In my sleep, I cry
My existence will melt
Before these lines are ever read.
These hands are
Sad and unsure and immobile.
They produce Xerox poetry
From a barely functioning woman.
I am so, so, so tired of
Kind of dreams.
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Don’t stop talking.
Let me hear the echo of your voice
Resonating against the chambers of my head.
Don’t stop talking.
Maybe I’ll still hear you when I’m
Don’t stop talking,
But don’t you touch me.
Don’t you grab my shoulders.
Let me hear you
Before I crack against the mountain side.
So don’t stop talking.
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Dreary, drizzling Saturday night,
Looking for something to brew my blood.
I’ve been out on nights like this before,
Treaded on a few old wounds,
But tonight is the starless night
My habits can’t find their way around.
Maybe if she knew
How her wildflower thoughts
Had hit my machinery heart,
She’d have more remorse
Running around in that beating stone.
One step, another twitch in the chest,
Wandering around in this thrashing dark.
Wish I would’ve stayed in love
I believe I found the right place.
A neon sign flickers above,
“Come on inside,”
“Take a dive into the mild side.”
Five footsteps and five flinches,
I’m inside and cozy like a lost mutt.
No where to go,
Nothing to see
Except a no-eyed face in the greasy mirror
The place smells like regret,
Feels like immobile desperation
Unrotted zombies sulk around.
Dead souls think alike
And I think I can’t feel my head
I drink to drown the abstract of her love
From my mind.
Watch it swirl down the drain
And then out of my ears.
Maybe then I could hear myself think
And know what I felt
Was nothing more than fluid buildup
In my head.
I’m not in love,
But let’s pretend.
Our kind is not good at that.
Our time doesn’t allow that.
Just come closer.
My blood cells grab onto my viens
Awaiting the force of impact.
I won’t tell you my heartfelt lines . . .
Because they would be lies . . .
Just come closer,
Two shots of blackened caffeine
To harden my veins ’til I have no choice
But to stand upright with stand-still eyelids.
The one stop shop to no stop.
The Jazz Age in a Styrofoam cup.
Fitzgerald’s active displeasure
Sprinkled as a galaxy swirl
On top of a white cloud,
Flavorful enough to inspire.
I awoke somewhat alive,
But now I’m lively dead.
Refill me again and again
Until I tremble and shake so much
I see beyond my imagined infinity.
Frequently, I found her name waiting—
Waiting for me to call it out
To be a part of my active conscious
And also, quite selfishly, my subdued subconscious.
Her name has a backbone.
It can stand alone
From who she really is.
If her name slips out the mouth
Like the smoke of mint Hookah
Whilst rolling off the cushion of a soft pair of lips,
It cracks like a whip in air.
The name does not match the face.
Not woman, but
The name is harsh,
Just another lie
To cover her trembling truth.
She’s simply an adult
Still playing dressup in a grownup’s clothes.
As evident for weeks and months,
She’s as lost as she says she is.
Fucked as she says.
That ping-pong love.
I call her name,
I yearn for her face,
I fiend for that love
Until whipmarks and hypocrisy stripe my body
With the sweetest of blood.
I have ran into a writer’s drought the vastness of the Gobi Desert.
I grew into the shoes of an adult and threw them out because, hey, She’s back.
I stumbled and fell on stones in my flee from my Dark Comfort.
I watched someone walk out of my life, and I still want to know the essential question:
“Do you ever think of me anymore?”
I gained a close comrade or two and learned how the world AK-47ed their hearts.
I celebrated as higher learning opened its expensive arms and accepted me into its machine.
I found a potential, but I’m not sure how long she’ll stand me.
Where has the time gone?