Tag Archives: poem

Vitarthrite

Empty photographs of days gone by, tears run dry
as the ache in our wrists prevent us from thinking too hard
about the ache in our hearts, creaking and cringing
soothes our future-fearing, past-paralyzing

Selves that haven’t come full circle with the present
tense in our reluctant movements, so as to not break the fractured
joints, resting, passively sitting, non-action speaking volumes
about the days gone by, blood run dry

Unfinished business, settled,
We didn’t ask why,

The Spaces

The spaces between the threads, allow breath, sweater lungs
Holes where your words can seep in, soaking my wrists
Unwinding the knots as they catch wind of your words
Intertwining threads reminiscent of interlocking fingers,
fragile yet strong bonds
of
thin

thin
thread

barely
hanging
on

in
the
s
p
a
c
e
s

The spaces between our fingers, one around the other, allow depth, locked hearts
Buckled down, protect the emptiness waiting to be filled, unwilling to relent
For when the emptiness is filled and frozen, it can be cracked open

Opened                                heart                     for all the world to see and point

Vulnerable on all sides to grotesque laughing faces and sharp words that stab hard

The spaces between the words, allow thought, a pulsing pause
A strange rhythm varying with context and culture,
A breath of unused time, unfulfilled will, unsaid power
But also peace of mind, a blank slate to start over
In all the chaos filling to the brim, overflowing on whim,
There is the unpunctuated space ;

Worrisome

What would it be like to not worry
Is it like cherry blossoms falling and stroking your arms,
Dew drops seeping into the grass, sliding off your feet?
Is it like touching the texture of sunny spring and lit-up summers,
Fingering the pollen falling to the cushioned ground?
Is it like the point before sleeping where all sound is smoothed over,
Dreaming of happiness and rainbows and flowers?

What would it be like to not worry
Is it like the warmth of your arm surrounding my waist,
The soothing waves of your voice ridden by only me?
Is it like the gentle of your touch, lingering on my lips,
The look in your eyes right before we kiss?
Is it like the cotton of your clothing slipping down your hips,
The radiance of your body hugging me close to your heart?

What would it be like to not worry?
I worry I’ll never feel like this.

Happy Birthday XIX

Gray shirt, gray day, gray life,
Artificial wax candles, haphazardly placed,
Blood splattered face slammed into the dust

Of the cake, cut irregularly,
With the dullest blade, bleeds its painful velvet,
Drips into a murky mess of cold lumps,

Cement in our mouths,
Cupcakes upside-down,
Fire-lit table, orange-red raging by our ears,
We hear anger and frustration in the flickers
Of the screaming wax candles.

Screaming happiness onto walls,
Meaningless in their hopeful meaning,
Achieving nothing with mere words
Regardless of volume.

The only indication of special-ness,
The blood bending in my heart and stomach,
Reminding me that I am nothing,
Yesterday, today, and tomorrow.

Hugs and kisses, XOX

Casual

Sunlit room, sunrise balconies,
Curtains sailing on breezes,
A fantasy on bed-covers colored sunset,
Daydreams with you.

Cotton cardigan slipping slowly off shoulders,
Hair tousled gently, pencil precociously poised,
Thinking tirelessly of you,
Watching your eyes go dusk
Like a return to dawn,

The color fluctuating with the light,
The all-seeing window.
Unwound, doors shut, alone–yet not,
With you.

What shall we do?