Medusa’s curse

I said your salt and pepper’s showing
Growing on your tree top
Like the broccoli I see
You see, we all wait for Christ-y
By the name of those leafy greens
By the taste of a foreign tongue
Dribble some
Pay up sum
Want some
Bubble gum
Pop it like it’s cherry red
Read me, see me, she’s already dead
Like that ancient Greek mythology
You cling to
Klingons of a past future-world
For you to lust on, linger on
Put a finger up or on
You already know her name
But the vowels move slowly
Under a godless serenade
Placing emphasis on nemesis
Pacing like your heroes do
Marbled philosophers
Frozen like the statue
I turned you into

Untitled

You thought you’d capture me in crimson beads
Eyes of the terrified Mickey mouse gone rogue
Albino baby cuffed and declawed
For him to tame and research upon
Did she turn on?
Did monkey see?
Did monkey do?
Who me? Do you?
The poor monkey knows not why he is
Brain strapped and fried to a crisp
Bacon distortion, contorted
I flip
This station, position, twist
The narrative on you, quick
Just you can see that, yea
All men
All men are buried in misogyny
Guising ass hole fetishes in homophobic nuances
It’s a fucking power struggle, on/off switch,
disconnected from any light source
And I fail to see how you’re equal to me
I fail to see how men earned their place
Above both the chicken and the egg
My friend
My friends
He eats me
Meat, he needs me
Feed, he treats me
Like a lunch, rushed
Like a product to test run
Something to launch
Like a toy, his Tesla
And this testing, testing, one two three
Phases me in moons kissed by the suns static
I get it, I hear it, I feel it, and I hate it
Subtle and tragic, our system is skrewed
And men like it that way
Fucked
Bent over
Just to show her
Where her place is
Down, disgraced, spit in her face
With your rocket ship waxed in epidermis
Knees in the dirt, she has no home
It’s always been stolen
Or bartered against her worth
And the message is clear
It can’t be rewritten
It’s subliminal, it’s sound, and symbol
It’s our history
I’m just a animal to you
So experiment and indent some amoral intent
As if your a good man, a stand up guy
As if you’re trying or tried
But you you can’t help to assume
I need to be rescued
Trained as a pet
When it was men who made me needing of saving to start
Or at least, of believing I couldn’t bare to fight for myself
And while my tongues dried up with his eyes on my throat
Wanting consent to choke, another girl bred
Into submission, unable to speak
I show you my evil eyes, bending your will to me
A woman’s strength is her anima
A woman’s strength is her humanity
A woman’s power is in embodying his God

Patch

⁃ Bulls attempted escape (may they succeed, dear God)

-⁃ He did not want to hurt anyone, he just didn’t want to get hurt anymore

Early mourning prophecy

You can’t begin to understand
Though you’ll think you can

How a feeling being breathes
Its weakness at your knees
It’s throbbing underneath your chest
Between your thighs
You see her eyes
You see her glow
Power of a thousand swords
One by one they lace at your neck
Can you breathe yet?
Ask and you shall receive
A grace
With faith
Now bend those knees
See her, feel her
Eyes on fire
Know her worth
Doubt yours
Ask for forgiveness
BEG
Ask
But you can’t recieve
For she has already
Made her leave.

have you studied a memory?

close in on a memory
microscopic visions
here I find what is
and what was
between the blurry
and the fuzz,
there’s a hum

close in on a memory
blacken the world that surrounds me
with one eye open, the truth is mine
its focused, but somehow blurry
a fuzz
begs me
to deepen

to reflect

to project

every aspect

of what I thought it was
what it now only is
as my memory
microscopic illusions
transfixed on time
as if I know what it is
as if I have any more proof
than what I take in
through this lens

I thought I saw you there
clearer, closer,
I thought I knew you
I thought I could understand
something beyond my sight
something I couldn’t imagine
without zooming in
with such force
such curiosity
I was enamored by a life
I could never truly comprehend
my memory didn’t fail me
I am only different from it
I am only distant from it
Different from
and distant from

you.

