"scrapbook" poems
I will regret this in the morning
but I will do it anyway
my impulsivity often overpowers my conscience
yet I am almost always fully aware
of the decisions I make
and their consequences
I am not exactly mentally stable
but I am sane enough
to know right from wrong
yesterday from today
love from lust
although sometimes I mix them up
I have a tendency to lunge at any pair of arms that open for me
my mind and body often disagree
my body saying yes to eager hands
my mind saying no
constantly looking towards my heart
thinking how stupid one must be
to fall repeatedly
get hurt every single time
and still manage to do the same
over
and over
again
I wonder
how many times I will have to hit the ground
in order to learn to stop falling face first?
I often say things
that should be left unsaid
I often do things
that should not be done
sleep in beds unfamiliar
make believe love to strangers
get to know people who will not remember me tomorrow
I am gone as quickly as the hangover
I can be washed off the tongue
just as quickly as the liquor
I often believe I am capable of inciting change
I kiss temporary lips with permanence
hoping that I can train them to stay
I love temporary people with permanence
hoping that I can train them not to leave
and when they do
I claim to have seen it coming
I am incapable of forgetting
a scrapbook memory of skin and heartbeat
of touch and moments
I know not to look directly into eyes
for they can be blinding
and I still
do it anyway
I know of the risks that shouldn't be taken
well aware of their consequences
and I still
take them anyway
you could say
it is my own fault
for the way that things continue to turn out
but I can make no promise of apology
instead
I will live momentarily
**** up intentionally
love recklessly
fall unguarded
break enough times to learn how to put myself back together
crash into concrete enough times to learn how to shift a crooked smile
into something worth seeing
I have been told that a life lived in fear
is hardly a life lived at all
so I intend to live every second
like it is the last one I will have
I will write each night as it happens
narrate my own stories
and hope they turn out okay
I will regret this in the morning
but I will do it anyway.
Oct 15, 2014
Oct 15, 2014 at 2:48 PM UTC
A sip of coffee
Disclosing my story
Pasting in this scrapbook,
All the photos of us
I took
Writing the captions,
I tear up with emotions
Eternity is a gentle caress
And I recognize
In the end,
There is nothing more
Real in life
Than
Momentary happiness.
May 2, 2014
May 2, 2014 at 1:32 PM UTC
Inside my brain
There is a tornado
Spinning to infinity and beyond.
God only knows how fast.
My shoulders ache and my feet cramp.
My wrists click
And my eyes go damp.
Inside my brain instead is a monsoon:
A tumultuous storm that rages on.
Waves froth and smash,
Beating against the backs of my eyeballs.
Sometimes they find their way
Down my soft spotted cheeks.
My lashes float to the earth
One by one by one by one.
Would you collect them for me
Like discarded flower petals
Down the aisle of my soul's chapel
And press them into a scrapbook
Full of twisted memories?
Inside my brain is an H2O tornado
Like reckless rainstorm pirouettes.
My swirling view is blurred,
But every so often
I catch a clear picture
Of the glowing whites of your eyes
And I remember to fill my lungs,
Head above the water,
And breathe.
Twirl, twist.
Wind, mist.
But don't panic,
Because every so often
I catch a clear picture
Of you.
Mar 28, 2014
Mar 28, 2014 at 4:40 PM UTC
(After Lorca)
Now in Vienna there are ten pretty women.
There's a shoulder where death comes to cry.
There's a lobby with nine hundred windows.
There's a tree where the doves go to die.
There's a piece that was torn from the morning,
and it hangs in the Gallery of Frost—
Ay, ay ay ay
Take this waltz, take this waltz,
take this waltz with the clamp on its jaws.
I want you, I want you, I want you
on a chair with a dead magazine.
In the cave at the tip of the lily,
in some hallway where love's never been.
On a bed where the moon has been sweating,
in a cry filled with footsteps and sand—
Ay, ay ay ay
Take this waltz, take this waltz,
take its broken waist in your hand.
