.
Being here alone surrounded by book after book.
Each with a cover beautifully drawn.
Genres of insecurities, dreams, ambitions.
Love.
Any spot on the floor felt like home.
Addressing myself in total seclusion.
Mornings spent in thought embraced by the cold air flowing through the vents.
Afternoons spent without a thing to do.
The nights when a pillow was the only comfort, drifting off to sleep.
Slow rather than fast.
I flipped through page after page.
Wandering from isle to isle undecided in which book I wanted to read first.
Eying the shelves one at a time.
Finding the beauty in what makes you, you.
The marked on pages.
The distraught covers.
With so little time I didn't want to spend every second over-thinking.
Analyzing exactly which stood out the most.
When in actuality.
They all are a part of you
Aug 14, 2018
Aug 14, 2018 at 10:07 AM UTC
The libraries and bookstores of the world
Are stocked with pleasantries:
Prim, proper, peach juice-oozing volumes
That made the grade.
These books are all well and good,
And are not unworthy of examination,
Simply because they were deemed so
By a jury of your peers.
Make note, however,
Of the myopia inherent
In limiting yourself
To the savoury.
Observe:
Past the shelves of
Well-lit,
Worn-covered
Thoroughly thumbed delicacies,
There is more to be seen.
Do not hesitate to approach the shelves
Wreathed in thorns and security tape
And kept under dim bulbs.
The books that lurk there
Are sealed tight
And wear jackets plastered in sludge:
Sludge laid thick by heavy-handed brushstrokes.
Prying open the padlock
Will sometimes reveal
Further grime coagulated upon the pages.
Further prying, however,
Will split open tomes
Scrawled with fractures of light,
Lending to the eye
An illumination unique
To such tarred works.
Do not fear these banned books,
These veiled wonders,
For they contain pure, unscreened scrawlings
Soulfully wrought upon simple scraps of paper.
It is within these that truth can be found.
May 8, 2015
May 8, 2015 at 7:58 AM UTC
where did i lose my warmth?
at which place had i turned my switch?
in starbucks? secondhand bookstores?
was it in the local bar or the liquor store?
in houses i crashed, couches i spent the night on
or of dorm rooms i slept at and sheets i found comfortable?
to what girl had i offered it in lieu of the rush?
had i made the trade with the girl
who dragged me through unlit streetlights
as she had her lips perched on mine,
opened my heart with intensity that made her tremble
and eventually turned me into a massive mess.
was it her? i was always too drunk to recall.
or perhaps i gave it away, little by little
to the bartender in a black shirt
with a walrus at the back,
and his sadness was seen in his eyes every night.
we never really spoke.
i ask for shots, he gives them to me.
but he understood. i know he always did.
he looks at me in a way.
all fuckups know why we do the things we do
was it with him?
or was it the cigarette lady
from where i lit my first menthol stick
and swallowed the cough
that i really wanted to release?
maybe it goes farther back
had i lost my warmth in words?
in unsent text messages?
literature? poetry? essays? prose?
metaphors – not at all.
i lost it when i was eight
when i knew about my father's infidelity
when i felt my first rejection
when i felt so unwanted
when my heart broke for my mom
there, in that very dark room had i lost it all.
but the better question should be:
was it ever there?
Jul 11, 2018
Jul 11, 2018 at 6:47 AM UTC
hello, love.
one day
i would like a library
a whole library, in our very own house.
I've already started collecting, you know
(things like that take a lot of planning)
books, i mean. collecting books
from second-hand bookstores and thrift shops.
floor to ceiling to floor, the room will have books
and millions of golden threads leading from the pages,
connecting our little corner of the world to the rest of it.
to London in 1854, and Iran in 1990, and India tomorrow.
we can walk into our library any old time
and amble right on through to anywhere.
mom didn't like to buy me many books as a child
oh, yes, she taught me the importance of reading
we read every day, and for that i owe her my life.
but we didn't buy them
books, i mean
because i'd read them too quickly
a day or two, maybe
and so we used the library
want to know something nerdy?
i was probably the only nine-year-old in the city
to have the library card number memorized,
all fourteen digets.
did you know they max out at 30?
books, i mean.
30 books at one time.
We will read to our children every single night. we will act out the stories; we will help them see that the stories are just as alive and breathing as they are. you can be Peter Pan, and i'll be Frances Hodgson Burnett's Sara Crewe.
and when they are old enough, they will read to themselves every day as a chore, like making their beds or unloading the silverware. hopefully they won't see it like that, like a chore. hopefully they will become addicts. they will sneak flashlights into their rooms and read underneath the covers after bedtime every night.
but we'll never ground them for that.
instead, we'll take trips to the library
and teach them how to dream.
all my love.
Nov 21, 2011
Nov 21, 2011 at 2:21 PM UTC
angels.
angels who miss their wings at 3 am when they feel more out of place in this body then before, angels who need pain to bring themselves out of their dreams, who ink themselves with words only prophets would understand; angels who have the most ordinary jobs like bus drivers and paper boys, people see them and think about them for moments too long.
angels who turn to drinking and smoking, trying to forget the feeling of their wings pushing air behind them as they flew. angels who can't avoid the call of the sky and become pilots who are always drinking coffee because the caffeine reminds them of the golden ichor that was once flowing through their veins.
vengeful angels who become pilots as well, who terrorize the winged folk to feel powerful again, to feel control again. angels who message each other, fingers trembling as they type out their dreams, trying to grab those memories that are just out of reach, gauzy and filled with blood and silver-tinted skin and golden eyes and so many feathers. angels who live in church basements and see pictures of themselves in the stained glass windows and go unclothed, trying to reach that feeling of purity, freedom.