An abstract painting
rejected by the Met
You could always hold your own
but I wanted you to need me
to see you
to understand
You deserved better.
If only I could see you clearer

Wait, go back!
This memory is faltered
all memories are
but light bending
a refraction
a distraction
Through a magnifying glass
I could see you
but only if I looked past

myself.

Enamored or entertained
by the thoughts of you
or I and you and I.
I missed myself,
a pupil dilated
consuming itself
in its reflection
I didn’t realize who you were to me
was a deflection of what I was to myself
But I needed to look
I needed to go deeper
I needed to hear the stories I told myself
of you, as I was always what you were to me.

How I manifest him/her/they/them/I/eye

Lyrics haunt the coast of Arambol
in a dense whisper of fog
arising from the ocean
or
falling into it
a delicate dance
of inevitable chance
to the water particles at play.
but to me, it is in
and of itself, a wave;
a dissonance, a rebellion
between what is
and what could be

hope moves like a palindrome
an experimental note
sang in the spring
of love, evolution,
or the evolution of love.
oracle fates twist
by stanza
standing for
and honoring
a variable you.
Casting out a feeling
but not a who.

my minds condition
was bent by conditioning
possibilities were numbered
trapped in the dark
pressed like stars
I would trace my finger across the fabric
not knowing what I could not see
in the space between.

Captured in nylon strings
I tied willingly at my neck
mark my decision to progress
along the chords that connect
idea to ideology.
To lure oneself
into the haunt
of siren cries
is to entrap them by the drum
of their own ears.
A pulse, a steady beat,
that is where the sand met my feet.
Waltzing along the shores
imagining oblivion exists
where sky meets the sea.
I harbored a novel reality
where waves could not meet me
without echoing a sentiment
of my apparition.

Introspective realism

Lost in my reflection within a quarter
Waiting for your turn, turn over
To face me or find myself
Stuck in a mirage again.
Flying like you told me to,
Like an eagle, “e pluribus unum”
If I’m a realist than
I’m a pretty fucked up one

So I’ve multiplied my personalities;
Sick in the mind
And sick of profile versions,
Silhouette renditions.
I parade symbolic leisure
As if that provides clarity
But all I know is that I am
Some sort of pathetic charity,
A mad woman hunting out shame
A seerer who lacks anywhere to place
Her daisy-head ditzy daydreams
Hog washed and fried on this silverscreen
This self projection and reflection
Of time ticking and worth wincing
At the thought— no, reality
That I’m sinking again.
That I do this to myself
And I’m spiraling again.

I’m tired of my mouth that can’t speak what I think
I’m tired of eyes that are heavy in blue light
I want to see the day and act as if I’m normal
I want to know a routine, a mind wiped clean
Of all imagination
Imagine, if I could look out into the world and never see you
In trees and clouds and flickering lamps or dancing doves and grasshopers
Imagine, to only see things as they are, lost of meaning or possibility
Oh, to strip the mind from the self and “me”!

My abitions get in my way
They call it ‘intuition’
But the mind needs things to roar it to life
Otherwise it cries inside like a infinite storm;
It has to know bright.
But bright isn’t right,
Nor is it true.
Yet my brain keeps pulling me back to you
Like an obsessed psychopath and I’m fucking furious,
I know what I am and know what I’m not,
And if I have to keep redirecting my primitive-self
From getting caught
In some love nest/love fest
Make believe nonsense
Of you then I’ll do
What I have to do

Holding up a mirror
Reminds me that I rip myself apart
I have no faith in myself or my art
I think I’m stupid and I think you thought that of me
So when I reflect who you are in my mind I see
A girl who’s trying to love herself even though she thinks
She’s foolish and small and nothing at all
And the irony is that being hung up on you
Doesn’t make this less true
So now I’m learning to pull
Lessons out of thought of you
And finding it hard to treat myself kindly
As I accept that in order to put this behind me
I have to be honest and listen to that ‘intuition’
With a sense of introspective realism.
I have to pull on that metaphorical ‘string’
And find my way back to that ‘me’.