This waltz, this waltz, this waltz, this waltz
with its very own breath
of brandy and death,
dragging its tail in the sea.
There's a concert hall in Vienna
where your mouth had a thousand reviews.
There's a bar where the boys have stopped talking,
they've been sentenced to death by the blues.
Ah, but who is it climbs to your picture
with a garland of freshly cut tears?
Ay, ay ay ay
Take this waltz, take this waltz,
take this waltz, it's been dying for years.
There's an attic where children are playing,
where I've got to lie down with you soon,
in a dream of Hungarian lanterns,
in the mist of some sweet afternoon.
And I'll see what you've chained to your sorrow,
all your sheep and your lilies of snow—
Ay, ay ay ay
Take this waltz, take this waltz
with its "I'll never forget you, you know!"
And I'll dance with you in Vienna,
I'll be wearing a river's disguise.
The hyacinth wild on my shoulder
my mouth on the dew of your thighs.
And I'll bury my soul in a scrapbook,
with the photographs there and the moss.
And I'll yield to the flood of your beauty,
my cheap violin and my cross.
And you'll carry me down on your dancing
to the pools that you lift on your wrist—
O my love, O my love
Take this waltz, take this waltz,
it's yours now. It's all that there is.
6.3k
in june I felt the project change
from trying charting all scenarios of your face
to looking to books to blacking out spontaneous lines in found papers
to clearly eventually
be a misneglected omen of your impending collapse.
"I would like to blame this on the weather,"
I said to the sky,
"I would like to stay."
I felt the camera flash stop taking
strobe light moments of our strobe light moments
instead slipped tape recorder in your cereal box
videotaped the tooth brush
ever scraping dead skin while you slept.
I said, "If you wake up I will know nothing."
if you call this a dream, I will shake
and shake.
I said "it is clear now that you are decomposing."
(there's only so much the heart can take.)
stopped thoughts about the bus would hit you
spent time watching the sun through your palm:
little bones will scatter light.
little scars on thumbs.
we are made up only of who puts us back together.
and I could smell the rain.
I said, "It is easier if you stay angry"
I said to the sky.
"I would like to stay."
I put the Starbucks mug on the radiator
ceased to chart your worried looks.
I knew your brow, heavy clouds as you'd undress
but made a scrapbook of frozen dinner clippings
drew a line through where you went that day.
I said, "I want to prove that you meant nothing"
I said to the sky.
"I would like to stay."
I said to the sky.
and then the rain.
Nov 3, 2012
Nov 3, 2012 at 4:44 PM UTC
I'm an olympic housewife.
My mantlepiece of medals
is perfectly folded washing
arranged in mahogany drawers
with calm elegance
like swans on a lake.
I’m an elite athlete of the mundane.
My scrapbook of 1st place ribbons
are surfaces that sparkle
a masterpiece of purity
zen arrangement lust
like Ikebana in an empty room.
I’m an extreme sport star of domesticity.
My list of world class honours
gluten free bake-offs
blogging my parenting tips
a domestic online celebrity
like an effortless Demeter.
Jul 4, 2015
Jul 4, 2015 at 11:19 PM UTC
A four-year-old was perched in front of
a boxy TV with eyes only open to
sugar-coated Cheerios and 80’s Transformer heroes
on the screen.
Fast forward to age
thirteen where she flipped through
dusty photography with
eyes searching
for substance
to prove reality from almost-forgotten dreams.
Scrapbook memories aren’t
all that she sees
because,
honestly,
she loses things.
Summer Saturdays and
Fall Fridays and
Winter weekdays spent too wrapped up in her
own head to notice, silently, spring rising
from its deathbed.
Honestly, she loses things.
She
loses
things that should be important
and real, but all she can feel is
the guilt of lost
and faded photography.
Scrapbook memories fabricate times of
color and scent and sound,
of spilled milk and Diet Coke,
of words too far gone to seep from
pen to page because
honestly,
she loses things.
May 14, 2015
May 14, 2015 at 9:09 PM UTC
Love hard, my friends. Love noticeably.
