Because time will pass, and yet you will not forget

 

Say no love, maybe one day they’ll listen
Maybe they won’t do what you don’t want them to do,
So your mind won’t have to be stuck there
In the room with its blue walls,
With the golden-wood bookshelf and the small window;
Or the bathroom with its bathtub in the middle
Where you once thought only trust could reside.
Before you said no to something and he did it anyway,
Before the thought of your own skin made nausea boil
In your throat, closing, closing so you cannot breathe;
Because time will pass, and yet you will not forget
How it felt to lie there, soundless, motionless
And how he didn’t notice or didn’t want to notice.
How the blue walls never will be safe again,
How there will be nothing left to mend;
No, because I feel dirty, gross, unlovable for something
That has never been my fault.

My soul too shall fly away

Find me under the foliage

Bones dusted beneath the soil

Upon which the blackbirds sing

Let my hair rust with me

But keep a lock braided locked away

Tie the end with a ribbon of colour

And kiss the smoke from my lips cold

And with the twirls of smoke silver

My soul too shall fly away

And nothing but the night sky

Shall remember that I too

Once had a name.

Within that name once the fear of bugs

That now feast upon my remains.

How heavenly that we all must become

Exactly what we were always

Little freckles that walk along

The veins of this whole earth

The way it was made, exactly so

Until nothing of us will come to remain

But the bones beneath the earth

From which alone you will never know

The language that our tongue did speak.

Kiss me through April

Kiss me through April

With hints of May prevailed

And hold my heart through my chest

With its endless empty cavities

And its hard flaws of discontent

And scars scabbed from words discarded

But discard me not through my flaws

Rock me instead through the tremors

Of a quiet starry night

Where early spring lingers in the breeze

But summer's lips have already kissed

the trees

and flowers bloom not With petals but in ice

I was born holding my father's

Dying hand; knew early on that

Even vultures wept, that not every

Choir in joy does sing for mournful

Laments at night still ring.

When the summer window frosts upon

Its cobweb glass and flowers bloom not

With petals but in ice

When I loved but that love never

Blossomed into life, but turned sunlight

Into blocks of pointed ice

To cage a heart, maybe mine,

Keep it beating not with the purpose

Of life but with an empty promise

That will never come to pass.

 

I have always just been who I am

A little quieter than the rest

A touch wild yet somehow soft

A little angry but full of love

Holding grudges in my forgiveness 

Remembering what you expect me to forget.

Saying words in silence and writing without ink;

I write poems in my head as I go, 

Always have, always will,

And pray that the words will stay until

I find a page to place them upon.

 

What if things weren’t so perfect

 

What if things weren’t so perfect
and your jeans were a little wash-faded
or your bed was left unmade just for a day
and your skin was allowed its flaws
your teeth its little asymmetries.

Among Blossoms

 Summer haze, summer gaze, summer daze; Snuck
back to me on unexpected days, in unexpected ways,
It lingers still, what was once there, twice there,

You'll Think You Forgot

 You'll think you forgot
how it felt once upon a time
to feel touch unwanted
masked as summer rain
droplets of love tainted 
by raw discontent

You'll think you forgot
how it felt once upon a time
to live through it
to remember it again and again
years later when you think it won't
it will still affect you more than you accept

You'll think you forgot
but forgetting is not how this works
time may blur the image
but the feeling will always remain
devastated, cold, raw ache deep in your chest
that it happened and could happen again

But be gentle with yourself
for wherever you may be
and whatever whoever may say
it will never have been your fault
but the fault of the one creating flaws
destroying hope and harming that

which should never be harmed.

Where the End Begins

 This is where the end begins;

When I let my pen spill ink of what I truly think
Of you, of us, of everything.
Apocalyptic, cathartic yet gentle winds
That do whisper of us to the universe;
And it must know, the purity, the mess,
These ancient texts of who we are, who we were.

Memory-Morgue

 

Cold it is down here in the morgue
Of all my memories long gone by
With nothing left but their clouded image
Deep within in my mind.

09122003

I was born holding my father's dying hand
Knew early on that the dead don't wake
Not after the wake
Nor after daybreak
Though day after day I did believe
Through the clouds of grey
He did look down upon me

The Dying Day

 Spring blooms change

And births life anew
Or so the poets say
But spring this year
Came to take my breath away
 For day by day
 Death suddenly came

Oh, Sinister Night

 

Like all great poets,

I too write of loves

long gone by;

of their fading traces

along my skin –

seldom touched,

seldom loved.

clouds upon the blue skies

 

You are beautiful,

much like the passing of time;

your sweetness bold, like summer's sunlight,

your soul, a treasure greater than life.

You will transcend this world

and all it encapsulates within

How Beautiful You Are

 How beautiful you are under this light,

Your hair like silk upon my pillow,

Skin soft, lips like velvet –

Breathless, like I never thought I would be.

The Softness Never Ends

 How strange a fate that you know not

Of the ways your existence affects me;

How my Moon orbits your Earth

Yet somehow you are the Sun.

The Widow and the Web

Household ceilings, corners frayed,

Mold of green and webs of grey,

A creature so small waits with grace,

Spinning dreams of faded days.

Wisp and the Willow

There it is, a curling smoke,

Wisp by the Willow, worn and torn.

My Skin Bleeds Decay

 I fear in my soul
I am nothing but tragedy
Left to fight to fill a void
In my own chest
Poked by my own sword.

But the Lock is Broken

 My skin is bruised

 Like cherry-blossom petals;
And I've been taught to fear
To enjoy living in my cage
To rhyme in my words
Or it won't be art on the page.