Beatnik butcher (thoughts streaming from a memory)

Sitting on the edge of a cliff
Noting nothing other than the space
Of your words
Feeling like I only wanted to exist
Somewhere
Out there
That in-between
Caught in what you said
And what you mean

What I thought
What I perceived

Your stoic stasis offered no mercy
And the cliff fell into a curb
As it were
As it was
I was there only because
I had no where else to be
That was you to me
And me to you, it seems

So there, we were resting on the curb
Outside a seven eleven
I convinced myself you were occupying space
Nothing more
Just time
As you had said before,
Go with Time, “hand in hand”

It only took me seven years to understand
That clocks have three hands and
You never meant to imply yours

You were just a poet
A beatnik butcher
Mincing up words
Carving out hearts
Holding them up by the threads of great penmanship
“A lost artform” you’d say
But it can’t be lost if found in your grip

You never held me, up or in any way
´Lost’ is polite way to say I bled out hubris
Spelling out ‘special’ in post-script
Reading a subtext that was mangled
Not by your cord, but by mine
If only I could loosen the ties
That strangled my mind
I was ignorant to my own intelligence
Captured by a need to be WITH
Not by myself, as I was
And I identified with you
So I suffered in supposition
As you kept at acquisition
Carving tender daydreams with every proposition
Sending letters in a tone of ambition
Signed to my guts while you couldn’t face yours in earnest
See the mess you made of this?
The blood stains ricocheting from your torso
Guised in synthetic masculinity
Disgusted so inherently in me
And my feminity

Poor, feeble, stupid girl
So easy to manipulate
So easy to metaphorically castrate
Born without balls and brains
She– I–

I KNOW!!!

I know what society made of me
I feel the weakness in my knees
My less-than-ness has not left me a muse
But as a play thing, for your aMUSEment
And I know you’d argue this isn’t the case
And I’m certain you never did see
The monster you’ve been as all other men
Despite your intentions to be other than
But I read the symbolism of your actions
They’re written like hieroglyphics
Man sits erect on some thrown
Woman shows up only when she’s summond
To resemble the narrative of your fancy
But is never given a chance to even believe
In the innate nature of her own majesty

In front of that seven eleven I saw myself in you
Locked in your eyes, your face literally turned into mine
I thought I was hallucinating as us all crazy girls do
I remember your deep purple bucket hat reminded me
Of one I wore when I was younger
Before I knew of men and the context of ‘her’
The next day you sent a letter by mail
Typewritten nonsense with a doodle on the back
Two faces lay over, one upon the other
One teal and the other marigold
I saw myself in you and I know you did to
And yet what we saw was not an equal recognition
You were what I wanted to be
As an aspiration of if ever thinking
I couldn’t, I could watch you ‘can’
And I was what you wanted for yourself
Just a thing on the shelf
Someone to read poetry to
So you’d feel a little less alone

At a distance you would keep me for years
I had moved states away to escape the madness
I felt stagnant inside me
I partially blamed this on my fondness for you
I was becoming obsessed and you could careless
I tried to be unattached while praising your work
Steadily collecting tears
At the end of every hurricane season
Every moment I thought we’d never meet again, fate had her way
I thought it all meant something and maybe you felt the same
And for moment you did
Until you didn’t
Thereafter, anytime I wondered if I’d see you again, fate wouldn’t have it

Now everytime I step up to a seven eleven
I imagine the girl I was
The one caught up patriarchal lies
Mystified by your haloed eyes
And I no longer care to ask why

It took some time, as it were,
To reach for my own hand
But as I held myself in mine
I began a dialect
Of meaning, of grace, of feeling
Removed from who you could even be
To me, to here, to anywhere let alone
To yourself
And as it were, you seem happier now
At least in my mind, your capable of being enough for yourself
And can’t see why I should need any different
I am woman, I am worth, I am as self-sufficient

Beautiful things (on order, identity, and others)