Love does not deserve to be shoved under the rug, to be disguised, or to be quieted. Love does not mean conforming to the idea that genuine affection is “sappy,” “cheesy,” or “cringeworthy”; instead-- love loudly.
The world wants to tell you that relationships are to be silenced. That posting multiple photographs of each other is tacky, uncomfortable, and something to make fun of. That devoting time with your favorite human being is disgusting, overbearing-- especially when you are young and the future does not exist in your hands.
Too bad, future. And how unfortunate, world. Because at the end of the day, the world does not own love. You do. It is yours to have, to keep, to share, and to do whatever it takes to hold onto it. It is mine.
When you find love, shout it from the rooftops and frame a million photographs. Post selfies of the two of you smiling wide and unwavering. Wear its colors on your face and shamelessly declare it to the whole universe and beyond: You are in love. You are alive.
And likewise, this is my philosophy: Love intentionally, fiercely, tirelessly.
Love so hard it makes people dizzy. Take it as a compliment. In an exhausted world that spins with violence, hatred, and monstrosity-- praise its joys. Snap those pictures.Tell your friends. Scrapbook it, publish it, make art out of it. Laugh about it, display it, live it. Put an end to the grotesque concept that something so beautiful, perhaps life’s most magnificent, should be sheltered. Let it grow.
This is a declaration. I am boisterously in love. There is no quiet here.
One day, you will find someone or something that your heart will never be able to shut up about. And that’s okay. Let it scream.
Jan 3, 2017
Jan 3, 2017 at 9:33 AM UTC
I've seen cops
way too many times,
too many times
to go through my ****
ripping apart pillows
with switches
and against my better judgment
I did nothing
as I heard the glass of
my grandmother's picture
being tossed around
in the back.
Too many times
asking me questions
about this
and that?
Him or her?
If you help us out,
we'll help you out,
understand?
in their rooms
where no love is grown
and no help is on the way,
their eyes were filled with the fire,
they were finally
gonna get this ******
make him pay
for crimes he didn't commit.
Too many times
when i was asleep
in some old sewer,
and rolling up
asking me if i was on drugs
or drunk,
and if i didn't leave
they were gonna shove
a nightstick up my ***
get me used to it.
Too many times have they slowed down
at a light
and turned slowly,
keeping their eyes on me
like I was a wolf,
when they had blood in their eyes
and teeth
in their holsters.
"Where you going tonight?"
as they surrounded me,
another inmate
inside the bounded
bars of an external prison.
Cops never helped me,
never asked
how I was doing,
or why I was doing it,
or why I felt trapped
inside my own body;
all they saw
was another ******
making problems
for the civilized people.
God will remember them,
just as I can't forget.
And most of the time,
it was other black men,
some fruit bred strong in them,
to hate them bottom-rung *******
because they had escaped
and remade themselves,
apparently.
In truth,
I have killed many of them
in my sleep,
but when I step back,
I see that they are a product
of the same system
that says the guns, drugs, and violence
are part of the ****** condition,
that only shows a ****** on tv
when he's ***** or killed somebody,
another mugshot for you to put in your
scrapbook of fear.
So, no I don't hate them,
I hate seeing people that look like me
getting killed
before they come to fruition.
I hate that
:"black"
is used as a term
meant to engender
fear.
I hate that I walk down the street,
and a white girl
walks ahead
turning around
to
check for me.
I hate that when me
and some of the homies
walk down the street,
our hoodies pulled over our heads,
people look behind us
for the grim reaper.
There is hope,
but without
it being fostered,
The fruits
die on the vine,
noosed up
in a new way
as they drop.
Feb 11, 2012
Feb 11, 2012 at 6:36 PM UTC
Drawing little tears
I trace around lines
small oval shaped drops
I cut away from your eyes
pasting them in a scrapbook
for the hurting to see
Inviting all to look
how sorrow is set free
tear out the paper
fold into a plane
crease down the corners
and fly away the pain
Mar 12, 2021
Mar 12, 2021 at 8:22 AM UTC
The sun-filled corridor
Burns brightly in the heat of
That ephemeral, sweltering season.
