Author: poetryfest

I’m going to kill a man. The thought spirals through my head. I’m going to kill a man. No hesitation. Because he deserves it. He’s responsible. He’s the reason. The reason for the black hole in my heart, the reason for the grief and sorrow, the reason why I’m standing in a field, under leaking clouds, salty tears mixed with rain, holding a knife in my left hand. My hand aches. But my grip doesn’t loosen. I can feel the pain and agony as the handle bull doses into my knuckles. I hear a crunch. My fingers don’t budge. I want to remember the pain. I want to remember what he did. So I won’t break. So I won’t crumble from guilt. Because he doesn’t deserve my sympathy. He doesn’t deserve to breathe the same air as I do when she can’t. He doesn’t deserve to live. I hear sirens. I don’t back down. I won’t, never. Not until the deed is done. Not until I’m fulfilled. Not until the screams echoing through my head are replaced with his. I won’t break. Because I’m going to kill a man

Her French name,
love of French magazines, clothes and cigarettes.
Her oversized Jean Paul Gaultier sweater, black leggings and flats,
a scarf dipped in French perfume around her neck.
Her languid eyes –
the color of the sea at Nags Head before a morning storm.
Her shy French boyfriend – David
with those seductive eyes and curly brown hair.
She savored his name –
it rolled off her tongue like sex…Daahh–veeeed…
watching her very American
Claudet Colbert lips say it you just knew –
This kid drank red wine with this croissant at breakfast and
sipped cappuccinos at midnight;
while the rest of us Raleighites
drank buttermilk with our grits
and took stolen shots of Irish whiskey with a chaser of Cheerwine.
Under the Carolina pines he lights her Yves Saint Laurent
pushing her on the old school swing.
The night air mixes –
tress moss, cigarette smoke, and Southern magnolia,
making its own Carolina perfume.
The stars look down –
jealous of first love.
Tonight he is the French Gatsby
she is the American Daisy
The green light of young hope reflects in her eyes…
And all is right at sixteen.

let’s meet somewhere outside of time and space
in the oxygen of silver hair streaming from moss
in the rape between the linens of dream and pretend
in the bottom if an ice cube’s beating chest
between the cackling of the witch fire in the city square
between brunch and lunch
between the conversations we have at dinner and dessert
between brunch and lunner and a snack somewhere between the cracks between breaks
in the supply closet at a local gym under a tower of shaven rags between breaks
on the ink of sticky notes on the backroom microwave under a tower of shaven rags
in the peels of grapes sinking off silver hair streaming from moss streaming oxygen
on the path to redemption deep inside our shoes
between the soles of our shoes deeply set on the path to redemption
in the winter air, warm and clear, blasting through our windows
a hurricane
a forgotten hurricane
a hurricane forgot to rain today
in between the rape on the linens of dream and pretend
let’s meet here
on a boat cast off by fire and sadness
Nothing eats well the space and time between us

Were you running toward me — from him?
A whim.
Is there a need for further doubt?
A shout.
Where do we go from here my dear?
A tear.

Time now to stow this petty fear
which has bound my heart for too long.
Past is past, let’s write our own song.
A whim, a shout, a tear.

Can I be your star-shaped lady
not your little moonshine call.
There’s things I want you to see
just not enough space left for me.
Just out of reach, still out of sight
There’s always one more.

The sun rises before I can lose you,
And the night bleeds so slow.
I woke up to the pair of us,
In a dream I had like this before—
You’re the only one in the world,
Am I the only one you think of?
Or are you still a whore.

I wish you were dead.

Does that make me a bad
person?

Maybe.

Anyway.

I wish you were dead.

It’s strange, you know?
Carrying around
this kind
of hate.

Because it’s not the
boiling burning bubbling
kind that wakes me up at night.

No.

it’s the quiet kind, the passive
kind. The kind of hatred
that sits in my chest
next to my other heart.

Thumps in my chest
with my other heart.
Only a whisper, but listen…

Can you hear it?

I can. On occasion.
Like when someone mentions
your name, and the hatred, the rage
skips a beat,

stops.

Then begins
palpitating,
pounding,
pumping,
so loud, my ears ring,
so fast, my chest
aches, swells, throbs,
and this rage, this hate,
leaks into my veins, flows
straight to my brain, wraps
around my brain, and tightens
until my frontal lobe is gasping
for air, until my cerebrum is turning
blue, until finally, my thrashing
hippocampus coughs, splutters, then spits
out a single sentence (“I wish
And as this single sentence reverberates
in my head he was
the hatred’s grip will loosen,
my frontal lobe will gulp
down mouthfuls of air,
dead”),
and my cerebrum will regain that rosy hue.

All because of that single sentence.
“I wish he wa-

I wish you were dead.
I wish you were dead.

Why?
Because if you died,
I wouldn’t have to think about you
ever again.

