Category Archives: Poetry

Forgiveness

Journal Entries, Poetry, writing

I tiptoe to my hurt place
The soft spot on my soul
My fingertips are gentle
Touching moments turned to coal

Every feeling has a story
A mistake I’ve come to own
I forgive them one by one
I don’t have to be alone

I forgive myself for abandoning him
I forgive myself for falling over drunk
I forgive myself for yelling in anger
I forgive myself for resigning to flunk 

I have more love than regret
Enough love
Enough love to set
Myself free

God said, “Love your enemy.” So I obeyed, and loved myself. – Khalil Gibran

Through Your Eyes

Poetry, writing, , , , , , , , , , , , ,

I often stare at photos of myself that you took.
I’m struck by the clarity that joy brings to my eyes,
The levity of my cheeks, rising with the breeze to smile at you.
Brushed with the light of an August afternoon,
The sweetness of peaches on my lips,
You anoint me with a beauty not even my innermost critic can deny.
Oh how grateful I am to see myself through your eyes!

The realest thing I’ve written in awhile

Music, Poetry, , , , , , , , , , ,

Mad

He wrote,  “i miss you”
He wrote, “im sorry”
He’s afraid I’ll hate him
Doesn’t wanna be the monster
Just a human being who can’t admit mistakes

And maybe I’m the same
Can’t tell if I’m playing victim
Or if it’s really really still that red raw

But I’m still mad
I’m still mad
Still feel my forehead clinch when I think about it
Cause I’m still mad
I’m still mad
And I can’t seem to let it go
Even though I know
I’m better off without it.

Cause you don’t mean it
It’s all bullshit
And I won’t pretend that
I’m gonna accept it
Cause I’m so tired of being sweet
But I don’t wanna be petty

And maybe I’m the same
Telling lies to keep myself sane
So maybe I’m a coward just like you say

But I’m still mad
I’m still mad
Still feel my forehead clinch when I think about it
Cause I’m still mad
I’m still mad
And I can’t seem to let it go
Even though I know
I’m better off without it.

Maybe I’m living in a box of my own reality
Padded with every harsh word,
Maybe all my unkindness is lost on me
And when the fire stops rising in my chest
I’ll miss you
But I’m still mad.

Love Is A Growing Up

Poetry, writing, , , , , , , ,

You say I want to own you
And truthfully I do.

But just a small piece
Something to hold onto

Cause we’ve been through a long year
And I feel like you owe me

And yes I know that’s wrong, and selfish & needy

I know that Love is about freedom
And understanding without ego

But I just want you to reciprocate
Cause I gave you a piece of me too

Maybe this whole thing is unhealthy and we both need to get free.

Jimmy said Love is a growing up,
Love is a growing up.

You say that you’re in love with me
But I don’t think you are

You just want m my approval
Want some balm on your scars

And maybe you deserve that
Cause I know I can be unkind

But I don’t need that responsibility
I don’t want you to be mine.

There was a time when I truly did
But you weren’t ready then

And now that you’ve come around
You feel you deserve something.

I’ll always love you, but this is unhealthy
And it’s time you let me be free.

Jimmy said Love is a growing up
Love is a growing up.

We Built A Room

Poetry, , , , ,

We built a room
Padded it with all the unknowns
Stuffed our fears into the corners
Painted it orange and blue.

We built a room
Using all our shared tools
You put in your iron
I laid out my quilts.

We built a room
With an open air window
Through it we watched the moon
Traded stories of waning and waxing.

We built a room
A place where touch was sacred
Where eyes were full
And where truth breathed freely.

We built a room
Dozed off to breezy rhythms
Woke to piano-rich melodies
Spent the day humming.

We built a room
You stepped out for a moment
Gave me a wink through the window
I dug my fears from beneath the floorboards
And waited for your re-entry.

National Poetry Month – 7

Poetry, , , , , , ,

Flower Girl

I had a dream I was a tulip: pink & perky, blooming in the rays of your gaze. I awoke from this floral dream to find myself crippled by clutter: stacks of paper piled high, sprinkled bits of broken jewelry, flailing sirens zipping by. I hear you whisper, “This life is an unholy alter for you, God’s most delicate creation.” I feel my soft pink wings catch the wind of your breath and fly me back to my home of moist earth. I will wait for you here, basking in late summer sun, hosting honey bees & tattooed butterflies. One day I’ll know you beyond the dream, hear your footsteps as you stroll on cobblestoned paths. And if the leaves start to fall before you approach, I’ll be here next year. You already know, my spirit is a pink-stained perennial.