fallen angels who burn churches, filling their lungs with smoke as they climb to the steeple, not just from reprisal but from the feeling of mutiny. angels who ride out into the country alone with a handful of stolen cash who steal from nearly empty gas stations and throw rocks at the windows of abandoned barns after they've climbed to the roof and back to earth. angels who streak their backs with ashes because they don't have the scars that they should from having their wings torn away and the golden ichor doesnt bleed away and stain the ground like it used to.
angels who hang out in bookstores and coffee shops because they're looking for an oracle or someone, anyone, who will listen to their impossible dreams of flight and blood spattering the ground, of fighting and dying and they can't explain it.
angels with shaky hands who try to find love because there's something missing and everyone tells them that love will help them, and maybe it does, but there are always angels out there who have loved and loved and there is still something BROKEN, something LOST, and it's been pounded into their minds that they'll never know what it is. angels who run with demons and devils because there's nothing quite like the rush of running in the dark, standing at the edge of the city and feeling the wind nearly blow you off as you curl your toes on the edge of the roof, so close to the sky it takes their breath away.
angels.
May 3, 2017
May 3, 2017 at 9:12 PM UTC
we are bystanders at heart.
you always thought fools gold was beautiful
and we knew how to reach for highlighted
books in tattered low lighted bookstores
where people used to show compassion for
the little things.
old men croaked in these heavy feathered seats
but that didn't matter much.
it gave the place some history it never really had.
we would read each other excerpts that had no
significance and you would think of me as
kind of beautiful.
some nights we would drink wine, but then switch
to spiced *** to try and knock out the
thoughts that left bad tastes on our
swollen tongues.
i'd end up too drunk, and you'd find your
fingers woven in my hair that was too soft to
hold on.
sometimes you wished it was like wool,
keeping your hands from rigor mortis and
keeping me close to your bee hive body case,
busy with engulfing my bystander heart.
wool quilting to your shoulders,
you wouldn't give this up.
we may be patch work and hungover,
but at least we can keep each other warm.
Sep 22, 2011
Sep 22, 2011 at 1:26 PM UTC
daft as the last 3 things you said, I don't
question much aside from life. in how many
sentences could I make a reference to an old
French poet to illustrate to you how little
sense Albert Camus makes seeing as I have yet
to go to university? You'd think the sand clocked
in his socks from all those summers spent in
Algier's would have consumed much more than
background or 'home is where the heart is.'
the right mind is the right heart is the home
is the everywhere you go. in a world where
'I-Ching' and 'cha-ching' are context insofar
as bookstores, I doubt much and question little,
money is dharma too. dharma I wish to burn because
my hate for money is dharma. back-flip. slightly
arrested in development is the faculty of spirit
in GDP, at least the lion still roams the Savannah
and at least I can explore the lion. My New Years
resolution is 1080p. what's yours?
Feb 3, 2013
Feb 3, 2013 at 1:41 AM UTC
your tunic pupils
extractions from the sky
encircle all that which lays in your deepest masculine eyelashes
Im enthralled with your profile
meager looks of
hearts dispelled
onto something greater than life in its most simplest form
you represent everything natural
extracted from the very womb of earth
I am lost in my own thoughts
of my responsibilites
as a woman of culture and as an artist
will I forgive myself
for touching your wounds
maybe not
your judgment passes me
as a frail child looks upon his guardian
no I am not that
I cant be
yes
yes
I need these little things that make us move
with what you say
love
love
I do agree
I nod my head in acceptence
awfully
to these things I can never posess
I will speak to you in these matters harshly
you see
sometimes I come off as too intense
too ******
at times I will make you forget
that I contain any kind of beauty
I have a holocaust in my heart
somewhere in its driven corners
and a black plague forfiting casting spells
to hearts somewhere in my eyes
I have sold many goodbyes
ignored many whys
and kept many standbys
black I watched these skies
turn
red I watched these thighs
burn
and just as quickly turn
pale
with an execution that very well
lasts a year sometimes
I want to be yours
but the sun and the moon
cannot live side by side
and neither could our two seperate cores
the ****** and the sores
sleeping somewhere under the beds of these bookstores
you see
I want to be yours
but Im afraid I have been burnt single
due to my wars
Nov 30, 2010
Nov 30, 2010 at 8:08 PM UTC
I’m never sure. it’s sad. I know.
I want to be honest.
sometimes I’m too honest, honestly,
and in the wrong way. the worst way.
I want to be good. good at something
anything, really. I don’t know what.
maybe I’d be a good barista
or a good waitress. I don’t know.
sushi chef maybe? is that even
something that I’d want to do?
I hate when people say they do
“computers”. That’s not even DOING
something. That’s just a noun.
Can I say I do “books”??
Is your job too complicated to
explain to simple old me?
I need to work on being logical
with my heart. I need to start
believing in chances. I have a
poet’s eye, so why can’t I have
her ever-breaking heart? her
softasskin soul? her longing for
cold winters and sunbright lemonaid
her love of love?
I have a bitter feel of love. it’s
twisted into a harsh hatred. It’s
eaten by doubt. It doesn’t smile,
it blushes, it hides. I need to
re-coax love into existence.
so that when it opens up, it
recreates the boundaries
of safety that I so crave.
I want to be the fearless poet
that Frost examines in his woods
I want the flawed sex-ful poet
that Bukowski loves to paint
I want the darkest raven-breasted poet
that Poe tearfully wrote
or I want to be my own poet,
lost in thick dusty second-hand
bookstores, full of soggy stories
too heavy sometimes
to re-tell.
Oct 18, 2015
Oct 18, 2015 at 2:46 PM UTC