The balance of beautiful things
Is riddled by our knowledge
Beyond
What they are
To him, to her
We find it this way and that
Or some other thing
A mooshing
Of something
In attempt to confuse the order given
From our ancestors, or more accurately,
Our “founding fathers”
And it’s not that I’m angry
As in some sense I understand
This existence is chaotic
And scary
When you think about it
So we balance the beautiful things
So we can identify the muck
To this, is as such, and
That is another
To feel identity
Describe worth
Make something of this everything
And when discussing the beautiful things
It tends to be sided on what you are
As already, you’ve been decided for
So whatever this is, is not really you
And in trying to uncover what that may be
You find yourself in absolutely nothing
For you never were not, could be,
Whatever you think you may be or not be
In fact, you’re only organized
You’re simply an organism
You may pick and choose from the boxes
The orderly states of things
You may say this is you and that is not
But as you sort through the sorted through and sorted out box
You have to remember that even as you describe you
You will be described upon
And while your new order feels right to you
It’s just as it is, to others it’s not
So you can be you but you will never quite be the you you see
Unless the order of things is taken into account of how you order your things
So in essence, you must conform to the order to even exist as a semblance of you
Or you must somehow impose your order on the few
Who hold a organization of similar orders as you
But in regard to beautiful things
You find there never was
And you will search for belonging
Only because
You so desperately want to be a beautiful thing
At least in the eyes of one
As even in your own
Because you already know
No beautiful things is beautiful
Without an imposition of order
Beyond your own definition

Reflection

I take deep breath in
Poised for the moments hereafter
And out
There’s a monstera leaf resting on my ear
As I face the complex of apartments that mirror
Where I sit, where some other could stand
And some others sleep
I couldn’t bare it
Not at the moment

Yesterday I thought it may be fun to pull on a memory
For the same of poetry
A desire to unload myself
Not to myself
But to the world around me

WordPress isn’t place, but poetry is a roaring format in St Pete
Pulling myself up in front of strangers
Seems to be something I’m chasing
“Please, judge me
“For if you don’t, I’m only left to judge myself.”

I didn’t know that a single memory would spin out a devastation
Holding myself up in my room
Working to escape my past
Emotions, everything
Through clever daydreams
Trying to overwrite myself
As if those memories didn’t make me who I was
Who I am
So I breathe in
Breathe out
Let’s try again

Slow burn

I like a slow burn
Like the way butter melts on day old pancakes
Cluttered in the sink
Too much batter
Fried and flipped
Pages ripped
Burried in cliffs
Landfilled up
With maple syrup
Lining the bellies
Of the full grown
Beasts at some ihop
Chicago, late 1800s
Hurling up words
As swords
For anarchy
For revolution
Where socialists forked down thoughts
Blistering in ought ought ought to
Can do
Won’t follow through
I like a slow burn
Like the revolution of America
She feels her ink well dry up
Aquaphors collecting dust
From canyons a mile away
Make another grand one I say
Let her tooth decay
I like a slow burn
A churn
What makes liquid freeze
Is not motion
Is not decision
It’s a letting of nature do as she please
I think we ought to let this burn slow
Thistles rise from the root rot
Pluck a cherry and put it on top
Let whip cream fold under
Like every pretty lady with her hands on her lap
Let it lap
Let it spin
Let the ease of time win

Chicken coop

Check one two
Leave it on the table
One hour later
One year later
Let’s wait a decade
And see “Saw
You in a dream last night”
Up down up down
Look left look right
Cross the road
And hope your so lucky
As an unfortunate chicken
Caught between stretches of pasture
And played out lines of cinnamon
Stuck between hot buns
Punch lines are too long
Tap your feet
There’s no drum pedal under it
So stand up
Comedy or tragedy?
America knows no differnce
Still waiting
For nothing to hit me
Upside the head or
Up down up down
I guess I’m more chicken than I thought
Can’t make it across the road
If your too busy squaring around blocks of cemented
Sand drizzling in a lubricated bath
Along glass pipes leading to nowhere
Indefinite, most definitely
Or rather maybe encased and laced
In dubious self chatter
Like writers crumbled by limits of their own experience
Blocks and blocks, I said
I’m still squaring
“Hey! Once your done pacing through only what you know…
“You should try opening up to someone
Every once and a while!”
But where did that lead the chicken?
In or to the coop?
In and out of the loop
Swirling in goop
Of noodling soup
For a flip flop floop
Of self or other discovery
And how does that lead one to truth?
I have a hunch
That what you’ve had brunch
Is not a roll of dough
Iced in swirly highs and lows
But someone that you know
Fried and served on a checker
Of buttery crust (or lust)
Otherwise known as
Signed sealed and delivered
Yours sincerly
Miss chicken
Xoxo
P.S. still waffling

I’m told I’m too cynical

So I assume
Some dakness
Has consumed
Your ego

Ergo

You waft for
Laghter yet for
Whom I can’t presume
If for I, I can’t say why
When seldom do I know
I’m telling a joke.

