Ode To My Lost Poem

In a galaxy made entirely of you,
Somewhere in a loose dream was
Everything that needed to be said.

It aches, phantom poem, to have lost your touch.
A cultivation of raw beauty
Like long hand cursive, hemorrhaging metaphors
I’m too inadequate to describe.

You were my gateway to catharsis
I am always chasing after.

After months, my heart rung out it’s frailty,
Became scarred enough to call itself a heart again
But my linguistics remained derelict.

For a moment, though, you were mine.
A moon revolving as though I were a full something again.
There was heaven, momentarily
Hope reclaimed after silence
That took so much to dispel.

It hurts, all this searching
For a feeling that orphaned itself
Broken promise, I can barely remember anything more than
Teeth, clenched.
The softness of longing rings around me like Saturn.

You are irreplaceable,
My love child,
But from you
I hope a brighter devotion
Will lodge from the dilapidated voice box.

These fingers, in mortem,
Stung with winter stiffness
Begin to type.


Did You Miss Me?

At birth, 
I had traces of you
Hints, reminisce 
Small bits until you unexpectedly 
Found me again.

In footprints on snow,
The soft fur of deer,
Starlight across dampened lovers. 

It’s not that we ever knew what to do with this..
Just that it changes with each season

The soul comes back and emerges different.
Busily remembering, but
Comforted in an oddly chaotic way.

It’s honestly difficult to bear
How you made sense, immediately.
As though a crime to not remind each other
Of what decency is made of.

And the idea

Of not knowing the sound of your voice
How similar it is
To not knowing how to speak. 

Perspective: What The Heart Has To Say

I’ve spent my morning listening to my body. I watch the words I use when I express myself and how my shoulders pick up the slack for what I can’t say. But it’s important, language is important and how we communicate is vital to me. 

When referring to my own emotions, I always talk of and to my heart. I noticed this. I will say “this makes my heart happy” or “my heart hurts” when I love I say “my heart.” This exemplifies how much of my personality is emotions. I’m also fond of saying “I’m all heart” which is true. I’m a muscle that veins out in webs feeding everything with a flow of energy. And when I ache it is in every single aspect of my being. It all runs into and through and from my core.

Sometimes I say it in other words that mean the same thing. I make a point of telling people they are valued and that I appreciate them because I know how much suffering we all carry. It hurts physically to think of someone so beautiful and important to me not holding themselves at their true worth.

I sound sappy, because I am. There is a pain in me that never grows weary of it’s work. There is also a love in me that has never known silence. I think we all have that, even those who cannot reach into their bodies and cradle the soft tissue of their vulnerability. 

The world asks us to be hard and survival is not a tender hand. But I have so much tender. Today I walked down the street and did my best not to fall to the ground in hot tears for all the heartache I see. There is fear and resentment in everything, in everyone and I barely have enough control of my own consciousness. 

It’s a struggle to love so much and not be swallowed in my own self pity. There’s a world barely coping and I’m still busy working out how it makes my heart feel. So I will send love letters. I will tell people how I love them and hug aquaintences because we all need it. The only thing I can do is try and hope that’s enough.

I don’t know what I’m hoping for right now. Maybe just to be heard. Perhaps to justify my optimism that clouds the air around me, or apologize to anyone who asked me how I’ve been only to stand about while I begin crying once more. 

The trouble is, my heart hurts. Physically, I feel it. It burns and I just want to wrap myself around others and just love them until the pain eases. I want to kiss the Earth better. Who decided that joy and grief were two separate things? Can I love enough to break my heart open? 

Sometimes I bless the hard exteriors. The logic minds and the blunt truths. How foreign your language is to me. How promising the thought of mapping out the parts that need repair instead of pointing to the chest, “Here,” I say, “Right here, where I can’t kiss it and make it better.” You have to be reasonable, they say. “I am,” I tell them. “To be fully love is the only reason I have.”

I keep breaking open, and it is so much. I don’t know how any body can be this much. But who am I if not what shapes and fulfills me? I don’t know the answer. But I think it’s somewhere in this abysmal confusion. It’s wired into the bloodstream. I just can’t recall the language anymore. 

But I’m trying. And I love you. I’m still here. 

It Is So Hard To Call It What It Is: Safe

I haven’t written for happiness in so long,
My art only resembles someone who no longer fits in their shoes.

But, they negate opportunity to slip out.

The distance, nights spent sweating, sore, but familiar
In a lost state of false conviction.

I’m afraid to say it,
Because I forced security so hard, for so very long
The real thing looks artificial on paper.

But here, now
With a lack of vocabulary, for it’s
No longer is twisted in the apologies of –
Belongings, to others who don’t belong to us

We are so delicately, sore
and loyal.

Learning the language of a higher source, for all that you are,
I will try.

You are a disaster of silent volume and
Worn out converse,
Wrapping your hair while you speak
In language I have learned through error.

Eyes full of promise
Lungs swelled with vowels
That make more sense
than the remembering
beaming from my fingertips.

Nothing, But Not Entirely

Blooming early
Left such a conflict.
How my earth mind knew the world took time to ease
Itself from the beautiful crystals of death
And in the awakening-
So many restarts.

And I am so- so much spring
My heart yearns for the release and relapse of deep cold
The budding
The invitation- no commitment, yet, all promise.

Yet, here I am.
Years worn and still growing rings.
My love is in warm sunsets and winter sunrise.
My love is in the past and that which I know is to come.

Now the loss of leaves is a reflection of me
I was taught to ignore,

Cold winds that taste of sweat and river.

This beautiful-
And not always,
The in-between 
Whom is grounded
In the beginning 

How it reaches out to fall. 

Spacial Issues

I bought a planner!
I know, I know..
But, let me be clear:
I really wanted it, the way children
Want whatever fancies them for ungodly months of obsession
To everyone else’s demise.

And probably not just because
It was Batman’s animated face,
And plastic wrapped,
And so full of potential…
Even though I bought it
Halfway through the year.

I waited months
To crack the well pressed spine
And in beautiful, liquid pen write
Just under the title of
My name.
As if nothing in the world would validate me
The way a piece of paper could.

I’ve barely used it,
Can never remember what aspect of time
I’m occupying,
But I bought my way into a potential
Got my glitter pens and some ambition left
So when I lose myself next time
And need to find myself again
I got a book, occasionally written in,
Recording where I belong
To bring me back home.