Category: Poem

  • 5.15.18 PMS is an asshole

    ~ a poem ~

    Every month, without fail, it happens.
    I’ll find myself in my closet,
    or in my bathroom,
    or on my bed
    crying.

    My mind will be saying the worst possible things about me,
    worse than what anyone has ever said to my face.

    (We all know those parts of ourselves,
    the exact buttons to push.)

    It doesn’t matter what I’m doing.
    I stop,
    sit,
    cry into my hands,
    and sob.
    It only lasts for
    maybe
    two or three minutes.
    Then I take a nice long deep breath,
    stand up,
    and go about the rest of my day or evening.

    It sucks, even when I know it’s coming. Because it comes every month.
    And I have yet to prove it wrong.

  • 4.29.18 If

    ~ a poem ~

    I’d come home to see you every two weeks, no excuses.
    I’m not made of money, so we’d go havsies on a plane ticket for the odd visits,
    and I’d drive for the even ones.

    My grades would not be allowed to suffer.
    Anything less than a 75% on an Exam would incur immediate punishment.
    You’d decide what that is.

    I want your ring on my finger
    and your baby growing in my belly.

    You’d come visit me at school once a season.

    You’d text me randomly,
    asking for a photo of my hand.
    You’d want to see your ring on me,
    just cause.

    I’d face time you most nights.
    I want you to see my face, and hear my voice, as I moan your name before I fall asleep.

    In your apartment, I’d never wear clothes.
    In my apartment, you’d hide little surprises for me.

    Each time you’d visit would be a surprise.
    I’d find you waiting for me outside the building, drop all my things, and run into your arms.
    I wouldn’t care who saw or what they thought of my childish glee at your arrival.

    You’d want to meet my friends;
    you’d rib the boys and flirt with the girls.
    All the while, you’d hold my hand and make me feel all gushy inside.

    I’d promise to only apply to programs within a three hour drive of you.
    You’d scoff and tell me to aim higher, be brilliant.
    I’d fall in love with you all over again.

    We’d marry at the end of my second year.
    Have babies at the end of third and fourth.
    We’d wait until a few years into my residency before having number three.

    We’d live in a house with a backyard
    and a basement
    and a den
    and so much grass.

    We’d spend Sundays with the house smelling like coffee and the air filled with laughter.
    We’d snuggle up in a pile on the couch to watch sports.
    I’d thank whatever god there is for our life.

    I will never stop loving you.

  • 4.20.17 When I Was Seven

    ~ a poem ~

    When I was seven
    I had a pink notebook,
    even though I hated the color pink,
    and still hate the color pink,
    but I remember the Pepto Bismol pages
    as if I still held them in my hands.

    When I was seven
    I had a pink notebook,
    and in it I wrote my first poem
    which of course was terrible.
    No one finds their voice at seven.
    I don’t even know if I have a voice now.
    But they were words
    that formed some sort of idea
    that meant a lot to me.

    When I was seven
    I had a pink notebook,
    and in it I wrote my first poem,
    and showed it to my cousin Ella
    who was my second cousin,
    my great aunt’s daughter.
    But she was near my Mom’s age, though.
    Was more like a third parent.
    So when the cancer came,
    and I took her to chemo,
    and helped her out of sweat wet clothes,
    and buried her after bawling
    after reading her obituary at the funeral,
    I can’t just call her my cousin.

    When I was seven
    I had a pink notebook,
    and in it I wrote my first poem,
    and showed it to my cousin Ella
    who read it
    and loved it
    and told me it was amazing.
    I’ve been writing ever since.

  • 3.1.17 Same Old Heartache

    ~ a poem ~

     

    It feels like Spring,
    the season where
    my loneliness blooms.
    Each year, without fail,
    I get an ache in my body,
    a desire for a warm
    someone
    and a little heart beating
    in my belly.

    Today I let my mind slip away,
    dreaming of a life that could happen.
    Our reconnection.
    Our fucking.
    Your inevitable absconding.
    A positive test.
    A message sent.
    A new life within me
    only half belonging to you.
    I’d keep her.
    I’d tell you,
    let you decide
    what kind of a man you were.
    No matter your answer,
    I’d be happy.

    And then it struck me,
    why this fantasy
    was so comforting.
    It is my life,
    myself recast as my mother
    and you as my father.

    Of course my drifting mind
    landed on all
    I push against.
    Of course the lust of us,
    and the end of us,
    was what I dreamed about.
    It’s what I know.

    Familiarity, however,
    does not equal goals.

    I meet horrible people every day
    and most of them have dates,
    partners,
    marriages.
    Shitty people couple up so easily.

    I, on the other hand,
    don’t.

    Still, it’d be nice
    if my person would show up already.

  • 2.2 Because The Internet

    ~ a poem ~

    Can music make love to you?
    Fuck you through the speaker?
    Caress you via sound waves?

    When I listen to him,
    I feel his hands on me,
    his lips on mine,
    his dick inside of me.

    We modulate
    rough or slow,
    sensuous and deep,
    fast and frenetic
    based on the song.

    Does he know
    I cum to his words?
    His melodies pulse through me.
    His rhymes and his wordplay
    get me there every time.

