Tag: poem

Intent

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I want to be touched with good intention, trying too hard to make you not want me. Not putting forth effort into being easy to understand, saying things like “I want to be heartless” without explaining that I just want to give all of myself away. I am altruistic in my absence, appealing to my need to appease people. It is easier to now make you angry than to later make you sad. It is better to to have no hook at the end of a line than to have to rip it from you when it is time to let go – instead just giving you the freedom to fall when you want. It is a graceless dance between grateful people, understanding although we may not move well we at least can move. Although words come out abrasive and thoughts may be ugly it is guarded by intention and I like it when you massage my head.

The Reality of The Season

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Summer legs that see more long grass and fence spokes than sun. More cool water stolen and sliding down shivering stomachs from dirty bleached out hair than warm sand sticking to the back of calves and shoulders. Skin coloured from bruises not UV rays. Never hydrated for all that is drank, every roof climbed helping you find your way to flying. The most the sun is seen is in pink and purple splashes on the east horizon on a 5AM walk home. That is also the most that is remembered. Husky voices, poisoned insides, untainted mouths and bodies that feel more air and rain than they do clothes. Leaving you more dried out than the remnants of autumn leaves, finished faster than drunk words falling out of mouths.

Not What You See In The Mirror

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She thinks about strangers and the way they make her feel poetry without words, falling in love until her eyes fall away sometimes up to 100 times a day. Feeling as easily as sun comes through a window; warm and stuffy, blocking out the cold and the breeze. She’s a little more lost with a map, a little less tough with a frown. No rose petals falling from hips nor wisdom from mouths, no gold from hair nor feathers from fingertips. She is just the kind to tell you with such conviction that her dreams are truths that you start to believe in the religion of her mind. Don’t be fooled, salt water eyes will drown you not refresh you. She has a storm inside too strong to be seen on the horizon, no calm before because no-one ever taught her to be silent. Cursing life in the same tune she sings it, falling in love with strangers with gardens that need rain in their eyes.

The Second Morning Has The Hardest Hits

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 You miss him. More than the first night, more than the second, more than the fourth. So much it hurts but you can’t break free. All you can concentrate on is your breathing while the situation grips you tighter than the demons that sleep with you in bed, hugging you tighter in the morning – telling you to stay with them a little longer. The world doesn’t need you today. But it’s not like that. It’s all consuming, mind numbing, nearly paralyzing sadness. You only cried once this time, it is not the overwhelming kind of anguish that swirls itself like rising ocean tides into every corner of your being just begging to be let out. This is the dry desert heat draining you of your will and resolve. Your chest gets tighter but never tight enough to stop the breath. Your mind gets blanker staring at the same blue wall. 

Having a Hole In Your Being

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Sometimes it’s more that you’re missing the part of yourself that was taken when they left, rather than the thief themselves. You jump every time your phone buzzes hoping it’s a message from that piece reassuring you it is safe now in hands more gentle than the ones that took it from you, that it is being put to good use. That although there was no instruction manual, it found it’s place quite nicely nuzzled in another chest. And that it misses you, but somehow feels it is better off. You look at the patchwork that is yourself and all of who you are that is bit’s of other people while trying to remember if that was ever a part of you that you had a right to let be taken away – that’s what it was, wasn’t it? Taken? Or was it ever even yours to own? You are emptier now, a little lighter. A little heavier in the parts around this now gaping hole. But hopefully the next lesson will fit nicely in that cave. Hopefully it is something the skin of your soul won’t reject. 

The First Night After Leaving You

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It’s pathetic really. How all I can think of is how your hands felt on my neck, wondering how it felt to be given all that I was giving to you. How I know that fixing a person isn’t about showing them that what they can’t do is possible, but I did it anyway. It’s so sad how people are not really gardens, love does not make them grow. They digest it and use it to fuel themselves forwards but they never learn how to produce it. All I can think about is kissing you and I’m glad I’m not an idiot because holding onto this would have made me more of a failure than letting go, but at least I would be thinking about your mouth with intent instead of regret.

 

At least I would be thinking about your mouth with intent instead of regret.

 

The Type of Person

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If you are the type of person who utters no when I ask to pick flowers from strangers gardens in the middle of a rainy night with the same lips that want to kiss me, be warned. I will make you hate yourself for ever wanting to love me, make you loathe every single time you said no because yes would have been easier than the disappointment in my eyes upon realization that you are not the type of person I want to fall in love with me. If you are the type of person that bends to my every whim and desire even if it puts your own aside, be warned. I will make you regret the day I was a still a stranger and you listened when I told you to kiss me, make you fear my boredom in you more than my sadness from neglect while you wish we had never met because the tears I’m crying are from your hands that hold my face but can’t touch my mind between them.
Ah, there is no winning.

You’ll hate me because you love me, but you’ll love me just the same.
Forget about yourself; you’re lost to me.

Enchantment

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Enchantment

You’d run the shower all night if it sounded like rain on your window, the clouds weeping happiness that winters cold heart had melted. Loving us right through the bottom of our feet and the tops of our heads, feeling how each drop feels instead of feeling how it feels to be wet.

Rising Change

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You swear that if he stood in the West that’s where the sun would rise. Then you remember that you’re also watching a sunset from the wrong side of the world. Now you wonder if a ball of fire in the sky wants to resign it’s position. You think that if you saw a new colour for the first time it would feel the same as when you saw him for the third, and the thirtieth, and the three-hundredth time. Then you remember that pink used to be your favourite, but now it’s blue. Now you realize it’s not the pigments that have changed, but you. You think about how when the sun sleeps you love red, but when it wakes you love lavender.