Route 95 North through
Downtown Providence.
I start thinking maybe
the 6/10 Connector
wouldn’t be so bad.
But now I’ve been
in traffic for an hour.
My ADHD starts ticking.
What was I thinking when
I crossed that bridge?
I should have just stayed home.
Mom smokes cigarettes while washing dishes
She never leaves the kitchen
All she does is cook food that no one ever eats
and drink wine
and smoke more cigarettes
She makes sure we all know
how miserable she is
doing all she does for us
She never stops, doesn’t have the time
too busy being a good mom
and telling us how much we need her
She liked me best when I left her alone
I liked her best when I did too
Dad is always at one of two places
either asleep on the couch,
or face down in our driveway
He spends his free time being yelled at by Mom
“Michael! Damn it! Take out this trash!
Switch the laundry! Open this bottle!
You drunk piece of shit!
I’m pouring your liquor down the goddamn sink!
MICHAEL!!!!!! I’M NOT DOING EVERYTHING!”
He just grunts and stands up
muttering “I’m coming woman”
then he does … well … everything
Dad never yells or complains
just quietly endures
after he’s done everything demanded
he sits outside in his rocking chair
and drinks until he falls out of it
then crawls through the front door
and stumbles to his couch
He liked me best when I would shut up
I understood why
and we never talked much after that
I learned early that love was granted
to good girls who shut up and go away
I got really good at it
living inside of my head
being raised by the voice inside it
It became my super power
I wore my lonely like a cape
and no one seemed to notice
when I turned invisible one day
I’m not sure when it happened exactly
I just know I became a shadow
before I ever figured out how to cast one
I was a ghost before I ever had the chance
to be a person
I felt like the best daughter in the world
only no one could see me
I was an invisible kid
who spent her entire childhood
learning how to be seen
by two parents who hated
the sound of her voice
Just to grow up and realize
that they never would
It’s too late
It can’t be done
Besides
I’ve already built my whole life
out of not bothering anyone
Passed by your house just a while ago
I told myself I wouldn't look,
but my eyes betrayed me before my heart even had the chance.
Then there it was
that familiar light glowing through your orange/pink room, soft enough to calm the night,
yet bright enough to awaken a thousand impossible thoughts.
Were you reading?
Scrolling ?
Laughing at something I'd never get to hear?
Or simply staring at the ceiling, lost in a world only you know?
Every heartbeat of mine tried to keep pace with a different imagination.
One beat wondered what you were doing.
The next wondered what you were thinking.
Another paused, hoping you were there.. atleast behind that unseen world..
And for a terrifying second,
my heart skipped a beat...
What if that light wasn't yours?
Then another thought, somehow even crueler, crossed my mind—
what if, at this very moment,
your heart belonged to someone else?
To stand outside for barely a few seconds,
Imaginary conversations...left out conversations...missed moments,
and questions that were never meant to be asked.
I had to walk away eventually.
But my feet left your street
long before my thoughts did
Anyways...
Your light maybe brings in more darkness to my heart than infact the dark could do ..
water droplets evaporate
hang in the air, a warm embrace
shade, shelter, inside or out
humidity that won’t be escaped
a hug from you functions in similair fashion
emotions dismissed, no matter how vapid
all attempts at exodus futile
your warmth denies all logistical factors
the longer in your grasp, like an anaconda tightens
in place of asphyxia, an encompassing bliss
regression to a kid
what lacked in the past, treated in the present
a sense of safety, a childlike tension
and finally, as the hold is released
a habitat of love, dissolved
a craving for humidity, increased
And if we do have
A red string
Binding us,
Tangled between our fingers
And woven from
Your hand to mine.
If what we have is real
And the myth is true
I hope it forgives our missteps
And the wrong turns we took.
I hope it tangles and stretches
Through every step along the way
May it pull tightly through our fingers
And never once turn white.
And if I ever lose my path to you,
I hope this little thread that binds us,
Allows us to find each other again.
Allows us to heal without ever tearing apart.
Even if not in this life.
I hope it leads me to you,
In the next
Because I don't know who I am
Without your name lingering in my mind
And sitting at the tip of my tongue.
So let the string pull,
Let it be an endless loop
Let it get stuck between our fingers.
May it extend and weave
For this is no ordinary twine
This is our red string.
Slowly I close my eyes
Swallow my spit, spitt, spirit
Lips, and tongue. Tongue the
Words of the world, the physics of
Phenomenon, keep it on the tip of
My ghastly ghostly tongue. For on
My tongue I print my mind, my
Feeble, ugly mind. Heartbeat.
