"categorizations" poems
I try to open my mouth,
letters bouncing around my tongue and teeth so they can form the perfect words.
I try to save my perfect words
for perfect moments
and perfect people,
but when my perfect time comes,
the universe is quick to remind me
that I am most certainly not perfect.
You see, I try to make myself believe that I can form a hurricane from my mouth,
that I can stand and stomp
and force waves to crash along the shore so you can hear the ocean...
As if I could be as intense as a hurricane
or as precious as a seashell that you hold against your ear.
I try to make myself believe that I could be the covers that keep you warm at night,
the blanket you hold tight against your skin
when ice is forming at your window
and the heater isn't on again because the bill is so **** high.
I try to make myself believe that I could be a photograph you keep in a shoe box,
the kind of photo you've hidden from the world,
not because it's bad,
but because it's this beautiful secret
and you want to keep it all to yourself.
It's always there to look at on dark nights,
this picture of a girl you used to know.
This picture is all you have left of her.
A photo that makes you so happy you cry,
but then you realize they are not just tears of joy,
because although it is too hard to admit sometimes,
you miss your past
you miss how everything was supposed to work out
and how you used to be king of the playground
but now you are just king of a one-bedroom apartment with a toilet that doesn't always flush.
I try to make myself believe that I could be hope.
I could be what makes you say,
"Hey,
this really isn't so bad."
...These words that I spit onto the floor will stick to your shoes when you get up to walk away,
and maybe they will stay there.
You will walk with them all across town-
step on gas pedals, stomp on ants.
I can believe my words belong on shoes,
side notes
blueprints
in unimportant categorizations that your mind will cast off as history and erase in your sleep.
I can believe that my words are like the paper airplanes I strung to my ceiling-
Most of the time I don't even remember they exist...
but every once in a while,
I look up.
Feb 26, 2013
Feb 26, 2013 at 8:31 PM UTC
You know who you are.
The ones I loved
The ones I trust
The ones in whom I found safety, solace, retreat, non-judgment
The ones that were not the One but inspired something of the what-could-be
Or perhaps better to describe it as that magnetic compulsion of wanting to feel the strength of everything I adore in you surrounding me
Is it wrong to have felt this around many?
Perhaps simply the inevitable result of depth seeking and open hearted ;mess and vulnerability and empathy
And all that is so messy and beautiful
Of what human nature is
&can; be
I'm here
You're there
And somewhere
We will still meet
Perhaps soul sparks are as meaningful as soul mates
And categorizations are
Merely a device
Designed for the faint hearted.
(Obviously not about you--- you're in a category of your own)
Aug 30, 2014
Aug 30, 2014 at 10:58 AM UTC
It would be easier to not have an identity because then you are not subjected to be judged or labelled by flawed categorizations of society.
Mar 28, 2016
Mar 28, 2016 at 10:31 PM UTC