Re: your tattoos

I admire with much fondness this ability of yours
To sample your identity into layers of epidermis
Like I staple stacks of Wittgensteins notes in an order that I prefer
Thoughts in array
Compounding ideas
To shuffle an inquiry…
It’s all a matter of logical possibilities

So onto you,
You and your permanent smudgings
Carrying ink like the blood that rises
Veins like the interstate
Passing over boney cartilage
Transporting some inner state
Or ‘being of’
Of material
Of physical
Of empirical
Worth or value or sentiment
— Just sentient
Past meaning
Without it even
But you—
You propose that there’s more
Symbolisms stretching in flexion
Begging onlookers for some reflection
In what way are you ‘you’ without what you say or resemble in which you are?
That’s what I want to know
Because I suspect
That concept you keep
Tied to your sleeves
Limits your possibilities

Like shuffling inquiry to redefine meaning
Of thoughts circling without a true purpose

You, dear sir, you
Have decided what it is that you are or
Must be but surely there could be more
Or maybe this is why I’m fascinated by your artform
It’s not in the symbolism that you keep
But in the decision you’ve clearly, with most certainty, have made

Mystery mist misery

We would foxtrot in unison
Adjacently seperated
My eyes at my feet
Yours, I couldn’t say what they saw
But for the months we played indifferent
Or equal or understood or simply
Kept a respectable distance
I can say
That I’m unsure of how we made it so long

I remember the morning, the sun felt shy
You paused for a moment, in my eyes
A millisecond shattered the space prided between us
Unraveling in retrograde, calling on Noah and his arc
To make something of this flood
Emotions, passion, tension
So thick you could only cut it with a diamond
If you tried

But we won’t bother trying
The limited oxygen chokes us
But what better feeling than to remember you’re dying?
Why dry up moistened air and parch it from mystery?
Is anything more intoxicating than being submerged in possibility?
Blinded by the mist all we feel is a force
An attraction to ‘want to but don’t’ collide
So we pass by if only if to feel the weight of our silence
To be burried by our fog
To question our ambitions
To wonder of what could be
Might be
If only in our minds

That moment, that pause, remains
Every step sideways
Feels like a protest
At the laws of nature
Every glance sunken between desolate oceans
And black holes that implore the inquisitive
Is a rebellion against life
Is a dance with death
And it’s here we stay paused
Held like an hour glass,
Suspended by our own humidity
Evaporated in our humility

It’s all the same

The sun lay like a mound on the horizon
Her weight shifted from left to right
Between indecisive clouds and urban smog
I could hear her cry out
From a blanket of threats
The eyes each staring bright
At her Majesty
And their glamourized selfies

She finally fell down.

What’s to say of her worth anymore?
She’s climbed to the top,
It’s the highest point she could reach
Before she met her fate
And again and again
Those eyes met hers
But those eyes saw right through her

All she knows is chasing night
Waiting for the day her aura would consumer her
So that she could rise as nothing more
Than a flint

The rumbling flames take her soul without vengeance
For they don’t know what they want
Or why they even bother
So caught in the mundane
A flame rises to meet a flame
Seemingly burning
Infinity wow
It’s all the same

They and their selfies
Eyelashes wafting up sand
For a moment here and now
Soon then and then later
Or maybe never again
And again and again
It goes
So it goes

We exhale the heat of something burning inside us
Every breath a memory of what came before or maybe after
And we spin like this in stasis
Until our bones provide carbon
Rotting for the lush green pastures
The realities of the “otherside”
If only we could’ve crossed that fence for ourselves
To know, or at least release delusion from over taking her grip
Like she does
Like she did
Like indiangrass latches onto decaying skin
Drink it in
Take a breath
It’s just oxygen

