Author: poetryfest

The cold cup of tea sat lifeless on the table in front of me.
I touched it, and felt the cold ceramic meeting my warm hands—
the silent dismissal of drinking it echoing through it—bland.

The tea film floated silently atop the liquid,
the tea leaves quietly settling down at the bottom.
The once warm and soothing embrace of the beverage,
now cold and biting.

I lifted the cup of the black liquid,
once that felt calm—
now sad and livid.
I brought the rim close to my lips, meeting the icy drink.

I took a sip, the dead and cold feeling sloshing through my mouth.
I set the cup down again—
a soft thud, almost uncaring,
ringing a sense of doubt.

It was rather a second face of the coin:
a drink so warm and comforting
never could have been imagined
this dead and unfeeling.

I stared down at the cup of dead ashes before my eyes,
almost like I thought I saw
the turmoil of emotions—
a storm raging inside the cup of tea.

Wanting is like
Choking on an anodyne
Not letting go of hope
Not having the readiness to die

Each day a piece of tranquilizer
Slips down the throat
So the dilution of will
Seems more justified

What could have been
Minutes of explosion
Extended to lifelong enduring

The vilest of all sins
is to make madness recognized

Circles my least favorite shape
no voicemail box
chronically digesting news on the brink of no corners
my eyeballs fucking shedding
and the edge of my unconscious seat
begging corners that are not there to soften the defeat

Keys are some type of flag
stone that was never really apart;
my teeth shards of glass
and a mouth that is too full of heart and pounding arteries.
Gum more in mouth than not
the chewing grinding away at what was meant to not dissolve
same thing as your glare
your dull hands
and my dimmed mind,
and the way I can never say goodbye
even after that iron taste.

She is not me.
I am not her.

Yet you cling to her memory,
the artifacts she left without knowing how soon she’d be gone,
and you force me to gaze upon them.
You believe showing me proof of her existence will inspire me to be like her.
You think I’ll admire her and the things she left behind.
You tell me that is who I’m supposed to be,

and I don’t understand it.
I’m actually content with the person I’ve become.
I don’t get why you want me to be someone else.
You pray my indifference will give way to ambition,
and completely fail to notice:

I can’t be molded to your vision.
I’m living for myself and the ones I love, not you.
I don’t give a shit who you want me to be.

I am not her.
She is not me.

You’re the kind of love
that’s always there,
the kind of comfort that never asks questions.
If you have them, I never know.
Whether you’re in my arms,
in my hands,
whether you’re in the corner or
on top of the cover.

I reach for you,
trusting my first mind
more often than the second.
You’re always there,
the last place that I left you,
but the first place I think to look.
Your button-like eyes
searching me.

I don’t know what quite to call you.
You’re not loud,
but you’re also not quiet.
I sometimes wonder if you go to sleep,
choosing to stay up with me all times of the night
regardless if it’s the same story
you’ve heard a million times,
or if some of the things I say
require more patience.

You never take a deep breath.
Those button-like eyes stare at me
as lovingly as they did the day
you were introduced to my life.
You’ve changed my perspective
on a lot of things
how deeply I can hold on to things,
sometimes even fold.

And you do it all by being yourself.
By being real.
You don’t pretend to save me.
You don’t tell me things

just to shut me up.
In a world where we’re taught
to put away childish things,
I am glad that I didn’t listen.
I am glad that you never left.

It was one tuesday long ago.
The birds were squealing.
And the oceans were shallow.
As the sun stopped revealing.
My dog said hi, and I fainted right there.
My mother said I was insane.
But I didn’t care.
So she took me to therapy that day.
The doctor was a moose, and he spoke to a llama.
They spoke of the news, and sang the drama.
Mrs Hippo was a singer and fell down the stairs.
So they buried her in the backyard.
And she blew up the secret lair.
And so her soul and the llama sparred.
Then the moose looked me in the eyes.
You wouldn’t believe it if I told you.
You may be a mind reader in disguise.
My actual name is llama Moose.

We were so close in that bed
I couldn’t help but breathe you in.
I hovered my hands over your skin
moving from hot to cold,
chasing the goosebumps from
one end of you to the other.

You held me like you meant it
and that was all the permission
I needed that night.

You don’t even make sense sometimes.
You stutter, you flutter,
all over me, tripping over
steps and phrases.

I like how the words taste in my mouth
when I answer your
stupid, vapid questions.
You weirdo.
My favorite 2AM.
Come here.
Breathe me in.
Finish the perfume on my neck.
I sprayed a little bit more when
you weren’t looking.

I think noones gonna forget
that first kiss.
A fire extinguisher
between us could not stop
the tension and attraction.
It was intimate
and almost immediate.
Like we were meant to do it
all along.

That sofa will forever hold you.
Like how you held my head and my hand
while you kissed the fucking moles out of my lips.
It will always stay with me,
how you gave me that incredible weight
of loving and leaving at the same damn time.

Hope is the thing with feathers,
shot down in my Daddy’s yard.
Blur of Red on White, a dove
fallen from frostbit window. It is a
gray overcast Morning, the day
after the funeral. From a carriage
Death lifts off his Sunglasses to
watch the Bird fall. We are in my
room and I am writing a Poem of
a Poem, so it’s not really a Poem
at all. Sue, do you hear it, too?
The call of bird song, early into
the Mourning. It is Golden-wrought,
A Muse. In the dark to me it whispers,
“Psst. Dickinson, you’ve really got to
stop isolating yourself in here. You
have no Friends, and it is Sad. Please
see a Doctor. Also, become Famous.”
My Muse sucks. But I keep writing
and I keep writing. The bird is buried
next to me and when I die. Remember
my Feathers go to You, Sue. And also
make sure to Close your Windows. Birds
seriously like to hit them Blind.

Once, or maybe twice
When I remembered how
You started fire
Howling in that midnight way
We read about in books
And calm within the kindness
Pressed and turned to roll
In recompense
The clemency sought out
Would never burn you from within
But lie awake and wonder
Once, or maybe twice
When I remembered how
Your hands caressed
The long and the invisible
While reaching out for God
Or something close enough
To break your heart and leave
You weeping out from joy
In heated beds of doubt beguiled
All misplaced, regained, removed
And locked up safely somewhere
Once, or maybe twice

Always irate
Never chaste
Laying waste
Like, cut and paste
Ever-present
Incandescent
Incessant depressant
Acting prepubescent.
Sour
Acidic
Trauer
Bromidic
Bitter
Bullshitter
Yeah, I hit her.
Created a stir.
Not really a blur.
I concur,
Your mind is as solid as vapeur.
I’m trying to with it, but I just might spit it.
You’re potent, my Sweet Lemonade.
Now I’m sure the pulp of my chest will mature.
My wrath, I will choose to detour.
Though I’m secure, I’ll fight with fervor.
You better cry for an ally.
My Sweet Lemonade.