War Against The Blank Page

I pretend to be a poet but struggle with writer’s block. Sometimes the accomplishment is putting anything at all on paper. Only things I consider “finished” have titles. Let’s find inspiration together #watbp

[poetryunpoetically]

Haunted

I have watched leaves die, fall to the earth to be crunched underfoot, trees left naked, waiting for another season to dress them only for the leaves to die again, ad nauseum. And, yet, it is always winter in my heart and my steps heavy like trudging through snow. But there is never any snow --never a winter wonderland-- just cold shivers, a resistance to moving on. Can a thing have a ghost if it was never a living, breathing thing? I am haunted by us, not just by you, but the equation of you and I. I am besieged by specters, not just traces of your skin on mine or the taste of your lips on my tongue or the sound of your laughter around every corner, but even by my own laughter chasing yours. My own smile is a ghost, now; as is my sense of peace. I can see your smile in the sunrise, still; see our own faces replace those of people holding hands and embracing as if I am the ghost, some cosmic voyeur peeping in our own life. And all too frequently I am on my knees screaming into dark days, except they all feel like dark days and even darker nights. I shout out to whatever power is listening to just bring you back to me or exorcise me of these ghosts. Shouting so loudly, so earnestly that my throat goes hoarse and I can't speak for days. I’m covered in bruises and scars. I’m not supposed to talk about it, but I’ve started my own fight club beating myself up over what could have been done differently. Could I have just tried even harder? Could I have given more than my everything? Could I have done anything to save us? I have a new black eye. Deep down, I know there is no finger to point; we are not an earthquake, there is no finding fault. It was not my fault. It was not your fault. It was no one’s fault. We were a thrift store puzzle. A used thing. An abraded thing. Pieces were missing, torn, some just didn’t fit. Our picture would never be complete and that’s just how it is, sometimes. Neither of us are to blame—I know this. Yet, I still can’t shake the what-ifs, the spirit of our good times. I am cursed. But even if there was a number to call, some sort of agency or team to come to my rescue, where would these ghostbusters even aim their proton guns and how much of me would they take with them? Do I really want all the memories of us erased? Would a spotless mind pour sunshine onto my winter? If only Doc Brown would drive up in his DeLorean, I wouldn’t question the impossibility of his offer. Despair pairs well with improbable hope. I would certainly take that ride, risk getting struck by lightning, slamming into a wall at 88mph, going back in time over and over, if need be all so I could learn how to fix an us that couldn’t be repaired.

[poetryunpoetically]

There’s a stranger at the window

And I don’t know which one of us

Is the man outside looking in

[poetryunpoetically]

They call it depression but I say I'm sleep enthused. And why not? In dreams I've got a big ol' set of boobs. And they're mine, all mine, sitting proudly on my chest just as my body created. No pills inflated no doctors hands upgraded these rather divine breasts. Wherever I go, I gather lustful stares and wives cast evil glares whispering their obscenities. But it's not my fault that biology gifted me with all this titty. And, oh, sure, god and country hate me for not being a cis white man and to control my body they pass all the laws they can. Yet for all their hate no court can legislate my titties away. Alas, though, when I wake it's into man flesh and man pecs. This body is all wrong missing feminine curves and breasts. Alas, though, when I wake I'm faced with a nation full of hate. I am called abomination. I am called devil incarnate. I'm just here wanting nothing except to feel pretty in my skin-- to match outside how I feel within. Makeup here and there, a cute little dress. But, holy books in the air, they call me a sin; call themselves oppressed. If I was made by god and am an aberration, how could he be perfect yet fail in my creation? I am cast the blame for the all the ills, the reason for every good thing lost from economy to public health, I even put Jesus up on the cross. Thus because I am so abhorred Lady Liberty has locked her doors; My government turned off the lights. It's been declared my life is not a right. So how could I be anything except depressed? Or obsessed with being asleep? The land of my birth is failing me. My dreams have nowhere else to be.

[poetryunpoetically]

Seedling

A supple seedling sought sanctuary and discovered sustenance in my palm. In short time, its roots burrowed under my skin and siphoned life from my veins. Nurtured by my warmth, nourished by my blood, at last the seedling blossomed in my unclosing hand—a ravishing crimson rose, a testament to the artistry of nature. Every day, I gazed upon this rose in scrutinizing admiration, watching it grow more exquisite by the minute. Each beat of my heart pumped precious life to this rose, grafting our souls together—I could feel it breathe, could taste the sweetness of the sun, could feel the wind on its petals as if against my own flesh.

But how I regret, in one single act of angered negligence, I clenched my fist and crushed this rose, perfect rose that I adored—in turn, destroying a part of my soul as crimson dripped from between my fingers.

[poetryunpoetically]

Runaway

My heart coveted your company more than my own; stuffed into your sewing kit as merely a cushion skewered by pins and needles, strangled by endless tangles of yarn—my heart rested happier there than the custom fit and protection of my chest. I had to build up a fence to keep it inside. But I underestimated the height. My heart broke loose to run after you. Streetlamps and milk cartons hold posters Have you seen me? yet my phones is silent with information regarding my runaway. I do not blame you. It was my poor measurements, too meager a reward for the trouble. You’re neither thief nor murderer-- yet, still, I am a victim of you.