On writing poetry

Mmm WordPress. I’ve been writing essays, reflection, nosing up to monochromatic figures embellished in beards and bodies presumably opposing to mine. Ahhh philosophy. I’ve jotted down lists lined with squares formed by memories of the Chinese OH Ohhh check one two. I’ve jotted down ideas, epiphanies, quotes to remember myself by on whiteboards on notebooks on computers on phones on hands on thighs. I’ve etched out plans, for moments here after and after that too. I’ve captured dreams of waterpark wonders, apocalyptic haze, country western glaze, and snakes that know me by name. I’ve done everything, so it seems, but remember that my words, mental imaging, descriptive references, perspective, perception, periphery– Persophone speak in poetry too.

So here I am, a break between words too perplexed for a Thursday evening after a bedlam of invarible frustration, a heaving over academic feats, roommate poppycock, birthdays approaching, love encroaching– spring, what a thing it does. She really be springing.

I’m not entirely certain why WordPress, why here over my notepad. Maybe my hand is tired from the strain of inking miscellaneous thought-bubbles from textbooks or maybe I’m too heavy-handed of a writer, in general and in the traditional sense. Or maybe this is just where my poetry goes and has always gone. I never use to write before I did, in case that wasn’t obvious. Well, not like this. Before, is reflect on the nature of things, people, society, reality, myself. It’s unclear as to why the subjects beyond myself came before inquiry on myself. One might think I was born a narcissist but I tend to see it as more of self-hate than a self-love situation. There were for more pressing matters in the world than in myself. My worth was second to all. Not noteworthy.

I feel differently of myself now. I see myself as equal to all other issues. Just as valid of exploration and question, criticism and praise. Ever learning and wondering why and that’s fine but why then and how then and when then and which of that this and the other. I’m still disturbed in the sense that I have grandiose insecurities and nowhere to put them and no way to digest them in one bite. Even nibbles are as if I’m sinking my teeth into something fowl and not meant to be touched. As if without the foundations of these beliefs I’d be unspun from my entire identity. I think that should be quite alright as I’ve morphed myself several times over already. But all evolution takes time and I’m not one to disrespect time. As it is, unfortunate wisdom, I have no control over it. I can make time by understanding time and all aspects of which it requires of me, but I can’t make it in the way I make a signature vegan dip. And even in this case, much time much be allotted.

Anywho, this has turned into more a journal than poetry.

Untitled

Left to bear the brevity of dreamscapes
sweeping through my perception
resting on the trigger
husshhhed ….

remind her.

Realities push and
pull through the needle
narratives webbed by sword
strings of lightening
between my lips

I’m ashamed of the worlds
I constructed in my fear.
The doe eyed mistress
resets between blinks,
the siren’s song skews
thoughts into sensations.
Dizzying the mind
in a sigh,
in a smile,
in a cloud

– don’t make her come down.

Empathy melts memories,
I wish I could stay.
I regret being caught in insanity.

Stripped bare, I know not what I am.
Uncertain of my own reflection
but aware of those I chased away.

As if you saw a ghost or a monster,
a maddening freak, crazed in her decay

no

I’d like to be remembered as a warrior
and I’ll will it that way.

beyond the grain

the soft plum sands rolled quietly
down and around the mattress
creating a desert prism
desolate of any charm or wisdom
each strand of cotton told
a tale of a million grains
embraced by a love
she embellished with glitter glue
poking gemstones in between ticks of time
and imaginary streams of moistened memories

each grain had an aura
of self importance, as
minuscule details often do

the sound of soggy tubs draining in a vast sky
reminded her of inventing stars
to escape from the blackening night
as light pollution filled her heart
with distorted candle dances
the flames throw more than likeness,
they place existence of shade
and the mirrors would describe her
breaking them for knowing
the grace of her own reflection
but she was innocent to their touch
just as much as disco balls try to remind us
of dizzying delusion and a midnight rush
to the suitcase, to the car, to chicago

imagine if she made it that far…

fortunately her mind is glued to these sheets,
cast in concrete, impersonating desert heat

she’s dried here, frozen
like the gravestone she hopes
one day he’ll come to know
because he never chose
to get to know her.
and it’s not as if she’s dying
it’s that she had to kill something
inside of her. something she can’t replace
something he’ll fail to recognize
or come to know in any time or space.
it breaks her heart to say it
but she’s had to let go
so she could reach for something,
someone, tangible. someone
who will let her know
who they are,
what they hide,
all the secrets that they keep
because she needs to share hers before she thinks
that she’s the one made of concrete.