I wouldn’t have to worry
about you running
your slimy little tongue
across the folds of my brain,
pushing your slimy little tongue

into the folds of my
brain, pushing, rubbing, running
that slimy, wet tongue
into my brain, against
my brain, across
my brain again, and again, and

God, I know I’m a bad person,
but I need you
to die. If you did, maybe
I wouldn’t have to

listen to people
talk about you and what you’re “going
through.”

I wouldn’t have to watch them shake
their heads in disappointment
when I shrug, and state that I don’t give a damn
about your “pain,” your “suffering.”

Because as far as I’m concerned, you could swallow
a handful of pills, and die on your knees
with vomit dribbling down your chin, and your head
slumped forward into the bowl of your toilet,
and it still wouldn’t be enough
(I was a goddam-

It will never be enough
(A goddamned chi-
But it doesn’t have to be.
I’ll take anything at this point.
Anything.
(Christ, I can’t sleep. I can’t sleep).

And so, I’ll keep wishing
for your death
in bed, when the alarm clock
flashes 11:11pm
in bright red.

I’ll keep praying for you to die
at night, hands clasped together
while I howl at an overcrowded
sky.

And I’ll keep hoping
(cross my hearts, hope you die
cross my hearts, hope you die
cross my heart, hope to

You know I could do it myself, right?
If I wanted.
I could blow your brains
out tomorrow.
If I wanted.

But I won’t, because I’m an adult.
I can’t, ‘cause I’m still a kid.

My friend is dead.
One wonders why
A man so wise,
So generous,
So gracious that
His very life

Made better lives
For even those
Who only met
Him once or twice
Should not have been
A presence to

Outlive us all.
But he was old,
Which makes his death
Less tragic than
If such a soul
Had never lived.

They say it will pass
you feel it will last
forever

they say time will heal
you can’t stand their spiel
you feel it will never go away
know it can make you stumble, lead you astray

make you double over in pain
with no wish for your future, as there is nothing to gain
you know it was, is, all in vain

lonely and said
you no longer cry in bed
you cry no more
because you are dry to the core

you feel, or not
cold and hot
who cares, who is there to see?
heartbreak is a lonely misery

tender hearts wounded too often
will no longer care to, dare to soften
to kind words or open hearts
because this is how it starts

heartache

what’s to gain as it’s a given
how do you remain true to self, or even be driven
when pain is the only outcome in life
this is not living, barley enough to survive

loneliness, distance, being kept apart
this is poison for the tender, or the healing heart
rejection, complacence, indifference
sheer bad luck and happenstance
ways that were never meant to be
they all can cause heart misery

a change in mind, a change of heart
souls interwoven, drifting apart
guilt, and fear or shame
they are the starting point of blame

killing the flame that resides within
slowly, but surly the coldness sets in
makes you stumble, cry
in the end it makes you say goodbye

to all you believed in, once held dear
this is when love turns into fear

Heartache is a cruel master
causing havoc and disaster
but there is a cure to it
an everlasting benefit

and the cure resides within
and its magic is already happening
grace, the almighty healing unguent
is more than mighty, omnipotent

fills every crack, like a healing balm
restores faith, future, inner calm
grace, the word for every heart
that has been broken, torn apart

Grace will bring you life anew
love you, heal you through and trough
healing your heart, your soul, your core
filling you so you may want no more

stilling your hunger, quenching your thirst
giving you hope, putting you first

Grace that opens your eyes to see
that life is more than misery
it’s wonder, abundance, joy, and free
a beautiful road of reward and glee

hold out your hand and you will see
Grace instead of misery.

Don’t call me pretty, it’s not genuine.
If I rated myself
I’d say I’m a modest five.
But why diminish a person,
confine them to a number?

Someone who’s cultivated a life.
Navigating trials and triumphs;
persisting like a steadfast oak.
The dragged out hours studying,
endless hours of melodic pursuits,
hours immersed in written word.

Don’t call me pretty
forego the allure of mere aesthetics.
Declare! My poetry as captivating;
whisper to me how,
my stanzas enrapture you,
Inquire about my favorite novel;
ponder with me how the themes
relate to the contemporary.
Commend my fortitude
acknowledge the depths of my intellect,
sit with me while I unfold my genesis.

I transcend the confines of a number
as a rate, on a scale, on my pants, on my bra.
Immutable, it was inherited at my birth
don’t look for my beauty outwardly
you won’t find it.
Let me seduce you with the beauty
of my coruscation.
And in return entice me with yours

If you fuck me and leave me,
all you will be leaving is my body—
bare skin, glistening wet,
bone bundled in nerve,
knots of a spine that curve
like a cupped hand, fingers
grasping at air.

If you love me and leave me,
you will be leaving all of me—
soft words, citrus smiles,
emotional torment, and
hope-penned fictions. All
my courage to share
that strangeness,

and all that strangeness
given back.