Author: poetryfest

Golden pig tails bouncing up
and down, giggling playing
tag, running—>>>corn fields—whack
he>tags me:) I’m it.

Prom corsage pinned
to my heart,
black tipped and
blue as his>eyes,
his>crooked smile;/
I cannot resist.
Tag:| I’m it.

Groundhog Day:(
breakfast – exactly at 0600 hrs.
lunches – packed
grocery
laundry
carpool – 0200 hrs.
dinner – precisely at 1800 hrs.

A dummy going through life,
with myhand up my ass.

Painting on my daily mask,
camouflaging my once beloved
corsage of chosen color,
that now permanently
adorns my reflection.

That crooked smile;/
had once birthed buoyant butterflies,
now breeds deadly hornets—stung.

His>voice deep, hoarse and
quivering with rage—
the paint drops from my
puppet hands,
Dinner… it’s 1805 hrs–

—whack;/ Lights Out—Wake Up—dummy.
Gasping for air,
golden pig tails tousled with sweat,
I awake from my freakishly surreal never-
ending nightmare.

Was this a prelude, fore tale, or
my guardian angel?
I>chose to listen,
I>didn’t play tag that day.

Beauty is not pain,
but love is.
Whether possessed, lost, or
simply never acquired,
each condition of love
breeds a new type of hurt.

The emptiness of one’s soul sans companion,
The heaviness of tying one’s essence to another incompatible
The burn of having it torn away
coupled with the aching hope it will return
and the pulse of sympathetic pain for
the woes of the right match,
The stabs of allegiance to the one others mock.

It all hurts differently,
but in magnitude
we remain identical.
Pain is relative,
and so is love.
A tangible illusion,
An invisible reality.

Buoyant, salty, sun warmed like a bath.

Swim until your heart is content!
Be wary,
the tides pull you from shore,

will pull you under to the dark, cold parts at the bottom,
mysterious creatures will pick the meat off of your bones.

If you tire, take a break on my beach.

I will change you, don’t forget,
The sun reflects off of my surface,
will burn you if you are not careful.

Only strong swimmers need apply.

The other half of the poem has been discluded. Please take the first half
of the poem down from your site if you are not going to post the whole
poem. The whole poem is below:

I love like the ocean,

Buoyant, salty, sun warmed like a bath.

Swim until your heart is content!

Be wary,

the tides pull you from shore,

will pull you under to the dark, cold parts at the bottom,

mysterious creatures will pick the meat off of your bones.

If you tire, take a break on my beach.

I will change you, don’t forget,

The sun reflects off of my surface,

will burn you if you are not careful.

Only strong swimmers need apply.

*

like the desert

And when I have finished with you,

You will be nomadic stumbling forward

from mirage to mirage

seeking oasis.

You will find no comfort.

When you find water, food, a home

you will always be thirsty, hungry, unsettled.

You will crave my warm salty water in your mouth

though you know it will make you mad.

Only devoted applicants need apply.
Reply

you have a brief affair with permanence
and tattoo your ribs 5 months in.

I think about the scars on your leg,
how you’re used to things fading.

I tell myself the memory is stitched in
with the ink
and stay within your eyeline so,

2 years from now, if a girl has placed
3 fingers on your ribs, you might remember

my warning. You exhale smoothly,
as instructed. In the morning, have me touch

the fresh, raised lines:
is this normal? will it stay?

This one
will hurt like realization

but you roll out of bed
and picture permanence as mountaintops

as birthmarks and not scars
as space instead of time

remembering how I misspoke
how I find everything

harder to wash out.

Closure is easier with the dead.
The finality of “I can’t see you” is easier to handle
Versus
“I shouldn’t see you”
A slim band of chance that disconnects
my ability to have
Not as an impossibility, but a disciplined
Restraint
Closure is easier when not in the constant,
Meditative practice of reservation

Dear friend,
it has been 10 days since we last spoke,
Or I should say we spoke for the last time,
I told you I was sorry
You told me I was my mother
Friend, it has been years since we hugged
Or I should say embraced
You would rather a kiss than the truth
I would rather not

Friend, we have passed excuses between us like cigarettes
I will always see my pain through your eyes
And you will always see me as below you

Friend, what should I do today?
Without your guidance I don’t know how to be acceptable
How do I fly without my wings
How do I surrender without my flag

Friend, you are the worst and best of me
You would smile, I would yell for you
You would cry, I would fight for you
And you will hurt, and I will never blame you.

Lighting strikes outside the
attic window where i sit,
Blinding me with its white light
as I ignore the commotion downstairs.

Alone with my waking nightmares
The haunting picture of you fills my mind
and the voices in my head scream
the same thing they do every night;

Wondering if I made a monster out of you
or if you were always that way.

If I had been a willing pawn in your
Chess game,
Sacrificed myself for the king,
Would I have been the only one you hurt?

Would i still be here now,
A mere skeleton
On these splintering wood panels
Had I never met you in the first place?
Never let you strip me of my skin
And use it as your own?

But no –
Wait.
In the cobwebs across from me.
A young girl.
Cracked and hollow
As a broken porcelain doll.