She sits at the edge of the hallway,
Looking at the other side wistfully,
Her eyes seem to be reaching out to the other side.
To just be on that side for one moment;
To be nearer to the light, instead of staying in this place
of darkness. Heart filled with despair, the streams from the river
Fall freely down her alabaster colored face.
Her hands reaching out, pleading for a warm touch,
A Valentine embrace; a Christmas kiss under the mythical mistletoe.
People with their eyes hooked to their silicate screens
Ignore her. Even she calls out to them for attention, but they don’t
Hear. Their minds are too far into themselves. They don’t care. Nor
They ever will, much to her chagrin.
The silence kills her the most.
It’s the antithesis of cacophony.
Would she rather a discordant note pervading
the entire room than suffering through silence?
She still remembers the day she lost her voice.
The day she felt that the world was coming to an end because she wasn’t
Good enough for the masses of mainstream people who never lose
Anything but hours of sleep.
This girl can’t lose sleep because she never can sleep.
She can’t feel anything. She can’t taste the sweetness of the chocolate logs
That stay on the table near the Christmas tree. She watches as her old family
Savours every dark, sugary, nearly sinful taste of it. She can’t feel the texture of
The wall. She can’t even see past the house. She can never leave. Not since that
Fateful day. Do they still remember their daughter? Has she become a distant,
yet inevitably ephemeral scrapbook remnant?
Nov 5, 2012
Nov 5, 2012 at 10:28 PM UTC
Thinking how stupid one must be
To fall repeatedly
Get hurt every single time
And still manage to do the same
Over
And over
Again
I wonder
How many times I will have to hit the ground
In order to learn to stop falling in love at first
I often say things
That should be left unsaid
I often say things
That should not be done
Sleep in bed unfamiliar
Make believe love to strangers
Get to know people who will not remember me tomorrow
I am gone as quickly as the hangover
I can be washed off the tongue
Just quickly as the liquor
I often believe I am capable of inciting change
I kiss temporary lips with permanence
Hoping that I can train them to stay
I love temporary people with permanence
Hoping that I can train them not to leave
And when they do
I claim to have seen it coming
I am incapable of forgetting
A scrapbook memory of skin and heartbeat
Or touch and moments
I know not to look directly into eyes
For they can be blinding
And I still
Do it anyway
Jun 12, 2015
Jun 12, 2015 at 1:50 AM UTC
Miles and
Miles and miles
Constant fake smiles
And so much small talk
When there's big talk to be had
Tired feet and sore driving hands
Hundreds of dollars on coffee
**** where are my smokes?
Lost under the seat
Most likely
Monty
In the car please
Need to leave this place
Moving on to the next state
Both geographically, and of mind
Leave these faded memories behind
And move on to the new chapter
Of my life's extremely cheap
And poorly constructed
Scrapbook
Map out
New territories
And fresh beginnings
To feel like I'm productive
Because normally, I sit in silence
I wonder what people with lives do
From one day to the next
Do they have fun with
Staying constant?
Stable?
Jul 5, 2014
Jul 5, 2014 at 8:39 PM UTC
You step outside of the moment like a misty window bystander with your hood up and your hand warmers that you’ll put in your scrapbook so as to bless and keep this memory all your days.
Sift out the sound waves as you watch the dancing silhouettes of the good old days
Bringing tears to your eyes as you remember that someday this’ll be in a box wrapped and taped scotch-like for you to look at and think how lucky we were.
But right now you’re pulling all your best strings to carve out scrawled negatives on the glass before the condensation of your breath fades fades away.
Oh doesn’t it remind you, dear,
That we live in the awareness of fleeting moments rather than the moments themselves?
That we only put the remaining numbers of seconds on our dance cards and not let our time with fullness instead take our hands and waists?
That we scrounge for the film that we can Mary Poppins jump into on the other end of a short while instead of running the risk of forgetting by ripping open the gift of the instant we have been personally given by God?