You can feel it in my chest, my heart
To yours. It is yours. Slowly it grows in
Unanatomical size. Swell, inflame, inflame.
Grow in size my tongue my mind my spirit
My body and the
Truth
Comes up on me impressing its
Almighty hand on my soul like a
Smouldering fire and the
Ardent caress of the truth creeps up
On every crevice of my trembling
Soul like fire and everything’s
On fire because the data
Is not adding up, and she
Keeps telling me no, no, never,
Not good enough, you can’t find me,
You really can never find me, no
And she taunts, her pristine, undying beauty
Branded in the white sclera of
My tired eyes, my tired tired eyes,
Come closer, she says,
And I come to her,
And I come closer and closer to her,
Shows me a little bit, and a little bit more,
A little more until I can’t take it anymore,
And then I reach out, my quick, heavy arms
Frantically, hopelessly grasping
For her to only
At the end of the day
Have been a mirage.
the pools of my eyes
swell with nothing but blood these days
they run like the faucet of emotions
left unattended
until the sink overflows
my body swelters from the blistering heat
of anger that pulses through my chest
rage emanates manifesting
as if they are droplets of sweat
running down the back the nape of my neck
until I’m swimming in a river of secreting glands
baptized by my
anger alchemized
The day I gave up on my mother
Is the day she asked me for a break
A break from me, a relief for her
Oh mother,
If only I can have a break from me too
The ongoing belittling
Favoritism and narcissism
Cause me ongoing head aches
Oh mother,
If only I can have a break from me too
All this drama led me to destroy and despair
One day it will absorb my last hope
And you will either find a hasty flee or a cold corpse
Oh mother,
If only I can take a break from me too
(a short poem I wrote about me and my mother.)
Okay,
I admit it—
when I saw her
I almost drowned in lust.
Damn, I liked the bubbles.
Love came naturally,
like breathing—
unquestioned,
instinct.
She had a heart of gold:
resilient,
nurturing.
My North Star.
The loss of a tiny angel
bound my soul to hers.
I learned to bleed ink for her.
Devotion became offering,
absence
Inspiration.
My love language.
was never
empty promises.
She looked at me and said,
"I break men like you."
So I promised forever
and asked for nothing in return—
a love pact
my body still remembers.
She didn't break me.
She showed me
where I was already cracking.
I kept calling it love.
Because it hurt
in all the right places.
A different sort of sense
in mind,
is gadding before
I articulate its behind.
Like a brother across
the callosum,
calling with a buffer,
and a mechanical whir
only across from its bottom.
It’s funny as the imagery
I’m conveying
sounds rather Rabelaisian,
with a Callipygian scent;
and yet my meaning
couldn’t be less of an evasion
couching in a vent.
Strewth, words pitter-patter
around my faculties,
such that disjointed contexts
entangle in fragments.
For I was just thinking
about my lady’s
phenomenal hiney,
in a hodgepodge with reflections on opining.
The plural sensations
at motley play,
they indicate and imbricate
my fair maiden’s mane.
For it oft sits upon her bott,
her throne of a lot,
and inspires more than a turn of phrase.
Poetry is an interpretive art.
It is not always a direct reflection
of the artist’s well-being.
If you know the poet,
checking in on them through
the poem’s thread undermines the art
by turning it into something personal.
Poetry is a generational marker
of living life in a specific time.
It is not a note looking for sympathy.
If the poet is serious,
they are trying to build an audience
through a body of work.
Appropriate engagement
is necessary for the piece to move.
Inappropriate engagement
makes the piece harder to relate to.
Then it dies.
Engage with the work
in ways that keep it alive.
If you know the artist
and are worried about something they wrote,
reach out privately.
life is too hard
and too short.
Please love yourself
before it’s too late.
If you don’t love yourself
the way you deserve,
no one else will.
I know I’m carrying a weight
I was never meant to carry.
Maybe that’s why
I look the way I do.
Could you tell
how disproportionate I seem?
Like a child emotionally regulating a house,
only for a tornado
to come and knock it all down.
Forget what I said
it’s not what I meant.
I don’t want to talk right now.
I used to open up,
but that just doesn’t feel right.
It made me put away my pride.
Why must the sound of a human be his cries in the dark?
Why must the sound of a clown be her drowning to her love’s remark?
Why must it be when the sound of a mailman was his voice finally comin’ along?
