Day 45 – Welcome to the Junkyard

It only would’ve lasted
until I knew for sure-
fascination ended by
an answer, at last-
a thirst for the truth
to settle things
in their right place:

“What happened?”

The gears would turn,
try to paint it in different lights-
the liar, the troubled, the confused-
which mask would it come down to?
But I didn’t expect

the least interesting mask of all.
The least helpful, least true
this mask of spared feelings-
to dishonor with lies
for fear of the hurt.

“Was any of it real?
Was it always in my head?”

A half-truth implied for protection.
A flimsy excuse to keep using.

I placed no blame on the blameless heart,
but the mouth who said nothing
and kept eating, who kept
accepting gifts, so easily
erased…

You were just an open box
I couldn’t pack away
because I didn’t know what
to put in it.

No friend should ever lie
so effortlessly;
no one who needs
should use so much.
This, now
I know.

I put a flask
and a pack of cigarettes
and a mask-

Be well
and

welcome to the junkyard.

 

 

Day 37 – Bedtime Banter

“Honey why’s there sugar in the bed?”

“Prolly ’cause your bod is so sweet.”

“No for real, were you eating those Peeps in bed again?”

“Who would ever eat those cute little things?”

“Quit playin’ and tell the truth.”

“Fine, it’s from you ’cause you so salty.”

“…I’m gonna go eat hot Cheetos in your bed, brb”

“EXCUSE ME FOR SAVING YOU A SNACK”

*End scene*

 

Day 15 – Kings

What do you do
when you are small
and the world is unfair?

What do you do
when you can’t stand up,
can’t prove it,
can’t speak out,

but can’t keep on
the same way anymore?

What do you do
when you’re right
but no one cares?

What do you do
when they’ll laugh if you quit
but keep spitting if you carry on?

Do you turn to stone?
Do you just go mad?

Do you write a poem
and call it a day?

Are we all going to die
like this
either way?

Or are some of us
really
born kings?

Day 1 – Untitled

The thing is, I don’t trust a lot of people, but I trust me. I trust that if I feel done with poetry, no amount of forcing it is ever going to help. I trust that I’ll never let myself become so wrapped up in the parade of “being a writer” that I no longer write things I love. I trust that I’ll come back around to poetry sooner or later, when it feels right.

– April 25, 2015

If you are truthful with yourself,
the truth will never change.
How nice it will be to look back
and see that you were right,
that you did know what you meant
after all, and regardless of the road,
your choices were yours;
how soothing to roll back the past
and hear your own voice,
still sounding like you.

You Called Me A Contra

I was supposed to call you
every now and then,
I was supposed to ask you
how you’ve been.

But once you drove far enough away
not to care anymore
I never did.

I still know a song about dinosaurs we wrote
but I don’t know a thing
about you now.

Because you’d shave your head in secret
and say that we were close,
because you called me a contra
after all that time.

We were never supposed to change,
were we?

All that talk about honesty,
it came with hard conditions,
and I was never really the plan.
Not a contra.

It’s been a hundred years
but I think you’re fine
that I never called
’cause you called me a contra.

And a hundred years of maybe
becoming a contra
after all.

Blood Tide

You open your mouth
and the blood tide rolls your heart
out over the kitchen tiles,
a rubber mockery of all those shameful times
you’ve done this before.

You hoped this time
that someone would bring a bucket,
you can’t be trusted with this,
the horrors you unleash, you splash on linoleum,
bowl full of innocent fruit.

You stare, cough uncontrollably,
melt in a heap for less than a minute,
apologize frantically,
look what a mess you’ve made, what a terror you’ve brought
but you’re up

on your knees all hours of the night,
breathing haze from your bottle of bleach.