Too beautiful to me, it is The way the truth falls but doesn’t diminish its overwhelming servitude Grief like hollow images and stills To be flawed and fawned with grey embers & soft wax Rolled on Ireland’s greenest pastures My dream garden My avalanche
I wake up endlessly absolving my sins, unraveling for you Tell me what it is you want me to do I’m so aware of what I can and cannot be And I think it’s best you not be there for me I tire in my own sleep
Morning cereal For four in the afternoon You wash over me like an Avalanche Like my dream garden White roses and picket fences, freshly painted Soft tuberose fragrance Dismantling me from within Fabricated and built in great jeopardy Soft and of the finest fabric
I think of you in waterfalls, that I’ve never seen before I ask you to close the door I’m impatient in the mornings but by evening so wrapped up in comatose fiber sheath Toying with my own nerves On purpose Like a fever dream Like ants unscrambled Running out of fear, hiding beneath dust Moving pollen and feathers to their corporate offices
When I pass by you on the street With my kitten heels and utmost softness Try not to Try not to
Go back to your dream garden Your avalanche Beneath dust
Connected by the sheer composition that melts in broad daylight Collectively held at A disadvantage Brought together in the Spring when the ambiance paints a different mood For the dust underneath the conjoining ether Without reserve Still and unenthusiastic Hopeful, yet without meaning
Find me in my personal dream garden When the smoke clears
You know I stopped myself before I could love you But We broke apart And I can’t help but stare At your blank, sad face And the only thing sad about it Is that you’re not afraid to let me go You’re not afraid to let
I tried to wake up But I’m always on the wrong side of the bed We never got to have that night in the hotel We never got to have that heavenly first dance The first and the last pages don’t make me too sad It’s the way the world turns Your fingers latched on Not very tight Like a blouse that’s unloosened A foggy memory that never becomes clear
I’m trying to relive the skyscrapers and unraveling chaos Though all that comes to mind in abstract vision and delusion, Is you screaming in my direction Telling me to stop Telling me to stop Telling me to stop
What makes you so afraid To show love to an unloved person The way you play guitar It makes me so sad It makes me so sad Not for anything do you feel bad Like grey, fallen embers on a cold winter night Even though you’d say you’d never Be there for me Your sovereignty Your power
And I remember you Telling me to stop Telling me to stop Telling me to Telling me to stop
Feeling the things that only I do The distance that separates me from jagged, carbon you In ocean waves, we grasp at what feels familiar What’s underneath us will quench our thirst Yours, preferably Mine, isn’t regarded Unless it’s four in the afternoon & the sun is piercing your nerves Telling you that these antics are your last fatal curse I’m far removed To tell you the truth I do only the things the boldest among us do
I don’t wait until there’s nothing left to take In the distance between your brown eyes And these soft, fallen embers of Victorian blue Crawl back Crawl back Panic attack Mesh and in pieces Forgive me for grieving
All ends in love, and love has its reasons Come find me Come find me Come find me Come find me
It’s so unnerving Like an earthquake on purpose It’s so delectable Like you’ve lost your ability to reason
I’m always portrayed as the one who leaves the throne Gown is disheveled, porcelain skin intact Like an earthquake on purpose Telling me to stop
Feeling the things that only I do What has become of rage has given its way to you
He tells me Not to get too excited As we sit alongside the deep-blue riverbed But me – I’ve been counting down the days I saw my chamomile flowers bloom, then close, and fall apart in the duration of one week As I hadn’t changed the water I was distracted by the sparkle Of the morning’s horizon As it painted me in shades of pink I couldn’t quite capture on film
California outlawed flavoured vape products I know, I’m mourning it heavily Now I find myself smoking non-menthol cigarettes in my parking lot Like my father did, in his Amber tones of his skin shining like Diamonds you pick back up from the jewelry store That line your blue-tinted watch with a brand painted in cursive ink Like your mother’s Russian handwriting Soft in all of the Roughest places
My afternoon gaze is Thick with gloom and hope, both at the same time I’m wrapped in my navy ‘Windy City’ sweater that I bought at a Walgreens Where it took four cashiers to properly ring up my alcoholic drink, too Because the cashiers were mostly underage But we were on the same page Laughing about how liquor makes the turbulent flight go smoothly And how I’ll wrap myself in bridal magazines and read the new Forbes “thirty under thirty” list Knowing I won’t make it on there in less than three years Cutoffs are so harsh, isn’t it maddening Life is so funny sometimes, at the right times I’ll fade to November grey like a collapsing sky I’ll lay my head down and never, ever wonder why I’ll endure the gradual passage of time
He adjusted his collar And we laughed about who is taller Because me, my small frame, I take up so little of space Though I feel like if I spread my fingertips, they’ll reach the mountains Surrounded by cherry stems and cascading fountains Waterfalls along the trail where my senior terrier walks on her own self-created path My glimmer of hope in this brittle, dark night Made for a hollow tin of little coloured cards stolen from the paint store Where we wrote our biggest dreams on Gathering the courage to set them on fire And not intending to burn down the park grounds down with our miniature vision boards
I found a poem I published for a boy three years ago On his birthday It was called ‘I wrote you a poem’ My mother laughed at how cute that was I did too I think back to those years and how he never came through And somehow that didn’t make me love him any less Probably even more so
I have to get better with taking derivatives Along with the vitamins in my medicine cabinet I finally bought a parking permit for university so I could stop Getting tickets Even though the traffic cop is such a sweetheart He asks about my navy ‘Windy City’ sweater Things like “so when are you going to finally end up there?”
