Only you can set my heart on fire
Only you can destroy me
on my mind until the body begins to tire
dreaming of you, each night you're all I see
I gave you my heart, only you can destroy me.
I just miss you, in a quite simple desperate human way
Life is not life with out you in it
you gave me life, you gave it meaning
my heart is on fire, a fire that you lit
a fire that as stood but is now beginning to sit.
I miss you, in a quite simple desperate human way.
The image of your smile that sinks further into my mind
the fun times, just a memory
the way you loved, the way you were always kind
Only you can set my heart on fire
Only you can destroy me
Only you can set me free
free from the pain
the memories of you are keeping me sane
set me free from this pain.
As you lay there, sleeping
little did I know
something so evil was beginning to grow
inside your head, something that didn't belong.
You were always so strong
fighting the pain
fighting to be free
but one day you was taken from me.
these things that we support most well
have nothing to do with up,
and we do with them
out of boredom or fear or money
or cracked intelligence;
our circle and our candle of light
so small we cannot bear it,
we heave out with Idea
and lose the Center:
all wax without the wick,
and we see names that once meant
like signs into ghost towns,
and only the graves are real.
For the girls with big hearts, and troubled minds.
You are not tainted.
You are not the tears on your pillowcase.
You are not a trophy.
You are not a crutch.
You are not a pill someone takes to feel better.
You are not baggage on the side of the road.
You are not human repellent, your words do not scare people away.
You are not a train station on a cold night.
Your body is not a landing strip.
You are not a balloon, someone else can not blow the life into you.
You are not a lie detector.
You can not build a bridge over lost time.
You are not a puppet someone else does not control the strings.
You can not make a heart a home.
Your love is not a one way street.
You are a firefly, don't ever let anyone dim your light.
I am the crushed cereal at the bottom of the box
Your last clean pair of underwear you only wear on laundry day
The popped balloon left in the balloon seller’s hand at
The end of the day when he goes back to his
One bedroom apartment and warms up soup in the microwave
I am the last thing you want to watch on TV
An infomercial or a re-run re-run of a show you don’t like
I am the bit of soda left in the can
That’s mixed with saliva and has no taste
And most times you don’t drink it, so
You just toss away the can with me still inside
I am the wallpaper in a dentist office
That no one buys except to paper dentist offices
I am the crumbs you sweep under the rug
I am that thing on craigslist that would be
Perfect except for that one little thing wrong
I am all those lonely things.
I carry the shallow weight of my own regrets.
I carry the guilt of my mother who felt she could’ve done more for my grandmother.
Nights spent, teary-eyed phone calls to the nursing home.
I carry the comprehension of my father.
Hundreds of times he’s defeated me at chess, at card games.
I am his knowledge.
I carry sorrow from soccer games lost and triumph from games won with the stench of wet grass and caked on mud still fresh in my memory.
I carry the weight of high school, the pressure to get into college, the weight of rumors and the regret of not paying attention in class.
Feeling hopeless and defeated when I fail a test, though I remember I can carry the power of success.
I carry the daily jeers and spite of my peers and my teachers.
I carry the burden of my mother’s size eight firmly up my ass when I don’t do what I’m told.
I carry three-day weekends and the joy of a snow day.
I carry my blood, my veins, my organs.
I carry my bones, my cartilage, my flesh and my hair.
I carry my beating heart and the sound it makes letting everyone around me and myself to know that I’m still very much alive.
I carry the ability of perfect hindsight vision, the ability of blind foresight.
I carry my friends, the pressure of their own burdens.
I own the ability to make them smile, the ability to cheer them up when I don’t know how to help myself.
I’ve carried some of them for as long as I can remember; some I can’t carry anymore, and some I’ve just started to carry.
I carry love and passion; I carry hate and abhor.
I carry confusion, delirium, nostalgia of days past.
I carry insomnia and sleepless nights dreaming up at my ceiling of life to come.
I carry my dreams, both physical and mental.
I carry what I aspire to be.
I carry photography, a story of my life through pictures, through captivity, through still frame.
I carry my wishes.
I carry the beach, the waves that crash down onto the shore and onto me and the salty residue that lands on my flesh and hair from staying out too long.
I carry stupidity, I carry charm and I carry luck.
I carry the regret of anonymity and the fear of being alone.
We all carry that; no one wants to spend life alone.
We carry expensive wedding bands and the pressure to say “Yes” and the hope that she’ll say it.
I carry the everlasting gaze of older relatives, some who have passed on to a better world.
They won’t have to carry anything anymore.
I carry countless vacations and holidays spent with my cousins and the millions of laughs we have shared.
I carry reminiscences of vacations and of meeting new people, people who I tried to stay in contact with, but alas, distance prevents friendship.
I carry the knowledge of the traveled world and the confusion of the uninhabited, undiscovered land.
I am a world traveler, I am a superhero; I am what I want to be and I carry that.
I carry a tainted mind.