National Poetry Month – 6

Poetry, Uncategorized, , , , , ,

Be Here

In all your obnoxious certainty, I still see the Searching in your eyes, floating, looking for a soft place to ground itself. And that’s how I know we are fate. My hair, my palms, my tongue are velvet, crushed from years of holding on too tight to those who didn’t want to land. Now they are soft for you & your arrival. Be here.

 

 

National Poetry Month – 5

Poetry, , , ,

Dating Musicians 

I love your music

But I can no longer stand the sound of your voice

So I press pause

But even in the silence

I hear you

Whispering in my ear

“Come here baby…”

So I turn my head

Arms swaying towards your gravitational center

I sense the warmth of your mass

But when I move

You’re no where to be found

Just like always

Just like always

More promise than reality

National Poetry Month – 4

Poetry, , , ,

Truth

Your truth is a stone the color of West African dust that hangs from your neck, swinging from nipple to nipple, keeping time as you survey this city you call a home.

Your truth is a lover whose forehead you kiss each night as you tuck her in beside you, pulling her warmth closer, nestling your cheek into her crooks and curves.

Your truth is a leather-bound book you hold squarely in your palms each morning, filled with words already carved into your tongue, whose meaning you have meditated on and become one with.

Your truth is a dance that you cannot remember learning and cannot forget, a rhythm with the force of gravity that pulls your heels into the floor and rocks your hips with the ebb and flow of an easy wave.

And for this reason I find myself numb once in your presence; have difficulty seeking words honest enough to rise up and meet yours; have to strain to keep my face from tensing up into a confused half-smile.

You see, I keep my truth stuffed deep down in my back pocket during the day and locked securely in my dresser at night. In the morning I swallow other people’s truths, feel things I once heard done or said ease uncomfortably down my throat. And when I move, there’s a constant uncertainty to my steps and an uneasiness in my shoulders.

Your breath is soil.
My skin is cellophane.
I’m not ready to get dirty.
I’m not ready for you.

National Poetry Month – 3

Poetry, , , , , , ,

Blue

So I left for a while,

I thought I’d be right back,

But life’s an airplane in motion

And I enjoy the flight,

But I came right to you once I touched down on the pavement,

Knew I’d see my name in your hand as you stood waiting. 

I just knew you’d be waiting.

In a taxi to your place,

Your smile all in my head. 

Remembering how soft your sheets are when we’re in your bed. 

Thinking how hard we laughed when you burned up those biscuits,

How I put my hand on your cheek and said I would fix it. 

Shouldn’t be hard to fix it.

Then I press your buzzer by the door,

When I hear your voice it sounds unsure. 

Say you’ll meet me on the inside stairs

As if you’ve got something to hide up there. 

What’s to hide in there?

When I finally see your face

Your smile is faintly traced

Just a slight embrace
For me.

I say I missed you 

Ask if I can make us some tea

You say, “No, no, I’ve got company.”

Oh, well I can come back later 

I’ll bring some wine. 

You say, “No, no, it’s fine. 
I’ll call later.”

As you part your door
Walk inside to leave
I catch a glimpse of blue
Color of the Aegean Sea.
It’s fresh and cool
Splashed across your wall.
The same accent we talked about at the end of your hall.
Always said when I moved in we’d paint it together.
But that was seasons ago,
Before the warm weather.
It’s been a long winter,
But I knew I had to leave.
Just can’t believe you’d paint without me
How could you paint blue without me?

(Definitely turning this one into a song – Copyrighted material people)

National Poetry Month – 2

Poetry, , ,

Proud

I just want to make you proud.
Give you a sunrise at which to marvel.
Plant the roots you watered deep and watch them sprout strong.
Be a tree whose shade you can rest under.

You’ve laid every brick on my path,
Using blood as mortar,
And I just wanna make you proud.
Watch your cheeks rise and swell with warmth,
See your eyes soft and wet, no longer afraid.
Tears of dignity.
Proud.