The piece of rose-tinted, painted card-stock That I’d never set on flames I keep it in my wallet To know that I’ll get there
I’ll get there Until I’m at the drugstore again with the cashiers That are of-age, by that time And I’m buying wine
And Chicago will treat me like it’s been mine this whole time And I won’t love it any less Probably even more so
It’s the waves of sadness that trickle with madness As I cascade onto the lost heavenly golden shore, Like a goddess from a stolen shipwreck, I swim upstream, like an airplane in the wind I won’t press send yet I’ll leave you diamonds and all of your belongings, arranged into their definitive but transient places Sprawled amongst my living room Garments, piles of yarn & cotton I thought I had it, but my god I’ve lost it
The breathtaking splendor Of an afternoon in November When you cradled me like a little baby in your mariner’s arms, Like a tomboy Like a child Like with you, I’d happily run wild Any day of the week Do you mind if I speak Or leave love letters, here and there, for you to read When your eyes are Closing In-between somber nighttime The stillness I could never objectify
A smooth transition Won’t you pay attention I’ve got my hair in curls, a floral neckline A passerby’s time Glance at the clock I almost forgot I have to let the sheep out before the wolves come back From hiding They do like to do that So rambunctious and eerie They paint me quite freely
I do love their art – I go to all of their showings Even when they take place on a Tuesday, or Wednesday, and I’ve got more work to do than I can account for
I’m a lady of charm And you’ll always find me armed That part you can disregard
Glock 23 G23 Pistol Semi Auto Firearm Handgun Schematic
I won’t shrink in your presence I occupy a throne I go to places where most would be too scared to step on their own It’s my afternoon glow When you find me on that smooth soft-stoned path, The dismay leaving my eyelids as I cast you not an ember of a doubt But a becoming smile Welcoming Almost Briefly Weeping Holding to you closest, what you want most
And that is? That is? Something to never be replaced Something I won’t touch lightly on Whispering to those in particular who have the patience to sound my vowels and consonants out, deal with the aftermath Elegantly Soft in the evenings Rambunctious – they all are Their witch hazel broiler room ticking clock Like apricots at a wedding In the middle of February For no reason, no reason For no reason at all
I sat down with you, there, close to the prisoner’s fence I wanted to inquire whether you loved me I can’t remember what I said But I did And that’s that You’ll run me a cold lavender bath Finding my hazel glow a little too appealing Hopefully, I hadn’t been too revealing The room is spinning And I am thinking
You’re like sweet nectar from a flower that’s never been held
Free verse love poem: Speaking volumes (white florals)
I’m in the pool, with your gentle gaze moving toward the horizon Smooth riverbeds, crashing yet Solemn Tender in their collapsing wake My sovereign ways trap you like hurricanes Find slumber in the rectitude of my rendition of a classic painting of a Prince attending to a young queen Dismayed at her place, though in a quiet peace, That glances violently towards a moral upbringing A softness I couldn’t portray
The Dressing of the Favorite (1857), oil on canvas, by Henri Pierre Picou (French, 1824-1895)
A sea-foam fog dynasty I swore was mine I told you the truth It mattered to me I found thoughts in my mind that I couldn’t hold back, entirely Though I did my best, To provide you with rest My satin sheath, vibrant with scarlet cardinal fibers The delicate breeze, like rapture Golden but never, truth be told, reflecting lightning that makes marks in the sky A tribute to no one Is every structure soon to fall down? The bolts unfastened, my lace dress & ultramarine form A silhouette only God could have created A boldness that scares away anyone who isn’t Strong enough To hold a woman in his arms and Not want to change her
The light pink August calendar I have on my contemporary glass tabletop That forgot the date when we Began things Paved was our course with giving looks at each other like we’re in a vintage film A theatre for just the two of us Hopeful dedication Watching our past conversations and having new conversations about those from before We don’t run out of things to talk about But when you find me watching the cars on the road pass by us, viciously, Counting the trucks Taking note of their model and make You see something in me that I could not tell you Not because I can’t find the right words I always find the right words
Along the Siene, Winter (1887) by Frederick Childe Hassam (American impressionist painter, 1859-1935)
I don’t know what you know And I don’t know if you know me But when your gaze becomes increasingly familiar, I cascade into a Reflection interrupted by the silliest words you stream together A childlike ambiance, golden in accuracy Crisp like a wave’s current Interjected with passing a cigarette lighter Getting higher From rays of the subtle light of day, Muted only in temperament Dulcet on the edges I told you I was yours I meant it, of course
Le Baiser (The Kiss) (commissioned by the French state in 1888, carved between 1888-98) by Auguste Rodin (French sculptor, 1840-1917)
We stop at the gas station; you run in to the corner store; you bring me honey green tea For your girl (that is a friend) Patient and kind A dove’s brisk white feathers Softer than mankind Rougher than a woman’s fingertips Comfortable in the chaos Surrendering to a time when you could count the green specks in my eyes And smell my white floral perfume
It seems as of now we have moved on to the Heavens Where you call me Venus And I mistake you for someone I’ve never known before An oceanic climate to the boulders we create When we feel inclined to say Why do I like you so much? Why do I like when you’re rough? I do still find, thinking to myself, whether I’m good enough But when the porch light comes on, I move the thought along To the binder where I keep my disarrayed opinions Resolving to find Some water to allow My throat to stop tightening when I get up during the night Patience, my ever-present accomplishment, finds its way to you Presenting an elegance you couldn’t get from anyone else
Improvisation (1899) by Frederick Childe Hassam (1859-1935), oil on canvas
I find myself in spaces When you are absent Distress being transient Because your face is
A discernment I couldn’t get from anyone else
The Aleutian mountains and the disintegrating cliffs Couldn’t mask the foundation I thought we’d bring Resolving to find Some water to allow
My throat to stop closing when I sleep at night I wonder if styrofoam composure could fail to observe my fright To weave in serenity in light shades of pink,
On days like today, I’m unsure how to drink Come, lay in bed
