Archive for the ‘My Poems’ Category

Sohpomore’s Soul (rough draft)
March 23, 2010

This poem is actually less about me and more about a couple friends of mine. As of right now it is unfinished, but I wanted to see what you guys thought so far. A poetry slam is coming up soon and I’m hoping to have it done by then and the final piece will be posted here once it is complete.


She don’t look at that notebook no more, it’s
become a map to her Sophomore’s soul and
penned in red ink dipped from the well
cut in her arm that’s
fed from the flow from the pump of her heart.
First lines drawn on wrists then
up under sleeves until recently
to thighs ’cause it’s easier to hide the addiction that way;
the infliction of pain
just to remind her brain, her soul
that she once felt something more than just this
empty nothingness
that’s got a grip on her now.

And it’s amazing how
out of all the men that she’s ever met
prince charming hasn’t made an appearance yet.
Every one of them a frog with kisses like blades
that shave away the layers of her heart,
players playin’ the part
of Romeo, but she’s no Juliet.
A pauper, instead-
just playing princess
in an attempt to be what she believes
these men need
in order to love her.

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Saturn
March 21, 2010

Did you know that every time I see a little blue Saturn, I think it’s you? So I raise my hand and tap my brakes, hoping that maybe you’ll do the same and we’ll stop on this old country road just like we used to, talking until someone else passes through. But I always remember at the last second that you’re 3,000 miles away. Maybe it’s the rain, but something about today just reminded me of how much I miss you.

(more…)

The Land of Bigger Girls (Damn Pants)
February 11, 2010

I’ve been informed by Jingle that Thursdays are Poetry Days and I should post a poem to be read and critiqued. Well, here is my first official Poet Rally Poem.

My jeans no longer fit. And I can’t quite put my finger on it, but the thigh’s a little too tight and the waist is a bit wide, though the length is just right. But the fact still remains that now I have to fork over half my savings for some damn pants.

The mall for me, was never a place I wanted to be. I walk past the Mecca of Hollister and Abercrombie, those fashionable places for teens and all their clothing needs. Minis, camis, and heals, from Forever 21 to Wet Seal; but I don’t bother to stop because I know that my kind are not welcome here. They might as well make the door no bigger than a size four, or hang up signs that say “No plus sizes need even try, you’ll just bust the seams,” because that’s all that the word ‘Juniors’ means.

So I head to my store, head bowed, counting tiles on the floor as I go. And even when I’m inside I still try to hide, slinking around the back side of clothing racks. Size 16 (but they call it a 3), yeah, that’s what I need. Double digits are a shameful thing in my world; the land of bigger girls.

And even amongst our own kind it’s still hard to find clothes that fit just right. Because no one’s proportioned exactly the same, weight distribution changes with age and body type. But now I’m standing in front of this mirror, cowering in fear as I nearly blow the buttons off the bust of this shirt and I want to know what jerk only left room for a set of B’s in this thing. I’m sorry, didn’t you get the memo, but more than just your ass grows when you gain a couple pounds. And ounce for ounce, these puppies pack a punch stronger than black powder and that button’s never comin’ back if it goes.

So how about you give me a line of real clothes, Mr. Designer? Something worthy of these curves, a little overgenerous as they might be, but I prefer them to looking like a boy of thirteen with ribs like a xylophone and enough nose jobs to make the late, great Michael Jackson jealous. And while my self-esteem certainly ain’t sky-high, it’s gotta be better than small fry over there who’s too scared to eat a damn burger.

So maybe, just maybe, curves aren’t such a bad thing, but regardless, I still need new pants.

Nothing Lies So Well As Lips
February 10, 2010

Written December 7th, 2009

Nothing lies so well as lips
spewing forth words as sweet
as antifreeze. Laced with lead,
your promises sank faster than the Titanic,
all the while painting hope on my fragile heart.

Perhaps if I’d known from the start
I could have prevented the ric-
ochet  of dreams within my head
and wouldn’t have to see them now, incomplete,
like half empty life boats.

Big Boys
February 9, 2010

In my house fights are common. Not fist fights, but verbal exchanges. The usual contenders are myself and my father. There’s just something about us, like oil and water, we don’t mix. I love him to death, but I swear that his dying breath with have something to do with the chores that I didn’t get done. It’s been a while since we had a brawl, so it came as no surprise when tonight we let fly with words that hit like freight trains. The following is a poem inspired by just this experience.

 

I once heard my mom tell my brother
that big boys don’t cry.
But I think that’s a lie
’cause I’ve seen my fair share of tears
pourin’ from the eyes of the men that I hold most dear.
And every time it’s almost more than I can bear,
because big boys don’t cry.

But what about the night when my grandma fell,
and I watched my dad fall apart
just like her hip, her spine,
the vertebrae compressed into dust,
like iron left out to rust,
leaving the rest of us
to comfort my 45 year old father,
bawling like a toddler,
because he was scared to lose his mother.
But big boys don’t cry.

Then there was that night,
that same grandma nearly lost her life.
When she came back she said she saw the light
and she touched God.
You know what I saw?
I saw my grandpa, his eyes red,
with tears flowing down the wrinkles in his face,
and I didn’t have to see it,
I could smell the empty bottle of gin at his place!
And he rocked in that chair by her bed,
his hands over his head,
beggin’ “Please God, not tonight!
Don’t take her from me yet.
Take my life instead!”
But big boys don’t cry.

Or what about those days when
life throws me just a little more than I can take an’
a simple exchanging of words
becomes and altercation
where I tell my father that I hate him.
I say, “I was never yours;
in fact, I wish I’d never been born!
And I can’t wait to leave this place
just so I never have to see your face again!”

And I stop.
And I breath in.
And I look at him.
And I can see, clear as day,
the fear and the pain
in the tears rollin’ down his face
as he watches his baby girl say
that she doesn’t want anything to do with him
and his world.
And I realize
for the first time
in my life
that I hold my Daddy’s heart in my hand
and I’m breaking it again and again
with every word that comes from my lips.

But big boys don’t cry,
so he just says, “Goodnight,”
and leaves me standing there
with his still warm heart in my hands
and a trail of tears that spell out, “I love you,”
on laminate kitchen floors.
And I finally understand
that it takes a man
to shed a tear for the ones
that he loves and holds dear
when life’s just a little too rough,
because big boys don’t cry.