    Can he feel his effect on me?
    Does he know?
    Does he care?
    Could real relations ever be as good?

    Shit, it’d probably be better.
    Listening to him
    as he fucks me.
    Is it narcissism if he likes it?
    Damn if I care.

    Fuck me baby,
    oral and orally.

  • 2.1.17 That Boy

    ~ a poem ~

    I still remember a lot of things
    about that boy.
    His ass.
    My god his ass.
    He was in the best shape,
    and he had an ass
    I wanted to bite.
    But he wasn’t into that, though.

    The sex,
    when we had it,
    was amazing.
    We fucked on the floor,
    on his counter,
    on his couch,
    and, eventually,
    in his bed.
    He pushed me,
    and I loved it.
    I miss that dick.
    Some of the best I’ve ever had.
    I can admit that,
    as much as I don’t want to.

    Occasionally
    I think about him
    when I masturbate.
    He never got
    to fuck my ass.
    A pity.
    But,
    in my fantasies,
    he has many times.

    He wore this
    devilish smile.
    He knew
    too well
    how easy it is
    for him
    to charm women.
    Every once in a while
    I still marvel
    that we were
    anything.

    I count him as an ex,
    but I doubt he ever
    thinks
    about me.

    His life took a turn
    after we parted.
    I hope he is doing better
    now.
    I hope he is happy.
    I hope he has someone
    to help him be happy.

    And, if he reads this,
    I hope he reaches out
    and says hi.

  • 1.27.17 A Single Girl’s Lament

    ~ a poem ~

    Every time I see them
    on the street,
    or when they get into my car,
    I wonder:
    How did they do it?

    How did they meet?
    Do they get along?
    Are they secretly at each other’s throats?
    Or are they actually happy?

    Couples baffle me.

    Looking back on my love life,
    I can solidly say
    I’m pretty bad at dating
    and relationships.
    I know this stems
    from the example
    I grew up with.
    Being the product of an affair,
    seeing my mother visit my father
    once a week,
    left a lasting impression.
    It’s how I viewed my relationships.
    It’s why things lasted
    so long
    with my last Ex.
    Seeing each other once a month,
    or two,
    was normal.
    Being second fiddle
    to some other person,
    though inside I was hurting,
    felt familiar.
    It’s what I knew,
    what I know.
    It’s why I stayed with another
    for three years
    even though,
    while we lived together,
    he’d randomly say things
    that telegraphed
    we wanted vastly different lives.

    When I see couples,
    I wonder:
    Will that ever be me?
    Am I ever going to find someone
    who wants to be mine
    forever?
    Am I destined
    to be alone?

    Lately
    I’ve been repeating
    a random Zen quote
    I got from Twitter:
    My current situation
    is not my final destination.
    It’s a mantra for my life.

    I have to believe
    I’ll find someone,
    or they’ll find me.
    I have to believe
    I will fall in love,
    marry,
    and have my three children.
    We’ll live in a small
    but nice home.
    I have to believe
    the life I want,
    the life I dream of,
    is achievable,
    even though my model
    wasn’t the best.

    I don’t ever want
    to be the other woman
    again.
    I want to be the wife.
    When that happens, though…

  • 1.26.17 Napping Failure

    ~ a poem ~

    Lying in bed, mind
    racing, worrying about
    work; napping failure.

    Thoughts drift aimlessly;
    trying to quiet my mind,
    I turn to dark dreams.

    My fantasy: their
    lips on my naked body,
    their hands everywhere.

    Dirty talk, requests
    and demands. I oblige all.
    I am their fuck toy.

    They fill me, push me,
    surging me higher, I cum
    infinity times.

    Alarm sounds. Grumbling,
    I get out of bed, dress, and
    miss sleep already.

  • 1.15.17 My Fantasy Man

    ~ who I see when I’m cuming ~

    I dreamed you up one day
    to soothe my aching heart.
    You are the man
    who loves me,
    charms me,
    tames me,
    and trains me.
    You are the man
    I want and need most.

    I call you Daddy because
    that’s what I want.
    Protector, by my side,
    though currently only in my mind.
    Lover, the best I’ve ever had;
    you know what I want
    when I want it
    even when I dare not admit it.

    I imagine you most often
    as the classic gay male leather Daddy.
    You have their confidence,
    their swagger,
    yet you want me.
    Lately, though, you’ve been in more dapper attire:
    vest, pressed pants,
    shined shoes, and a pocket watch.
    The butler to my young mistress.

    No matter how I envision you,
    one thing stays the same.
    The look in your eye:
    knowing my secrets,
    plotting devilish deeds,
    caring for my needs,
    craving me so,
    but a hint of terror coloring all.

    What will you dream up for me next?

  • 1.12.17 My Sense Of You

    ~ a poem ~

    You smell like oranges,
    rinds ripped,
    zest tingling,
    bright and peppy and alive.

    You taste like candy,
    savory and sweet;
    I wanna gobble you up.

    You sound like sex,
    but, then again, you always do,
    whether it’s your moaning now
    or the way you pronounce my name.

    You feel like heaven
    warm, inviting,
    comforting.
    Me against you;
    you against me.

    You look like home.