A Poet's Place
Friday, June 26, 2015
"Just be you and be happy with that"
But me is someone who hides within herself,
who wants to express but swallows her words,
whose lips are made of tape from an abandoned shelf
which collapsed on the body of broken birds.
Being happy about that just seems absurd.
Sunday, March 15, 2015
In a dark garden
Eve:
Once,
and that time only, the inquiry crept like heroin
in a
panicked dove’s veins, and oh I tell you, how bright and dark
the
universe metamorphosed in his caramel pooled eyes! I daren’t attempt
even
the slightest remark towards description of such Yin-Yang beauty,
but
it concerns me deeply that he does not know, that I cannot say—
well,
not aloud. And it became clear, like new windows from a billionaire’s factory,
like
a bloody rose on black grave, time and potential moments were fading
too
fast, as the Shire horses raced his carriage away.
What
would you do, observer, standing there while purpose flies?
Or,
of course, perhaps none of this matters to you, but please
show
more empathy than my diary; listen affectionately, different from these
square,
blank walls. I tried reaching, to hold on to him.
God
yes, I’ll admit now that I am alone here:
I
love him the way the sun adores the moon; she dies every evening
to give
him breath and sky. I cherish him like a drop of water after a month
of
thirsting, like the first day of summer after a decade of winter.
I
love him beyond the reaches of Heaven, and further.
But I
say this to my writing desk, pen, paper, ink, emotionless tiled floor,
and
empty bed. How I wish he were lying in it, close to me.
Can
my confession secure his warmth? Can it cure bluing ribs?
Any
second now, it could all end. Any second, and the ticking
is
merciless, and white diamond fever will consume fast.
Why,
when my dream bent down on one knee, was I drunk with silence?
Why didn’t
I say—
[Funeral bells chime in the distance.]
Eve: Oh Adam, take me with you!
Saturday, March 14, 2015
Once upon a summer..
"There's more artwork on every one of your goosebumps than there is across the entire world."
His warm, slender fingers slow-danced across my shivering, bare collarbone.
"You are so beautiful, especially in the midst of this scenery."
A tranquil ocean wave climbed eagerly to kiss our entangled toes, his legs slightly bent for the pleasureful gesture.
"Your skin is lovely."
Soft, white sand savored the form of our sighing bodies, molding into the shape of our entanglement.
"You're too far away."
There wasn't a millimeter between our souls.
"Happy birthday, you gorgeous angel," he breathed hotly into my ear, pulling my back tighter to his chiseled chest.
My heart raced.
His teeth effortlessly pierced the flesh of my neck.
"Happy birthday, my love."
I gasped quietly into the endless expanse of blue sky above. I could see Heaven.
Deletion
All I did was slide my finger accidentally-
then, it deleted.I can't get it back. Searching is pointless.
Anger is tightening in the pit of my stomach;
at the same time, I feel numb.
I describe what happened aloud, but
whomever heard laughed sympathetically.
At first, it felt like a chord had been cut
between myself and the thing I desire most.
I was going to let you know. Now, I'm not sure.
Will you also be infuriated, hurt? No,
at least it didn't happen to you; thus, a lack of full empathy.
My head is congested and my neck is stiff;
my stomach is hosting a brick; my eyes see nothing.
Where did it go? Can I save it?
Like a hopeless lover, I check chance again.
How could I have been so careless?
The moment passed quickly, less than an instant.
In that time, I erased time-
time that you still find and I have completely lost.
If I had copied down a few favorite segments,
maybe I could forgive the mistake.
The good and the plain vanished before I blinked.
Proof of existence went with them.
The only sentiment lingering is nostalgia,
such as when I sorely miss the taste of sweet dreams.
Like a dream, it faded away and bitter reality woke.
That pain, if you know it, is an understatement.
And yet, oddly enough, I feel slight relief;
the evidence of my entire association is gone.
Perhaps you should get rid of it immediately,
and we'll start afresh with wisdom.
I won't know what to do when another comes along
because the scar is there, permanently.
What do other people do? And you?
Violent emptiness hangs in the air.
Perfect words are like tomorrow's rain; sorrow and sensitivity remain.
Gift
don't
look
don't
peak
it's
a surprise
a
secret
you
want to know
but
don't open your eyes
i'll
show you
hold
on
wait
something's
out
of place
i
fixed it
almost
done
there
you
want it
here
you go
move
your hands
open
your eyes
go
ahead
unwrap
it
make
a mess
no
one cares
it's
for you
keep
it
yours
a
gift
my
heart
Candlelight
I
need you close, candlelight, this house is so cold.
Six
days a week, slipping on icy floors, shivering on a rotten mattress,
watching
the sun grow old.
The
shutters creak and fling open; the wind freezes my butter and toast.
A
thousand blankets could not melt this tundra;
why
aren’t you there when I need you most?
Once
a week, candlelight, you flicker into existence with a smile.
My
frown delights, heart excites, body feels sweet slumber—
can’t
you, I beg, stay a longer while?
As
night draws near, you disappear, without even a smoke trace.
My
hands remember, my lips are tender, my mind hopes:
perhaps
tomorrow, candlelight, you will love my face.
But
tomorrow you are elsewhere; the day after is too soon.
Six
days must pass, flipping over the waiting glass—
long,
pretty sunrise and bright lonely moon.
I
wonder sometimes,
if it would’ve been easier
never
to have known you…
Masterpiece
clear
like this morning in the mirror before you arrived
but
now your hair’s messed up and your nose looks swollen,
and
the wrinkles under your eyes reveal fatigue, age,
the
way you pull at your skin when wiping off liner -
and
you think to yourself, mid-way reminiscence,
“I’ve
really got to stop doing that”
but
also, “Wow.” Just wow.
The
moment when he looks at you - and you’re all he sees.
The
nice outfit, the spot on your cheek.
You’ve
been lost for a long time, decades maybe,
but
he's found you now, eyes wide, calm, staring.
The
imperfections mesh with flawlessness;
it’s
a live portrait, so you don’t move.
This
is his viewpoint: he accepts you,
petals
and thorns, rips and holes, dirt and dust,
he
wants all of it. Every junkyard scrap and rusty corner,
your
flat butt and small chest, the stress episodes and indecisiveness,
your
inability to relax sometimes when nothing is going on,
the
constant fretting that drives him up the wall,
or
whatever is specific to your body and who you are.
He
wants you.
It’s
in his eyes, miles away or an inch apart.
He
watches when you arrive, the time you’re there,
when
you leave. He doesn’t want to miss a minute of you.
“I
love you,” he says. “I love all of you.”
It’s
hard to believe it when you look in the mirror -
the
mirror isn’t alive, doesn’t know you, and doesn’t really see you;
it
just reflects your own interpretation of yourself.
Ugly,
pretty, depends on the day, your mood, how long you slept,
whether
you’re sick or not, the tiny details of your makeup:
this
is your self-image. Your viewpoint. Most of the times, it’s hurtful.
You’re
just never good enough.
And
then that moment comes, when he looks at you -
and
you realize how beautiful you are to
someone.
You
are a work of art, every bump, every hair, every cell in your body.
You
are the calm and the storm, the summer heat and winter breeze.
You
are a blend of colors and textures, softer on some days, a stubborn rock on
others.
You
are high as Cloud 9 and low as an old oak’s roots,
you
are the northern star in a black sky, and the black sky to a northern
star.
You
are sugar in lime, a pearl in sand, an oil painting with smudges.
You
are you. It was done on purpose.
Look
in his eyes and you’ll see, you are nothing less than a masterpiece.
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