Don’t let it pass you by because
Even though it’s only out the train window if you
Let it permeate your heart forever that’s the
Only way you can keep it in your pocket during your walk towards eternity.
Dec 11, 2021
Dec 11, 2021 at 6:07 PM UTC
You don't belong somewhere
Average.
You don't belong with someone
Ordinary.
And right now
Your life is grey and white
Not too dark and not too light
But I'm telling you, darling,
Don't let your life be newspaper clippings-
Born, Married, Died-
In cheap grey ink.
When you cut your ties and discover every color of your sunset
You won't have the patience for anything less than breathtaking.
I'm asking you not to have the fear
To settle for less anyhow.
I'm asking you to risk for you
To be selfish
To try the stormy seas instead of sitting in the harbor because
You are not a two car garage with a beige house attached
You're a castle, stained glass windows throwing rainbow cut outs of stars on all the floors.
You are not a November drizzle,
You're a summer hurricane.
Even if you never choose me
I'm begging you not to let your love be mediocre
Not to let your life be.
I'm asking you to go for what you deserve
Instead of what you fall into by accident.
You deserve the moon and the stars,
The sun and the planets.
You deserve the richest, loveliest of lives.
Please
Find your adventures, find your passion.
Just cause it's here
Doesn't mean it's good enough.
Don't let your life be newspaper clippings
In some old scrapbook under a bed.
Don't let yourself get caught in a practical, faded existence
Just because it seems like the safe thing to do.
You are not grey and white,
You are every spectrum, like a prism,
And it would be a crying shame
To let this life
Contain you.
Jan 11, 2014
Jan 11, 2014 at 9:46 PM UTC
Why do we insist on smiling in all our pictures? We hide our emotions and thoughts behind our baring teeth while our eyes show the truth. We use social media as a virtual scrapbook. All we're doing is lying to our future , reminiscing over forgotten memories and "look how happy I was". Its okay not to smile.
Sep 7, 2015
Sep 7, 2015 at 6:33 PM UTC
Draw like you want to beat the **** out of God for limiting the colour spectrum to something finite.
Write like the ******* paper is on fire and your pen is kerosene and it’s burning and you’re screaming but it feels so ******* good.
Realize you’re a ******* *****
Realize everyone’s a ***** and the sun is only going to explode and the world is only going to burn and we’re all going to die in fire, but it’s only going to hurt for an instant.
But you love the pain, that’s why you beg him to paint you black and blue and make you bleed so you can see how disgusting you really are.
Remember that god has abandoned us all and Jesus died for your masochistic tendencies.
So, crucify me on your parent’s bed and **** me like repenting can save us.
**** me like you want to save us.
But what’s salvation to bruised knees and praying to the tune of incoherent screams and begging and pleading and Yes Sir and Thank You Sir and an ****** so hard your body joins your head in the clouds.
Learn languages and **** his **** in all of them.
Turn *** into art the way he turns you into his masterpiece.
Live like your biggest debate is whether or not to drink a pint of beer, or a pint of blood – and choose the blood every time.
**** yourself every second of every ******* day and remember that you’re alive and you’re not so well and never look your grave in the eyes until he tells you to.
Scrapbook every bullet hole you've kissed, keep mason jars for the dirt he rubbed your face in, plant a cigarette **** for good luck, always ask permission, remember you’re disgusting, remember you’re dying, remember you’re alive, remember love, remember passion, remember anger, remember this.
Jan 5, 2014
Jan 5, 2014 at 12:59 AM UTC
Everybody told me
You think only of yourself.
There’s no room in your heart
For anybody else.
But just like every fool
Ever born or ever was.
I had to find out for myself
Because, just because.
Lipstick on the mirror
Gave the whole thing away.
I didn’t really understand
Until I woke up that day.
You only love yourself it seems
And I just didn’t see before.
There’s room in your life for you
And no room for one more.
I began to notice how difficult
It was to walk down the boulevard.
You kept looking into the windows
And seemed to be looking hard.