A mind spoiled by politics, by war, greed and corruption of not only the government, but of my parents as well.
I carry the ignorance of thinking I’m right and everyone else is wrong, the false sense that I know what is really going on in the world and that I, and I alone, can make a difference.
I carry the benefit of living in a prosperous nation, a flourishing town.
I carry the thought of uncertainty of impoverish nations and how they live everyday without food and water, while I sit here and type on my own personal laptop.
I carry teenage angst.
I carry thoughts and memories of former lovers.
Some girls who have grown up to be different than what they once were, some who haven’t changed a bit.
I carry the thoughts of wonder, should I have said something to her?
I carry individualism, not being afraid of letting you know who I am and what I do.
I am myself and if you can’t deal with it then you won’t have to carry me anymore.
I no longer carry these words; my thought have been poured onto this paper.
My future holds the risk of not knowing what I will carry tomorrow, but I know I will carry life.
I know I may not be able to carry this all, but one thing is for certain: I will carry myself.
Love bears all things
- or does it?
I don't know how much more I can take
- but I love him.
I'm scared and weak
- I don't know where I stand.
Back to the beginning
- all over again.
Tired of being reassured
- I don't want reassurance.
I want to reverse our love's senescence
- Its death won't procure my compliance.
I like pens that bleed
Ink that smears
Girls with scars
The hint of blood
The taste of lust
The smells of love
Nights through morning
Mornings to night
Suns that sleep
Moons that dream
And all the pretty
You hide underneath
It would be nice to pick up eggs for you while I’m out
Save you some time
Knowing you won’t be hungry tonight
It would be nice to wash our cars together
Sharing the bucket
Shining our chrome bumpers to reflect our smiles
It would be nice to go to a wedding together
Wearing our new shoes
Dancing with the crowd and seeing only you
It would be nice to take a walk around the block
Feeling your warm fingers intertwined with mine
It would be nice to pick up shells on the beach
Footprints in the sand
Bending over to pick up that one perfect shell
It would be nice to look at the full moon
Moonlight shines bright
Illuminating our bodies we enjoy our nakedness
It would be nice to tell you good-night
Fluff up my pillow
Falling asleep cuddling you, I am content
That can’t draw
A straight line
Much less a
I can hear Pablo,
van Gogh, and Magritte
At my crooked
Stepping on toes
With a nervous shake
And holding you
Out of rhythm and pace
I do believe
Those are my
On your bare back,
With no lies
And no silver tongue
Just an inability
To lead anyone
Bogged down by ties
And good conscience
I swear I’m not a
My words may
Not make wine
Out of water
Nor can I
Dance on cue
And my canvases
Are devoid of
Black, red, yellow
And any blue.
I’m just a lover
That much I
Know is true
With scribbles, steps,
And words to share
If you would
Just let me
© Derek Devereaux Smith 2015
You are going to ask: and where are the lilacs?
and the poppy-petalled metaphysics?
and the rain repeatedly spattering
its words and drilling them full
of apertures and birds?
I'll tell you all the news.
I lived in a suburb,
a suburb of Madrid, with bells,
and clocks, and trees.
From there you could look out
over Castille's dry face:
a leather ocean.
My house was called
the house of flowers, because in every cranny
geraniums burst: it was
a good-looking house
with its dogs and children.
Eh, Rafel? Federico, do you remember
from under the ground
my balconies on which
the light of June drowned flowers in your mouth?
Brother, my brother!
loud with big voices, the salt of merchandises,
pile-ups of palpitating bread,
the stalls of my suburb of Arguelles with its statue
like a drained inkwell in a swirl of hake:
oil flowed into spoons,
a deep baying
of feet and hands swelled in the streets,
metres, litres, the sharp
measure of life,
the texture of roofs with a cold sun in which
the weather vane falters,
the fine, frenzied ivory of potatoes,
wave on wave of tomatoes rolling down the sea.
And one morning all that was burning,
one morning the bonfires
leapt out of the earth
devouring human beings --
and from then on fire,
gunpowder from then on,
and from then on blood.
Bandits with planes and Moors,
bandits with finger-rings and duchesses,
bandits with black friars spattering blessings
came through the sky to kill children
and the blood of children ran through the streets
without fuss, like children's blood.
Jackals that the jackals would despise,
stones that the dry thistle would bite on and spit out,
vipers that the vipers would abominate!
Face to face with you I have seen the blood
of Spain tower like a tide
to drown you in one wave
of pride and knives!
see my dead house,
look at broken Spain :
from every house burning metal flows
instead of flowers,
from every socket of Spain
and from every dead child a rifle with eyes,
and from every crime bullets are born
which will one day find
the bull's eye of your hearts.
And you'll ask: why doesn't his poetry
speak of dreams and leaves
and the great volcanoes of his native land?
Come and see the blood in the streets.
Come and see
The blood in the streets.
Come and see the blood
In the streets!