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La Poesie Est Dans La Rue En Couleur Pleine De Vie.

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untitled

6/6/22

Oh, how 5 a.m has creeped up on me yet again.

Time goes by so fast, yet, I feel as though I am standing still.

Cocooned in warm blankets, bloodshot eyes are a forever statement of myself.

I'm getting bad again.

The news isn't new, as I'm sure you know.

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blue eyed boy

11/22/2020

I arrived at 5:00 a.m.

My suitcase rolling behind my feet, my heart in the pit of my stomach.

I sign my name, and the elevator ride was so long, but a meer 5 seconds long.

They poked my veins.

I listen to the machines beep, they echoed into my soul.

Wrapping my arms around a lady in blue scrubs, 4 needles go in.

Numb from chest to toes.

She makes the cut.

I lay crucified to a table; Strapped down and convulsing.

15 minutes felt like 15 hours, I could only feel my chest.

I was impatiently waiting for you.

The table shook, my stomach nauseated; I smell alcohol.

My mother held my hand.

10:48 a.m.

And then, I hear you.

Your cries brought a tear of euphoria down my cheek.

"Hi, baby."

One look into your blue eyes, and I found my reason for this life.

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Untitled.

11/22/2020

I feel as though, I've lost myself.

Between the years of giving my all; Whole heartedly.

I've lost myself.

Often times, I fear I may never find me again.

Where did she go?

Parts of her being left behind at each aching resting point.

I just want her back.

To be happy and expressive, artistic and colorful.

We are always changing.

This I know and accept.

My intuition and intentions are to find her.

To hug her.

To kiss her.

To repair her.

I hope I find her.

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untitled.

2/17/2019

With love, comes hurt. 

A concept has no meaning without an opposing force.

But what is this concept (love), has brought nothing but that?

How long does one travel in a universe where hidden behind love, is constant hurt?

These are questions I have begun to ask myself. More than once. Daily.

And for those who wonder, we all know who you are.

The gentle type.

One’s who extract every ounce of their kindness and inject it into the world.

Manic depressives.

The, might I say, easy to manipulate, human forms.

And we ask ourselves..

“How?”

“Why?”

“... Again?”

Because when you are alive (Yet, barely living) in a world where you ARE the easy to manipulate...

You see it.

Things change, and you trust it.

Here it is, again,

“Why?”

I, myself, am an easy to manipulate.

And as days turn into weeks,

Weeks turn into months,

Months turn into years,

It appears that the “Why”’s, grow very, very old.

And every time my “Again”’s come about,

It takes every ounce of me to build myself back up,

The concept only repeats.

I am lost. I feel as though I will be lost, for quite awhile.

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feet under the bath

8/27/2018

The water is warm as it cocoons my skin,

I enjoy myself, my feet have never fit the length of a tub before.

Under the bath, I feel the pressure pushing me down.

And a sensational expression creeps upon my teeth.

Relaxing every muscle but my smile, I feel whole, I feel at home.

Because for once in my life, I am.

For, I have had roofs over my head.

Walls around my body.

Baths far too small for my feet to reach.

But here, I extend, and I am encased with the small current.

Feet under the bath, I am home.

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Swallowed, without chewing.

1/30/2018

What I am feeling, has swallowed me (whole) tonight.

And without clenching its jaw, I glide down, seamlessly, through the throat of this giant.

It never has made any sense, for my life is pure sugar.

But, my teeth still rot, they chip apart, and dance upon my tongue.

Hours earlier, I see myself.

Laughing and dancing with him,

Amongst my kitchen,

Between scents of the stove top and his content cologne.

I question myself-

"How did this happen so quick?"

When everything was just fine,

I cling on to when the world made sense for a minute.

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t h i r s t .

1/24/2017

Rabbit holes: The Earths equivalent to pores.

Masked in dirt and parasites, beetles crawl out through my face.

I begin to itch my skin (a shovel in the mud).

"Water the flowers," they say, "But never feed the weeds."

Imprints of shoes and fossils (decades old) gather up in bundles within.

Roots are growing, outright-

"Though I have dirt, I am the I am."

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Maniacal love.

1/22/2018

Water seeps into the gravel, the gravel cradles my skull.

I lye upside down, and I wonder why the gravel does not seep me in, too.