My dad’s an asshole (stream of consiousness)

Heaving into acetate as if turbulence provoked the nausea
I wish, I wish
Instead I compare myself to cylinder princesses
Whose worth is valued by the suns rays slit by the quivering leaves breathing in unison to some freudian conundrum

I’m pulling on shadow sources before autumn can prove to be even more golden
My father never had faith in me
And yet I’d do anything to show him my worth
He stays silent like the breeze brushing those leaves
Why can’t I be enough as I am?
Why must I amount to a failure in his eyes?

I think I need a new thought process
One that doesn’t have to be less
Second and never even “at best”
Second guess, everything’s a question
I was never enough for him

Powder blue

Shimmy like your mama taught you
Bend and snap like a papered crew
Of divas of dancers of successful icons
Baby, show me how women taught you how to put your brights on
Do the right one, hit it from the back
Keep the lights on, be his dad
Reverse, reverse
We all call ourselves gay
But sometimes I wonder if it’s by mistake
Not to say that everyone’s straight
Just that gender roles really out here to complicate
The notion of bananas split down the middle
One for two bananas of all hues
Drizzle my nizzle and sizzle the drizzle
Pack it all on, Luis Vuitton
Pretend anyone with parts could be the one
Anyone with heart could just sew one on
And we all wouldn’t bat a lash
Know the difference between a cuff and link
And what the two can do in powdered blue
Under fairy light mysteries and men in tights fantasy’s
We all want to know what youre hiding underneath
As much as we all miss the sky when the clouds are covering
Powdered blue, blue for you, blue for he or she
Blue for the reasons to be anything other than blue
Because anything other than blue is anyone else but me.

Pickle Chew

What does anything mean or matter
When the loves drug on a platter
Made to eat but with a gripping fang
Like a hollywood accent
One hint of a twang
Shes gone mad again
Whats it to you?
What’s the bruises on the knees
What differnece if i sue you
Sew you baron in a flank
Robe you baked at the stake
Naked on the plank
Dive straight into the straight
Head first into the quake
The realization that sexuality is fake
The uh oh gotta go motion of mistake
God damn i thought you knew what it meant to spell out pajamas
Pajma is a mama on latised karma
She’s a cruella of devil
She’s a maker and the kill
She’s running in circles enforcing some will
She’s laughing in your face
Or mocking your style
She pities your life
And she mimics your bile
In smell and texture
Feel her grimmy slimy slime

I cant bare to know what im really writing
most of the time.

Wise little birdy

Twiddle the thumbs
Double D, turnt down, dumb for what?
Dumb me down to drink some pleasure
Half a glass as if, ask never
Wonder how many licks it takes
To catch a break or heavens make
Errr, I think I’d rather die first
Try lying to me
Try laying it on me
All the pleasure that you seek
All the hides and all the peaks
Take me there or here or never
Ask if you mind the pressure
Ask if I care to know
Because in truth
I know I don’t.

Untitled

Chalked him in pastels to smear across my cheek
Symbolism is a stroll down mains street
Where bubbles looks as delicious as treats
Foaming at the mouth, I imagined you swallowed your words
Instead, they packaged mine in a to-go container
Sent me on my way, “restrain her!”
As if acid kids could run very far
When their minds and tripping over their painted cars
Stuck between picket white fences
And midsummer night escapades to the north
Where puff coats block the window to the soul
Every spring turnt to a roll
And every winter a siren called
To say, “hey there, you still alive and waiting?”
But waiting for what couldn’t ever be answered
Just like harpsichords will never know a neck
Someone get me a check
I was waiting for their divorce
Scaring a Karen for breathing
Giggling at the tv screen
For watching hurricanes in may
There was nothing more to say
As my thoughts were with someone else
Literally in my head, apparently taming you
Showing you all the wrong you could do
To some infinite muse

