When I buy a used book and see
someone made notes but stopped
at some mysterious page. I
wonder what happened to her.
Did she die? Was the book misplaced?
I expect a written explanation.
But there is none. Then I wonder
if I will read that far and will I
even make any discernible mark.
The annoyance turns into
anticipation as I turn the page.
Be me.
What's this longing that has me chase after it?
So needy for it which is why it's eluding me.
Not like I was born for it but it's my refuge.
Now that I think about it I can see why:
never felt safe otherwise unless it's pretend;
an excuse to explore the world in others' skin;
mom & dad won't approve that's half the reason;
it's the only way to be me without being condemned.
No title.
Have you encountered yourself?
I have not. It's not something
I like thinking about. I see
the upside of buried in toil &
forget about my will. But,
I can not: wounded pride &
nowhere to hide or
hiding too well. Life is
harder on the mind &
soul. The body follows
a moment too soon. You'll
miss everything if you truly
live. Is it better than
not knowing? I wish you
get used to hurting yourself.
Then maybe be whole.
Indulgence.
Long have I forgotten,
candle-lit streets, moon kiss.
I've grasped the reason
then put in a spin.
Counterweight of malice
ships the sweet poison.
So soon have I forgotten,
long I've been indulging:
I'm here with life,
but it doesn't stay for me.
A love poem to an orange.
You smell like the essence of joy.
You have the color of sunset squeezed,
rejoicing the violence by dri-dripping
the most tantalizingly consistent
pulpy sediment, shamelessly healthy.
No wonder you sustained me
when I swallowed the bitter medicine.
You're elixir of life in my palm,
yet they only call you an orange.
Voices.
Every night I'm scared
of the opportunities lost.
When I close my eyes,
it's party time for my thoughts.
I never cared for survival
yet something bids me to strive.
Is it my spirit, my mother or
the craziness that wants to get out?
Badass.
I've never loved,
too chicken to do it.
There're always excuses,
a mile long & growing.
It's the ultimate bravery
in a world that's random & cold.
It's a moment of rebirth
when you start to let it loose.
Give-a-shit is the ultimate badassery.
Low expectations.
Other people's expectations give me pause,
and yet every step of my life, every moment,
I have expectations of.
I didn't give life enough room to breathe.
Because of fear and expectations.
Maybe loosen the grip just a bit?
Black ice.
An iceberg flips over when it dies.
Its pristine soul released to the sky.
The moment of beauty when
nature disintegrates,
would you listen otherwise?
Shame.
They didn't care I never smiled,
never talked about what I want
or what makes me happy.
It's over their heads, I know.
They're not the adults, I'm
not their kid. It's an entanglement
so hard to leave. Because of
all the love wasted, lying open,
bugs, flies, shame-infested.
All the buttons made & pressed deep.
It takes a flood to wipe it clean.
I need it clean. The same faces.
Time is the flood, we just lay there
and wait.
hotsurf_ 