Poem: 3 missed calls

I want to fall in love

flowers, bouquet, floral

Would you rather keep all the memories you have up until now?
Or start all over again
I ask you while we’re walking alongside the fog, the mountains
The sea on the other side
Would you want to live this life over?
I pick at a four-leaf clover
Come over for dinner, and let’s go out for dessert
I want to fall in love
But I don’t want it to hurt
I dig through the dirt

The sea on the other side

But I don’t want it to hurt

I feel lost and alone
Statements I never thought I’d share
I’ve shed enough of my personality to the point where I’m rebuilding it
Look at me in this black dress, how’s the fit of it?
I have panic attacks, I can’t manage it
But I do
I do

Sunday evening, watching the news
Holding the baby
You come in, new vinyl in, midtown Blues
Just thinking, I think I found a clue
About what you’re about to do
You feed off opportunity, I’ll catch up to you

pink, rose, flower
Collapsing all of the time

Going 120 miles per hour, I need the sky to go from blue to grey
I can’t stand up straight when things don’t go my way
I fall into the warm bath
Slip under, wet my long hair
Blue and blues and blue again
Turn me into someone I’m not
Tell me it’s my phone number you’ve forgot
My voicemail at the end of your beat on SoundCloud
Think you can bring a tough crowd?
You, and your life — are you proud?
It’s 500 Fahrenheit
Am I shouting too loud?
Too distracted trying to deal, barely making a sound

In a daze- it’s a familiar haze

I slip and fall into the bath
Wash my hair, scrub my porcelain face
Trying not to have a third panic attack
The dial kept going, you said you’d call right back
I’m a masterpiece in God’s eyes
I’m a drug in them guys’ eyes

But when I look at myself
(And I’m screaming and shouting)
And I pull my hair out
(And I’m screaming and shouting)
And the fog rolls in
(And I’m screaming and –

3 missed calls

blue lagoon, pool, swimming

Share this poem to other places of the internet:


Poem: Cushion-cut sparkles & your vinyl on my wall

My favorite time in Chicago is when it snows

The happiest, the saddest

My father never met my lover

Wash my soft, graceful face with rosewater
He never told anybody but I know I was his favorite daughter
We weren’t the kind to shop in departments
Me and my collages, alone in my apartment
The brick wall where I hung your vinyl cover
That I took on polaroid
In the Spring

Every birthday of mine is spent at a rose garden
Didn’t catch your last insult, I beg your pardon?
I’m decaying slowly
Can everyone tell?
A marine biologist
Tall, and bright in his field
Who only owns one plastic shell
He says the real things – they never actually sell
A set of crucifixes, medium-well
You cheat on your wife, your friends never tell

 


I’d never depart

I loved to love you; you loved to be loved by me

I remember when.

Keepsakes
My engagement ring
Beloved thing
Almost died, how beautiful of a Spring
I love diamonds, yes I do
The shine, the glamour
Reminds me of somebody I think about being
But have no route to that sort of life
See the deep amber skies
Can’t ever tell if people are saying hello or their final goodbyes
I’ve got the most beautiful green eyes
But a boy never told me that
And I don’t ever expect one to
I just read about it in the novels
Jane Austen, Aldous Huxley
Mansfield Park, Charlotte Bronte
Things fall apart
Oh yeah
Things
Fall
Apart

In the mirror, I look so strange

Most scathing dissection of the hollowness
That American society barely trembles on
Dystopian but generic
I hate to speak out loud
Hate that irreversible girl sound
Hypnotic, devastating
Tell me I’m hopelessly divine!
I think I lost my tablet –
The great tragedy of our time!

I picked out my children’s names
Then decided to never conceive
Unless my husband said please
Chest to ground, down on his knees

When my lost love proposed to me
I had one beautiful engagement ring
Later that season
He said goodbye to me
I sold it for free

We shall part like the sea
As if it was ever to be
I would’ve died happily

I would’ve died gratefully

 

I would have died fulfilled and free
The lost art of caring for me


Instagram


Soundcloud


Envelope


Rss

Provide feedback: Questions, comments, critiques, submissions, songs I should listen to.  * * * *

Ça fait longtemps que ma transformation intérieure a commencé.

“A really great talent finds its happiness in execution.” – Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

I really like that sentiment and see how it can apply to the way my life has been slowly turning around. I’ve changed some habits, rid of others, and cultivated some new ideas regarding the direction I want my life to move in. These are stressful times, but the music I listen to, the art I create and surround myself with, and other peoples’ contributions- literary, research-based, or in social situations, all constitute the rise of this change in mentality. It’s been a long time coming and I’m not “here” yet, but I’m executing, I sure am executing.

L’amour l’emporte.

1 year of living in the same residence. It’s bittersweet but hazy. The same four walls, the same pitfalls. To what degree can a human life change? I find it interesting how much the view changes from the other side of the hill. Where it’s still.

My place is still like a landfill.

I mean — don’t freak out; it’s minimal and all. Duh. But there’s something about the fabric of the curtains, something about the unfinished art projects I put to the side, and keep there. Lately I’ve been working on more pieces, but it’s a steady growth. And that sums up my living in this space, this enclosure — with this vast area of breathing life around me. I am beginning to sound a bit too Romanticism-era (literature) which cracks me up because why not. I can keep my prose & manifest dreams or something of that nature.

Il n’est nul besoin de la présenter.

A young, courageous & feminine adult who wears dresses year-round / Seeking to make life more romantic. Loves the most to be photographing flowers, and urban & chaotic settings and imagery. Spending hours in rose gardens is heaven.

I am not immune to the wonders of the darkness; at times this is where I recoil. But this new, grand gesture of stepping out into the hot sunshine has left me with flushed cheeks and a warm hospitality. / An introvert, an ambivalent trajectory, multiple passes for cursing despite attempts to be more polite. Writes poems while waiting in line. Flirts with language.

Writing preserves memories, and I need those. I wonder where this will take me.

portland rose test garden
OCTOBER 6, 2019