[poetryunpoetically]

Romantic

Put the cigarette down you rebellious daughter. Let me take a drag from your ashtray mouth. Put an orange glow to my eyes, music of the flame to my ears. Singe my flesh with ember fingertips, fill my breast with the heat of you. Breathe me your cancer, make my lungs tarred as yours. Try and try as I might but I can’t cough you out of me. Such a beautiful sight as our disease takes over. How romantic it will be             --our hearts turning to ash                          while our lives blow away              with smoky exhalations.

[poetryunpoetically]

Naturally

I despise those girls at the gym, the skinny ones mascara perfect, black spandex tight against contours and curves beckoning with every squat hip thrust and toe tap those skinny girls that spend afternoons on the treadmill without breaking a sweat and still manage to smell sweetly leading us to believe it happens so effortlessly so naturally even though their robust breasts don’t bounce

[poetryunpoetically]

Threads

There is a reason we have jell-o bowls and not jell-o nets, yet somehow so few strings contain her, levees against a hurricane of flesh; her outfit just one thread shy of indecent exposure. Her sky-scraper heels, clearly constructed for earthquake zones, miraculously do not collapse under tectonic thighs and each step of her strut is a marvel of modern engineering.

Her hips sway from side to side like hams calling those hungry to feast, or like wrecking balls waiting to do damage to things standing erect. You can see in the way she makes eye contact that she just knows men want a hearty plate of meat overflowing and not a pile of scraps and bone for breakfast; her smirk says she just knows she is a living, breathing Victoria's Secret ad that men pretend they don't look at, except she's let all her secrets flop out. Looking at her, I only think of CHP billboards- the ones that showcase grotesquely wrecked cars warning of the bad decisions you can make. What desperation could possibly lead you here? I see her daily as we pass each other on very different walks to work. I smile and exchange flirtatious pleasantries, sometime even bring her coffee, because I am a decent human. I wait until I’m home again to get online where no one can see me and fat shame anonymously.

[poetryunpoetically]

Burnt

You give expensive presents but your presence is cheap, leaves me feeling worthless. I attempt to tempt love from your lips but you return empty kisses squeamishly as though I were a corpse. Meeting your gaze feels shameful like walking in on your parents fucking. (I even blush.) In the vacant catacombs of your eyes flames of a crematorium blaze. I’m not even dead yet; but in this glance, I learn that we are. I can’t help but sweat as my lips turn to ash, as my love goes up in flames.

[poetryunpoetically]

As I commit the most American act today —gluttony, I am thankful that our forefathers chose friendship and peace with the indigenous peoples and, in turn, were taught to make mac and cheese so that this land would be eternally welcoming to all people, both native and foreign

[poetryunpoetically]

I do not believe In love at first sight, maybe not a second, third or tenth ; I look in the mirror every day, after all. If there’s even one person to want me, Shouldn’t it at least be me?

[poetryunpoetically]

Despite working overtime and coming home haggard yet still dragging myself to the gym

Despite therapy

Despite refusing to consume coffee, and soda, and chocolate, really anything that brings joy

Despite medications that are borderline tranqulizers

Despite meditation

Despite a deluxe new memory foam bed that feels like a cloud

Despite temperature settings, and weighted blankets, body pillows, soothing sounds, and no blue lights

Despite it all, I’m still awake

I’m still awake, I’m still awake

There is no learning to sleep next to your absence

[poetryunpoetically]

I was already a broken man when you found me; an empty vessel, unfit for any holding, somehow keeping it together despite cracks spiderwebbing across my body. Like a museum display, tagged "Fragile: Do Not Touch." I accepted my place until you ignored the sign, called it an accident.

Finally, I shattered. Yes, I was damaged before you But the blood is on your fingers

[poetryunpoetically]

You may be reading my words But I’m no real writer. Real writers write. Real writers fuck the page. Real writers throb With the words pulsing in their blood. A steady pumping out Topic after topic, story after story. No enzyte can fix my lack of performance.

I just jot. Running when late doesn’t make me a runner. This poem, last months, any before that- They are aberrations. Ejaculation doesn’t mean I had sex. I can only do this when lighting strikes. And it don’t storm much in L.A.

[poetryunpoetically]

I have dodged a bullet but maybe regret saving myself because I fell in love with the gun-- admired it's deft amalgam of sensual curves and utilitarianism; the explosive mix of risk and protection; how it could say so much with so little

[poetryunpoetically]

I loved you before we ever met. And It wasn't just a case of loneliness seeking a cure, but how I have sought you. From afar, I admired. Across all space, one star held my unwavering gaze, one star amongst multitudes the soul of my yearning. The dust of me holds this memory long after the light went out. Imagine my surprise meeting you here, like this, in the flesh. You are still radiant.

[poetryunpoetically]

A Little Less Constipation, A Little More Action

1. Elvis died on the toilet. Copious opioid usage led to daunting intestinal blockage. But it's the straining and holding your breath that kills you, even without 30 pounds of constipation.

How much does a memory weigh? I have to remind myself to exhale as I crap out memories of us. Maybe I've been holding my breath too long.

2. Toilet paper is on a roll... but only since its patent in 1883. Early Americans relied upon corn cobs. The Romans had communal sponges on sticks. And even earlier, sea shells weren't safe.

I wiped my ass with your pictures, left the mess aflame at your doorstep. Disgusting, I know; shame on me. But I was only ever your dirty joke.