At first what you were looking at
Managed to escape my detection.
After I while I realized the truth.
You were looking at your reflection.
I knew you would not go outside
If your hair was not done quite right.
To try to say it was good enough
Was to encourage another fight.
Every detail of clothing must be
Perfection all the way through
That meant I had to be perfect
As I was an extension of you.
Lipstick on the mirror
Gave the whole thing away.
I didn’t really understand
Until I woke up that day.
You only love yourself it seems
And I just didn’t see before.
There’s room in your life for you
And no room for one more.
Now I look at the photographs
You have kept in a scrapbook.
I see that you have the ones of you
When you like the way you look.
The pictures of me are there
But only if you are also in the shot.
It’s easy to see that you matter
And easier to see I do not.
Lipstick on the mirror
Gave the whole thing away.
I didn’t really understand
Until I woke up that day.
You only love yourself it seems
And I just didn’t see before.
There’s room in your life for you
And no room for one more.
May 31, 2016
May 31, 2016 at 2:11 AM UTC
you reconcile the tatters of the pages
to set alight with the ashes of your cigarette.
you've saved a word in your scrapbook,
torn from the book with his hands
a memory of the chapter.
Feb 17, 2013
Feb 17, 2013 at 10:46 PM UTC
I had a scrapbook deep and thick
I read it in the night
I burned the candle to the wick
A precarious light
In it there were photographs
And clippings by the score
Of every wrong and every shaft
That'd pierced me to the core
I kept my quill at my right hand
And in the margins wrote
My hourglass had lost its sand
My eyes began to float
This book was worn with constant care
The dogeared pages bent
I was constantly to share
Of those I did resent
Time came 'round to find me sick
Ailing from the frost
Of a cold poison dark and thick
I knew that all was lost
I bent closer, smelt the book
It was the book itself!
I'd recover, all it took
Was to place it on the shelf!
And so the scrapbook lost allure
I closed it with a snap
The health of soul I then assured
I placed on pen its cap
Close your books, my dearest friends
And in the end you'll see
Your spiritual health you will amend
You'll finally be FREE!
SoulSurvivor
(C)1/28/2016
Jan 27, 2016
Jan 27, 2016 at 10:33 AM UTC
this devilish craft
by which you lead me down the wet road
down through the spent leaves littered along the side of the pavement
some with their open faces upwards
fine lines intercepting
trace them with fingertip and craftsman's eye
paste them in scrapbook
keepsakes of a fall romance now that its spring
but they resurface
bakes a sunday morning bread filling the house with earthen tones of scent
and filling the mind with cravings from childhoods fable
and i pass this dark bread to her
but she refuses it
i eat of my own conversation within my mind
going over and over the exchange of ideals
that have never been held
beyond the borders of thought
its within this madness she foils my defences and
pulling me forward into the afternoon's slow lazy breath
and rifled through my brazen pocket treasures
thinking to have daring crimes of her own
from which she would someday
be an old hand like me
foiled by my poormans lint
out of my pocket and into
her device of night
its forced lock lay broken against the breached wall
but she is the pretender's delight
and make great noise and show of denial
seating me at a banquet for hungry hearts
her healed hand burnish and clean
leaves me at last
sitting among my peers
with a rolls royce of romance
she just laughs
Jan 10, 2014
Jan 10, 2014 at 5:50 PM UTC
I used to believe in love
at first sight
I'd always trusted that fate
would bring me to that boy
that I would fall in love with
and one day I thought I had found him
I was with my friends at school
we were talking about the upcoming dance
I was going to wear pink
my best friend Tegwyn was wearing ocean blue
and my other best friend Lily was wearing red
Two boys came up to us
we had no idea who they were
when they were near and we realized
that they were headed in our direction
we rated them
the brunette was an 8.5/10
and the taller brunette was an 8.5/10
as well
us three thought they were the cutest things in the world.