Goddamn if you only knew how you touched me
Not physically, mentally
How you pried into my mind
For the last seven years
Maybe you’d understand why I cried out for you
In my insanity blue hued skew under the moon
Maybe you’d understand why I had to change your birthday
Why I thought you had disappeared from the earth
Why I needed to save you from some treacherous fate
Where the heart makes leave but the mind feels clear
If only you knew how you moved me
Inspired me
Maybe you’d feel like a toy
And maybe sometimes I saw you as one
But that wasn’t my fault
That was the patriarchy and my lack of self worth
How could I see you as more than someone to care for
When I couldn’t even bother to care for myself?
I was so unwell
And now I’m trying to cut you out
But ptsd has a clever way of reminding me
Of what I thought it was that I saw you
Maybe, maybe not, maybe someday
No, probably never– saw in me

New Indentation

Is it sick?
The hopeless romantic falls into a gaze
Or a phrase, it’s so inviting to even just think
Of changing the world with a word
And two swords
Shuffled between four hands
A dance or a gesture of romance
Where the slayers trade metal like grins
Smiles frothed at the lip
I imagine
I imagine brass knuckles shying
Golden hearts prying
Exchanges and glances
A duel of chances
Of possibilities
Of love
Of sin
The beast’s in the mind
Or in the eyes of passerby’s
That can’t tell the difference between a riddle and a spin
Of thought or thought bubbles popping
Or sweet pleases and thank you’s for dropping
Our weapons and realizing that this
This is inspiration
This is the move
Or the groove of a melody
That needed to pursue
Some other poet
In some other life
I don’t know him yet
But I figure I might

Untitled

Valleys dip to form shadows
And play with the bricks
I stacked up months ago
Protecting a fortress
Of madness
Of fear

I saw myself as an unsettled bruise
Twisted by the sun or some son
Now labeled destiny along the shore
A mixtape of who I was then
Or maybe sometime before
All the visions washed
Up my cortex
Flooding my sense
Of self and worth

I couldn’t own my shadow
Anymore than Peter Pan could grow old
And had I ever noticed I was tied to myself
I would’ve never lied to myself
About what magic lies
Beyond the rough and ridged
Salt mines collecting in the mind
Of any other bipolar psy–
Ick, I wonder if he even knew
Became I know he does not
And that’s when the shadow grew
And took my years with it

I was never meant to stay in lala land

New Muse

I need a new muse
The kind that challenges the weight and brevity of my fleeting beliefs
The kind that wrangles down words for the sheer love of pivoting
Minds and eyes glazing over the ocean
Where the red tide reminds me of my own corrupted
Thoughts and measly breath that shivers up my pipes
Cold to menthol sand storms and reminders of Egyptian nights
Turnt to feverish wonderings caught between thighs
Like a thin apple slice nestled in a warm pie
I wonder why I need anyone to capture my imagination
But the artist only dreams of control
Whereas I’m over here using it to consol
Imaginary dreamscapes that formed into memories
Falsities
Nothing more than make-believe
So enthralling and seductive
To some remnant source of clarity
It breaks and takes and for heavens sake
I think I need a new muse.

Untitled

Popcorn walls dust like astrological charts in March
Casting vague shadows of a girl I use to know
Pouring plaster in the pin-popped dots
To disguise her plastic form
Riddled in a pixelated frenzy
Of floral bass lines
And picturesque hang-times
Where the sand was soothing
Or the coffee left stains
Under their eyes
Smoke weft from an inebriated cup
Holding fondness in the mind
A crazy-in-love fuse itched
And left vane marks twisted along her wrist
Or scurrying like a fiddle stick in her mind
Dwindling down and out for the time spent
Mulling over memories discarded for a dream
To move past the seams
Enclosing charity cases
By a thread of thunder
Now puffing purple smoke as clouded
Visions of the north take cover
Between words and rhymes
Or ways to make haste of the time
Spent in psych wards
She has direction now