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i write poetry in my mind, and sometimes on paper.
latest
poem fifty three.
today i
remembered
why we’re all
here
pushed my tears
back
behind my eyes
swallowed the lump
poem fifty two.
there’s something about
sewing a heart
back together
that reminds you
how important
the pieces are
poem fifty one.
blatant social commentary
becomes chemistry
an important conversation
tainted by emotion
and expectation
colored crimson
it drips
poem fifty.
how can a place
feel like home
when it’s the raw
drawn out
shortness of breath
space we create
that i yearn for?
poem forty nine.
i like the lilt
the words create
tumbling tumbling down
they spin
a torturous storm of syllables
tumbles dry
on high heat
the color seeps
blood red to pink
i grasp at a letter
floating
my fingers brush
a serif
and it’s gone
poem forty eight.
how nice to speak
of thoughts that once were
everything
all
encompassing
as they dance down
your chin like
crumbs from
this morning’s toast
a slight
inconvenient
moment
now
a mere
memory
poem forty seven.
i want to reach
deep
my fingers clawing
down
my gaping throat
yearning to find
my heart
to grab and
rip it
up
mortified
unsure
it’s bigger
than I thought
a saccharine handful
poem forty six.
trapped here
i shout
begging
the sound
to bounce
my thoughts
incessant
deafening
but eternally
silent lest
i regret
the noise
poem forty five.
she wore overalls
cuffed
they frayed
a comforting reminder of what
was
when they danced
toes in mud
puddles growing with rain
poem forty four.
i will always answer
tear-filled calls
extracting
like a bee from its sting
words float
and i stand
pensive choices
fill eternal jars
poem forty three.
i wear my regrets
like coats
clothing
my fears
entertaining
the embroidery
gilded
with bitter tears
poem forty two.
a place i feel
disconnected
and yet
entirely myself
loud and lonely
i even doubt
within
the echo chamber
between my ears
where no one could hear
and never will
poem forty one.
breathe in
the sweet
and spicy air
taste the poison
biting your tongue
a dull light
burns
poem forty.
i gaze out the window
while she smokes
your eyes could burn
a deeper blue
tactile pleasures
poem thirty nine.
how do
you expect
to defend a city
if you’re at war
with yourself?
poem thirty eight.
my brain is bursting
like a drop of water
dripping
affecting everything
but only a little
it’s insignificant
after a while
but nothing is safe
from a poetic mind
poem thirty seven.
she has an array
of dying
potted plants
in the kitchen
i presume they are kept around
for their sentimentality
rather than their looks
they are wilted
brittle
don’t touch them
you might break
a memory
poem thirty six.
my view
out the 3 series window
the desert gallops to mountains
peppered with plants
interrupted by truck-lane semis
grooves running with us
each a racetrack
for ants
how big the world seems
from there i imagine
my view
extending to the blue and white swirl
with angry gray
splattered
a bowl of fro-yo
the sun is my spoon
poem thirty five.
summer squalls in my eyes
light and tormented
you were
in that moment
my anger
personified
poem thirty four.
bad batch of lids
soda streams flow
from soda rivers
with mini icebergs melting
and strewn
on the floor
of your favorite place
global warming is
in your backyard
too
i believe that words can change the world
