Tag: anxiety

Unearthed Poem

The moon is a tulip tonight,
rare and stuck to the
tar black sky, wind pushes
it but it’s stuck dumb in
the middle of fat clouds
that won’t birth–and I lay
wrapped in sheets instead
of facing it.
Stars speckle the sky,
quivering scared from the
same nameless faceless fear
that keeps me inside—so
we sit soft as petals and
undulate against a nothing-
ness to remind ourselves
we’re alive.
Because the night doesn’t
know me, doesn’t know my
meager love and worship
of sky deities–doesn’t know
I exist. Existing for no one.
So why should I.

Written in 2007-2008..ish. Found in an old journal. Might pop up again revised.

(another) Poem

His lips speak the rhythms of origami
words, crisp and unsettlingly perfect
in form. They hang over my heart
like the shadows of mountains looming
heavy over my chest driving in the dead
of night. I coarse over those dead curve
roads in the night on my way to those
orchid lips—his lips swollen with
the passion of fresh unadultered love,
not yet tainted by the resentment
of commitment.
In my dreams that lasts forever
and I hang onto the punch drunk
love words and praise them like sacrament
until the day my heart dies—but that
could be tomorrow. That my ability
to love atrophies like every trust
I’ve ever granted, reached out in dust,
offered to the underserving in gilded
plates filled with everlasting sentiment
that rots in piles by basement doors.
It can last forever though, right?
…Right?

20 February 2013

Poem

His ghost keeps my bones from dancing in the streets
His face like a shadow hides in the creases of my dreams
and keeps my lips mute
and keeps my skin cold
and keeps my hips ashamed
and burdened by his sin.
Something about the sanctity of loneliness
puts at ease a retching heart that marauds alley
streets coughing from the ashes of lost loves.
One day I will shed the weight of his hate,
carbon copy on my skin, a rash of cinders
around my raw eyes.
One day I will shed this weight. I will be light.
I will dance the torment out of my bones. I will
wring them dry.

12/13 February 2013

Poem

I bathe in the haze of smoke slipped between teeth and lips,
pushing out words delivered by a voice shaking with the bass
of bomb shells. Not saccharine but honeysuckle sweet. I press
my lips to the base of that flower and inhale every ache that floats
from his lips to mine. I evaporate in these crowded dim lit
bars—moss walls and tobacco tinged lamps—staring dumbly into
hazel eyes.

Sometimes they’re the same dark olive green
as his coat with flecks of red and brass like bars
and stripes. His stories pungent with the metallic
taste of blood, a mouth full of pennies with the crack
of fire right behind your ear. Bite hard to keep it
reeling behind eyelids, hard enough to leave a mark.

His eyes once verdant green
as verdigris, the copper washed
out by the sweat that dripped
off his brow. He grips me as if
I’m already leaving him, as if
he’s already leaving me—
pushes himself back into me.

&I’m afraid to stay.
&I’m afraid to let him go.

 

written 8 January 2013

poem

I bathe in the smoke of words, not saccharine but honeysuckle sweet. I press my lips to the base of that flower and inhale every emotion that floats off his lips. I could die in these crowded dim lit bars staring dumbly into hazel eyes.

Sometimes they’re the same dark dirty green as his coat with flecks of red and brass like his bars and stripes. His stories pungent with the metallic taste of blood, a mouth full of pennies with the crack of fire right behind your ear.

Crass words licked with trauma of loss. He grips my body as if I’m already leaving him, pushes himself back into me.

&I’m afraid to stay.

&I’m afraid to let him go.

 

27 December 2012

Swollen Skin–poem

My leg rots away with the words from my mouth—its
green apple spit dribbles down the blushed poinsettia leaf
of my skin. This bed is infested with the filth of afternoons
drenched in the silt of sleep. Exhaustion drips. Skin swells.
My fat ankle the fat lip of a marriage to love driven into
the ditch. I would eat these pages like cotton hung to my
gums, savor fleeting dreams with the flesh beneath my skin.
Gauze, wrapped tight between the sheets—fleas crawl on
skin; infected by the bite of failure on the lips. My dry
spell ends in an abscessed mind. Chew chalk pills with soggy
teeth and swallow hard the loss that rots with pages
empty in hand.

written 11 August 2011.

Day Dreams–poetic prose

I know the sound of a cricket song, abrasive to the ear—those crooked legs aching away at each other. They burrow under my skin in dreams while the thin spindle limbs of spiders tiptoe across my nails. It’s never well to hear an insect walk—never well to see my eyes veiled with lace as I start to think, muse horrid things in sleepless nights [the slow dripping rot of skin off bones, exposed cobalt veins, itching flaking skin that melts at the touch—tired eyes with the red wire lines ache for a sleep without the locust creeping] These metal chairs bear gumball spot-welds—effective and ugly like the play-out of each afternoon. I’ll hide in the shade until the awful crawl of insects on my hands awake me. Eating the evenings and drinking the sober smoke of night.

written sometime 2011.