Tag Archives: poem

Missing you

Old nights,

Long nights,

Hot nights,

Slow nights with no laughter.

Missing those,

Long meandering talks,

Those hands over mine,

Those moments.

On those long days,

Heavy on the spirit days,

Those I wish it would all be over days,

Missing those,

Arms around my shoulders,

Your strength against my back.

That silent compassion,

That warmth without patronage.

On those cool evenings,

Lazy sunsets,

Those magenta golden murels painted on the western sky.

Missing those warm eyes,

Those brilliant smiles,

The laughter.

I miss you.

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Bee and Me

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She was sitting on my back step,

At first we went our way in mutual ignorance,

I guess she was too tied up in thought to notice me,

I imagine she, like every other working woman,

had enough on her plate.

I stepped light, unlike me her sting is serious.

She turned and regarded me,

I froze,

She flew away and I went my way,

I wonder if she ponders me,

like I am pondering the bee on my back step.

 


Sorry Don’t…

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Sorry don’t…sooth now-a-days, don’t placate.
Ordinary word, for an ordinary lie.
Regret has simply been disassociated with it’s utterance.
Remorse, something that should go with, but lost in the acceptance of it.
You breath easy now, that it’s taken and accepted, now you’re free to do it again.


Dear Sir,

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Dear Sir,

I wish I had her voice,
Then I could emote these feeling clearly enough,
To capture both your attention and your interest.

I wish I had his flow,
That once if only once could I be worth your adoration?

I wish I had her newness,
Or is it haplessness,
Inexperience maybe?

But then I am become my insecurities,
Or are they yours?

What’s worse,
Bitchy or crazy?
Crazy or bitchy?
Jealous, Fucked up or defeated?

I wish I could see you,
When they aren’t watching.

Is there ever a moment when it isn’t your inclination to appear,
Interesting, intelligent, or superior?

Or is that all you are,
A facade of shit well handled?

Well, sir.
Dear sir.
Fuck you.

I  am naught in need of an idol to worship

Yes Sir,
Dear sir,
Keep your noose,
And your favor.

Blessed evening and Goodnight.

 


Sister singer

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Sister singer belt me a tune,

Pour me a glass of you emotions,

I’ll sit and sip your sorrow.

Sister singer belt me a tune,

Serve me a platter of your hardship,

I’ll taste you anger, cut it to bits,

Piece by piece I’ll consume you.

Sister Singer belt me a tune,

Pluck me a fruit from your garden,

I’ll plant my teeth in your bitter-sweet,

savor your juice as I consume you.

Sister singer belt me a tune,

Bare your soul a meal for my satisfaction,

In exchange for a glancing compliment.

Sister singer belt me a tune,

To keep me amused,

‘Til I forget you when I leave.

 


Depression

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Trying hard not to think,

Under the far reaching branches of the tree whose name I can’t remember,

The benches and the swaying branches are silent,

Leaving space infinite for the voices,

The ones I was trying hard to avoid.

 

My companions came to join me.

In as much as I had tried to drown them in quiet.

They simply settled wordless around me,

and too watched the branches sway,

and the dust from passing minibuses glide through the sunlight columns,

I knew their names, and was accustomed to their company.

 

Fear was the first to action,

A blade protruding from a wooden handle settled in my palm.

engraved in it the word ‘relief.

“It would be easy. Nothing else has been easy.”

I turned it over in my hands,

felt it’s weight and sighed.

It would be easy.

 

Disgust saw my resolve slipping,

and before my eyes danced a thousand memories.

A million instances of shouldas and couldas,

Trillions of ifs and maybes.

“Was it all someone else’s doing?

Do you deserve easy?”

Do I really? Does anyone?

 

Sadness came in to comfort,

holding me close so that tears could flow and I could sniffle unashamed.

This was weakness,

but what does it matter?

Weakness more than anything should be a right.

A place of unfettered access when one is forced to come to terms

with ones own limits.

We are all limited, are we not?

 

Anger placed on my lap a scroll,

Tied with a ribbon of red on which was written “Experience“.

I had survived this long,

clawed all that was good that I had out of the clutches of doubt and shame,

hadn’t I?

Wasn’t some part of that worthy of continuation?

 

Unfurled the scroll showed a river flowing onward into death,

and my place marked with a question.

“Where to?”

The tributaries of past experience splashed with color,

Indigo, reds, yellows and blues,

a code of good, bad and ugly,

attached at it’s bottom a quill.

 

I invited them to come with,

and we struck a path in the direction not yet blotched with memories.

Them keeping pace with my slow steadying feet,

making light conversation,

as if now given name and purpose they were no longer my jailers,

but my comrades in arms.

 

 


red on floral

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She watches him sleep,

his chest,

rises and falls,

rises and falls,

rises and falls,

so peaceful.

Could have been an apparition,

those raised hands and voices,

the impact of palm and face,

palm and face,

palm and face,

’til her lip split.

Wouldn’t it be easy,

warm blood soaking her cotton sheets,

red on floral,

smeared because he would come awake.

Red hand clutching for her,

Would he take her with?

To his hell?

he would try,

and try,

and again try,

Would he win?

would it matter?

She was dead,

 empty,

 hollow.

Watching him now,

while he sleeps.


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