Each ingredient is packed with love,
pure, fresh, and full of aroma.
Sun dried tomatoes and a splash of Pinot Grigio
tossed carefully into my sweet pasta
makes the perfect meal for a late night dinner
with a table set with lit candles and fresh flowers
carefully placed ready for my lover,
but a dinner for two is no fun
when only one is seated.
The cupboards are all full of food,
but they all taste like rot on my tongue,
though the hunger’s clawing never stops.
Nothing here can satisfy the gnawing gorge
trying to tear its way out
burning with longing love and lust,
twisting and turning for a taste
to cure this sickness,
to feel whole at least for a little while.
In my sky he is a star,
the largest and the brightest,
with beautiful eyes and a charm that shines
bringing light across my shadows,
but I was never meant to feel his warmth
as he grows cold yearning his other.
I stand bitterly frigid in the dark
while his light dies down over the horizon,
and I miss his sweet touch,
I miss his warm smile,
but most of all I miss his soothing voice
awakening my heart into the light.
He shines now a distant star,
I barely can still see,
though could never really reach,
but in my heart he’s burning bright
to forever stay my only star.
The clouds never pass,
they wait patiently overhead
for the next boom, the next strike,
to crack open the storm
flooding each corner
with offense and choler
to drown the weak once again.
Six a.m., and the sun has already begun
licking her way across the earth
after I had spent a lonely night awake in bed.
The birds all chirp loudly and cheerfully,
stretching their wings ready for breakfast.
That’s all they care about each morning,
keeping a safe nest to feed their families
and their selves, so happy not bothering
about the bickering all over the world
like the old 50’s family TV shows,
so cute as they flutter through the sky
as mini airplanes in beautiful colors,
and just thinking about those birds
makes the world seem not so bad.
Four thirty a.m.,
and sleep has slipped through my clutches again.
My fingers keep dawdling over a book of poetry
going through maybe six or seven
until it seems only a minute has passed.
Then somehow I find myself making love
to papers with some old pen,
tired of trying to form intelligent words
into something seeming meaningful,
and just get down to the point,
if there’s even a point at all
like some chewed up forsaken pencil.
There was a poem about one of my favorites,
The Stranger by Camus,
it was like I was the poet as he spoke to me,
kissing me gently with his words.
He, too, liked The Stranger
because he saw beyond trying or caring,
doing so was just a senseless bore,
with life being an empty shit-hole in the ground.
Mother would say
it’s so unladylike to act such a way,
but I’ve already morphed into something
like The Stranger so long ago.
So to hell with society’s rules, and double standards
eating way at the people like an unnoticed parasite,
but then I remember
he never had a love worth life,
neither The Stranger or that poet.
Maybe that’s what we all really need.
Oh, those pretty young girls
walking down the dirty streets
in little tight dresses and heels
have all the dogs staring,
staring and drooling
and they’re carrying knives,
sharpened and ready,
in their fancy purses.
They’re always hungry for some fun,
plucking cute pups out of bars,
and when they’ve finished them,
they stick their knives into their guts,
and deep into their fragile hearts,
leaving them cold, helpless,
while they become pretty ugly themselves.
Countless minutes tick away
as mouths continue gabbing
About meaningless subjects passing
through their minds like fallen leaves
blowing down the empty streets,
but not a thought touches
the hollow words echoing endlessly,
tugging at my lids,
unlike some poets who save their voices
to speak through written words
singing like blooming flowers
with their thoughts caressing each word,
keeping me awake at night
as their heavy words sing endlessly.
I walk the nights a vampire
feeding off the blackened ink of pens,
spilling it across virgin papers
with words longing for love
until dawn breaks through the sky,
in hopes of awakening my dead heart.
The wind blows freely
always sending my heart back
wherever you are.
The wind always blows me right back to you,
and it never seems to take too long.
No matter which way I fly away
I still feel your breath flutter through my wings
until the moment I’ve dived and gone.
Your eyes always capture me
as I’m spiraling towards to the ground,
and when you touch me for that little while
all my pathetic strength melts into your arms.
I keep falling down into your gravity,
and I’m standing here trying to make you see
you’re everything I need down on this earth,
the only thing that keeps me grounded.
Though I’ve tried to get out free
I can never seem to fly away,
the wind always blows me right back to you.
The patients come lining up
proportional to the odd stacks
of weathered magazines waiting
with cracked smiles, crooked smiles,
and even some missing smiles.
The sounds of drills and pains
drown out the harmless hallway music
replaced by flying hopes circling around
of leaving with the perfect pearly smile.
So I wonder,
wonder what lays beneath each unique smile
that’s yearning for perfection instead
of just a healthy smile.
Do good intentions need to be made,
are important events taking place,
or is the need for comfort the answer?
Each smile gleams with it’s own
story to be heard.
So I wonder,
wonder is any have found love,
is that’s what causing all the change,
or does the search still continue.
for love doesn’t call for perfection,
the flaws perfect the smiles in the heart.
Constant ringing thrives
where peace can’t stay and teeth ache
to drive us all mad
Mr. Sandman tugs at my lids,
but my eyes refuse to surrender,
for my hands are still waltzing
across ivory floors with black suited pens.
They twirl and glide to my heart’s beatings,
leaving their marks to be known
singing with tranquility as Mr. Sandman surrenders
when the clocks strike midnight.
Though it’s way past bedtime,
the dancing still continues unfaltering
as I rather dance all night long
than turn to dust in an empty bed.
The clock’s ticking never stops,
it drums alongside the beating of my heart,
but it’s hand have all frozen gray
as each day belongs to one monotonous cart.
My chest continues to pull along wide open
leaking a bloody red, the only color left,
painting each day until the clock rings
to cross off another wasted day closer to death.
All the caprice for frivolous fun has gone since
the day the clock’s hands had died,
leaving me cold in a colorless world
with only a blackened pen to be my guide.