But when the rain becomes too much, puddles begin to form,

The current washes me away from the upside down spot where I lay,

And brings me ashore to your feet.

Where I look up to you, you look upside down, too,

Both washed away, but I seep in to you.

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Honey lips.

1/1/2017

Honey drips from my lips,

To my chin,

It travels.

My jaw locks up at the site of you.

As I begin to grind my teeth,

You kiss my honey lips.

Lick my honey chin.

Soon, bite my honey neck.

You are a starving bee,

My pores are the equivalent to your honey comb.

Feed from me,

Honey drips from my lips.

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A burnt tongue in hot water.

12/19/2017

What the future holds for me, I will never know.

Here in the present is where I seem to struggle the most.

I burn my tongue on this mug, and I over exaggerate how bad I wish the pain would end.

My everyday life plays out like the last line written.

What the future holds for me, I will never know.

But I know that my hours feel like seconds when all I think about is the current wreck that my brain is in.

In these seconds, the future is not on my mind, my mind is captivated by what could bring my misery to a stand still.

My everyday life plays out like the last line written.

What the future holds for me, I will never know.

But at times, I think about my mother.

My mother, who I am a spitting image of.

My father, who has never let another bring harm to me.

My mother, who never worries about the future.

My father, who is a man of perfecting the present.

Both parents who go through hell to make sure that my brain is not as bad as it seems,

And I try my best to have my life play out like the last line written.

What the future holds for me, I will never know.

But at times, I catch myself wishing for a daughter.

A daughter who looks like her father.

A father who has an abundance of love for her mother.

A mother who is me, who need not worries about the future,

Because her daughter and daughter's father play out like the last line written.

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Baby hairs.

11/4/2017

Knees buckle in the cold air,

And when the wind blows, it moves my baby hairs, they dance.

We fold dollar bills into paper planes.

In the midst of my hair dance, they whirl around our heads.

The currency hits the ground, and I think about your brain.

I would pick you apart, given the chance.

Goosebumps raise on the back of your neck,

You start to dig my skin out from under your nails.

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Rib cage homes and sound wave heart beats.

10/4/2017

Do you feel me, knocking around in your rib cage?

Hanging paintings off of your sternum to bring my new home to life.

The sound of your heart pumps a new-aged tune throughout my ears,

And your eyes are the stained glass windows, drawing in light behind lash curtains.

These lungs smell thickly of cigarette smoke.

As they extend, the square footage does, too.

How can one body be equipped with so much comfort?

I never even knocked on the door.

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9/14/2017 - Love me.

My mind has a potent scent mixture of old torn books on the highest shelf and cheap gas station perfume.

My pores sweat out what I take in.

If only people knew about the way I danced when I turn the lights off,

If only people knew about the way my lips feel so soft.

Tree bark hair kisses the nape of my neck, and the small of my back caves in like a moon crater.

Lanky arms mimic the sea, salt-filled and wrapped around all bodies.

Dew-melon eyes with pin point pupils sleep silently under the veiny blanket cover eyelids that are believed to be my safe place.

My womb, my protection, my get away driver.

"All that smoke will tarnish your lungs, baby.", they say,

"We can only get so much higher from here.".

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Everyday's.

9/12/2017

It appears so malicious to see the world this faintly, but my eyes sometimes glaze over, and the fog thickens like mud.

A right hook kisses my jaw, I spit blood from my lips, all I hope is to be kissed anyways.

Overdosing on the normality of being alone, my pale skin caresses the steaming pavement, and I look up to think about the way that my everydays will one day be exposed to change.

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9-5-2017 The sun kissed my freckled skin, the gravel mixed between my toes, sage and tree sap danced through my nose, and I allowed myself to let go.

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Twisted.

9-5-2017

Embaressed by the notes these words have, because your love for me was that of the protection of thin paper as the rain pours; The ink bled, and so did I.

You've hurt me.

My body quivered under your grasp, but I am free, now.

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As time goes by.

8/20/2017 You are my womb. My body is wrapped in all that you are. Warmth, I feel your blood. This man, the pace of your heart has me drifting to sleep. And I breathe in your fumes. A simple mix of cheap cologne and what we hide inside of the dryer. You are my favorite color, the minute hand on every clock, you are the mist that cloaks my eyes, and I love you so.