"Hey girls" said the shorter one
we were giddy and afraid and all just said "hi"
The taller boy made the move first
he went for my best friend Tegwyn
The shorter boy went for me
we soon found out that they were best friends too
I felt sorry for Lily
but she had said many times that she had no interest in boys
at least not yet
no matter how many times Tegwyn and I tried to convince her
Us four went on a double date
I knew my boy was for real
I didn't know about Tegwyn
I'd ask her later
After I met my boy
and that first date
I decided then to believe in love at first sight
He was amazing
he was so sweet
so caring
and he told me he loved me as much
as I loved him
We continued our relationship
from that grade 7 January
to the July after our first year of university
I stayed in love with that boy
for all that time
I never thought we'd separate
I had scrapbooks,
scrapbook after scrapbook in my room
with different themes
Our wedding
our baby girl
our baby boy
our honeymoon
our twins (if we had them, boy boy or girl boy or girl girl)
our retirement
our jobs
our vacations
our home
I had it all played out carefully
in my head and those scrapbooks of mine
he didn't know about those though
they were my secret
And one day in that July
he said he didn't love me anymore
that spark had disappeared a month or two earlier
he said he couldn't see me as beautiful anymore
he couldn't see my glow anymore
he couldn't see me anymore
But of course
he couldn't see my broken heart either
I had kept in touch with Tegwyn all these years
Lily had a boy to herself too
Tegwyn couldn't believe it
but I couldn't believe it more than she couldn't believe it
It was all so sudden
but of course, nothing lasts long
Aug 2, 2011
Aug 2, 2011 at 2:07 PM UTC
*They met on rainy days
when the air was thick,
laden with the
scent of old musky
scrapbook memoirs
& salt tears' reminisces*
Jul 26, 2015
Jul 26, 2015 at 7:53 AM UTC
I loved you with soft kisses and warm hugs
with t-ball pictures in a scrapbook
and eating ice cream with your little sister the first time her heart was broken
I came to you in my love
with hands to hold when things got hard
and a smile to share when the world gave you a favor
My intentions were always laced with your happiness in mind
I wanted nothing more than to cheer for you in pridefulness
when you proved them all wrong
but also to walk you home in the dark when you struck out
I loved you with all the stars in the sky
with every word in the books
with every tear in my heart
loving someone like that
filled many holes I didn't know were there
it showed a side of me
I didn't recognize
A side of me I wanted to stick around
I loved you with soft kisses and warm hugs
with laced fingertips and galaxies through the freckles on your back
you loved me
with lustful touch and half chuckles
with clenched fist and a hesitant heart
I know we lived two completely different love stories
you found chaos in the same place I laid mine to rest
This is why we could never try the times
we would never last loving as we did
you see
you never fell in love with the oceans in my eyes
or the tenderness in my voice
you were searching for a violent love
in my peaceful heart
I suppose you didn't know you'd found a girl who could make a home
out of your getaway car
Oct 10, 2018
Oct 10, 2018 at 8:05 PM UTC
Her birthday is on the anniversary of the Boston Tea Party,
She love to garden and cook,
Guess you can blame that on her Italian heritage.
She has one tattoo I convinced her to get with me,
A humming bird on our right foot…
She has silver shinny hair,
And loves to scrapbook and take pictures where ever we go.
But most of all,
She’s my mother and my best friend.
She keeps all my little secrets,
And her ears are always ready to listen.
(Even when I talk them off)
Some of my happiest memories,
Are of being in her company.
Spa night’s with hair rapped up in a towel,
And nails painted, and laughs till bedtime.
Girls weekends at my apartment,
Sipping Blue Nun wine and watching “Breakfast at Tiffany’s”
But the thing that gets me most is,
She is and always will be there
When I feel no one else is.
When I first dealt with depression and bipolar,
I was scared, and I felt alone.
But she held me through every nightmare,
And dried every single tear,
Cause that’s what mommies do best.
And believe me when I say she should get
The mother of the year award,
Cause I may be adopted,
But when people ask me who my mom is,
I say her,
Cause she deserves that title more than anyone in the universe!
Dec 16, 2013
Dec 16, 2013 at 2:25 PM UTC