She looks up at me,
and does not utter a word.
But the look on her face
Has been on mine before.

Slapped on every time
You made me feel
Like I deserved nothing.

And I want to reach out to her-
But how can I?
When all we are to each other
Are mutual Jane Does.

And to you
We were nothing
But toys.

Suddenly,
There’s a bang
As you burst through the attic door
And back into my nightmare,

And I look up at you,
My twisted little Frankenstein,
As you point your bony, patchwork finger at me
And say
“You did this.”

I know you like the way I say your name,
how I call attention to your presence.
I make the universe aware of you–
you are seen, you are heard.
In that moment,
you exist.
Let me say your name again: [REDACTED].
Let me whisper in your ear: [REDACTED].
Let me purr your name with the accent your mother used so you know where home is:
[REDACTADO].
Let me cry out your name in the throes of passion as we fill each others’ souls with pleasure:
[REDACTED]!
You think I’m too much:
too much to handle,
too many emotions,
too much talking,
too much of me all at once.
But, [REDACTED],
I know you like how I say your name.
I know I send shivers down your spine.
I know I make you squirm in ways you find incredibly uncomfortable, but turns you on so much,
you lose yourself.
And that’s what scares you.
I make you lose control.
You’ve never lost control; that’s not safe.
You must control everything, control it all.
How else can you keep your loved ones protected?
Keep your heart protected?
Because you can’t let that happen again, [REDACTED].
Not that pain.
2
The pain of hurt, of disappointment, of being less than what you wanted to be, of confronting
yourself, of loss, of heartbreak.
[REDACTED], you aren’t going to hurt me.
Don’t you trust me, [REDACTED]?
Do you not think I can take care of myself?
My emotions are not your responsibility, [REDACTED].
Oh.
You think I’ll hurt you. That’s fair. I might. That’s life.
Are you going to stop living for fear of pain, [REDACTED]?
Are you shutting down because of past anguish?
Trauma is trauma and I respect that.
I cannot help you with that so I must reject my urge to help.
I need to let you be,
to simmer, [REDACTED].
I want to simmer in you,
boil in you.
Let me cook.
Let me bake into you.
I am delicious.
Eat me, [REDACTED].
I know you want me as well.
I want you too. I want to make you feel good, feel so good, never leave me good.
I know what I want from you [REDACTED],
and you can’t give me what I want.
That hurts you,
as a people pleaser,
as a leader,
as someone who gets things done.
I’m sorry I fell for you.
I’m sorry I like you so much, [REDACTED].
I’m sorry I am so much; I’m sorry I ever tried to change you.
You are broken and busted and I love you that way, [REDACTED].
I crave you. [REDACTED]
I want to feel your touch.
3
I want to taste you…
again.
While we’re connected,
maybe I’ll feel your pain,
your worries, your fears, and I’ll know you better.
Stop protecting me.
You can’t save me.
You cannot show me anything I haven’t seen before, [REDACTED].
Nothing is new.
I’ve seen it all; I’ve felt it all.
I will know you through your experiences.
I wish you’d share, [REDACTED].
If it hurts you so much, let me catch you when you fall.
Let me be here for you.
Supporting you fulfills me, [REDACTED].
It hurts when you deny me that.
It breaks my heart that you think you will break my heart. You can’t. Only I may break my heart,
[REDACTED]

can you look at me?
can you look into my eyes and promise that when the train comes
you’ll move?
when the ground starts slipping away beneath your feet
you’ll notice and it won’t just be another tuesday for you?
what i’m saying is that i love you
and sometimes i think that you drive too fast in the rain.
what i’m saying is that i’d like to hold your hand
and tell you that everything is going to be okay.
what i’m saying is that i’ll make you tea
when your throat is sore,
and i’ll light a fire
when you can’t feel your fingers anymore.
but can you look at me?
can you promise me this?
when that train comes,
refuse death’s kiss.

The air is heavy with humid heat
quickening the perfumes of the park,
crab-apples, pungent rosehips and lusty lavender.
The melody of the fountain is
played by the breeze that skips through.
All this under a sky of duck-egg
blue and cotton fluff clouds just
tinged with indigo.

The season has yet to flavour the
leaves with the scent and colour of its
spice, yet for the populace the
blackout curtains of their
September mentality have been drawn.

There is only one hue with many
acceptable shades. That is black.
Be it charcoal, jet or ebony – it is
dour, serious, still black. In the most
suffocating of fabrics, layer upon layer.
As though the wearer resides in the
long arctic twilight. A swaddling cloth.

Anything ribald would
be to announce that one is
the scarlet whore of Babylon.

Moods as melancholy as their
black coffee. The communal
social consciousness allows some exceptions
to the rule, be they unprepossessing.
A reticent russet. A meek moss.
A prudent plum. A tepid taupe.
Even the denim takes on a
midnight feel.

A promiscuous palette of colour so
ribald and tempestuous as an English
garden left to follow its whimsy.
Truly what a difference a day makes
as the calendar page turns from August

As though in a haze I recall seeming moments
before the flowers in the
park had competition in garish glory.

And so I sit rebellious in
raspberry, the September sun filtering
through leaves as lingering a lime
as my Italian ice