Why must the sight of lighting be her raining alone?
Why must the sight of age drift to the creek of death’s home?
Why must it be when the sight of life was of a baby’s cries singing a song?
Why must the taste of pointed threats bluff with scorn?
Why must the taste of spoons reflect wasted words finally born?
Why must it be when the taste of truth died along with God's lies?
Why must the smell of hatred be like the bitter, winter cold?
Why must the smell of love be like a bold hold away from being trapped in something told?
Why must it be when the smell of mundane going be like a coffin where the walls aren't present?
Why must the feeling of revolution be possessed by a green eyed monster?
Why must the feeling of fear be the strongest when approached by a badge with honour?
Why must it be when the feeling in a clock’s feet never numbs?
Blank spaces repeat.
Nothing to write.
Nothing to see.
The tape is stuck on repeat.
The rewinder is jammed.
Nothing to change.
Nothing to be.
Blank spaces repeat.
Blank spaces repeat.
Nothing coming out.
None coming in.
The rewinder is jammed.
Nothing to write.
Blank spaces repeat.
Nothing to change.
Blank spaces repeat.
Nothing to see.
Nothing to make.
Repeat.
Change nothing.
Be nothing.
Change.
Repeat spaces.
Tape stuck.
Spaces to write.
Repeat spaces.
Write.
Repeat.
Write.
Distant voices heard
Immediate vices reached
Drowned by choices
Naturally irrelevant
The silent judgement
A measured action
A meaningless fever
With twisting truths
The relapsing reminder
Falling asleep in an open tomb
Under blemished oaths
you claimed to be true,
I walk past Café Cicely
drinking diet mountain dew,
An unusual flavor
I've yet to taste,
a burning regret
in my heart's haste,
The crisp of the soda
piercing through,
the celestial expanse
guiding me to you,
The unwritten lore
hidden behind your eyes,
like the fizz of the drink
under metallic disguise,
As i crushed the can and
was left with the true—
i now stand in the rain
pining i loved you.
Sometimes I wonder
if my kindness is just muscle memory,
a reflex shaped by old storms,
a smile practiced in mirrors
that once learned how to survive.
What if I am not gentle
but careful?
Not loving,
but strategic?
What if every soft word
was stitched from fear
that if I were anything sharper,
anything raw,
I would be left behind?
I study my own heart
like a suspicious witness.
Why did you help?
Why did you stay?
Why did you apologize first?
Was it goodness
or the terror of being misunderstood?
And the worst part is this.
Even my doubt feels rehearsed,
like guilt wearing a costume,
like remorse trying too hard
to look holy.
I split myself in two at night,
one version pleading innocence,
the other flipping through evidence,
highlighting every flaw,
every hidden motive.
But somewhere beneath the noise,
beneath the courtroom lights
and the crossfire of conscience,
there is a quieter truth.
Cruel people
do not lose sleep
wondering if they are cruel.
Manipulators
do not tremble
at the possibility
that their love might be false.
Maybe the very fear
that I am performing
is proof
that I am not.
Maybe goodness is not loud,
not certain,
not polished.
Maybe it is messy
and self aware
and afraid of becoming harm.
So tonight
I will step down from the stand.
I will let my heart be imperfect
without calling it fraud.
And if I want to be good
so badly it aches,
maybe that ache
is not a crime.
Maybe it is the most honest thing about me.
The tally of the nights is an accounting for the theft, of every waking hour where there’s truly nothing left. I traded in my slumber for a ghost I couldn’t hold, for a story in the darkness that was never being told. I spent the golden currency of patience and of time, attempting to interpret what was never truly mine. I raked the soil of”what did I do?” Until my hands were raw, to find a hidden message in the coldness that I saw.
But the light of day is honest, and it cuts away the haze. I’m finished searching through the labyrinth and the maze. You wear a public armor and present a polished face, imitating every gesture, every movement and every grace. But behind the velvet curtain, where the darkness sits inside. Sits a hollowed out soul, where the monster truly hides. You’re a shallow as a puddle, you’re ugly in the bone, you’re a monument of vanity completely on your own.
I’m done bowing to the alter of fake, I’m done with all the sacrifices I was forced to make. Your smile is just a weapon and your laugh is just a shell, a siren song leading to a manufactured hell. It wasn’t worth the trimmers and it wasn’t worth the doubt, it was worth the fire that I’ve completely snuffed out. Now I’m closing up the ledger, I am walking through the gate, and I’m leaving you completely within the borders of your fate.
Hi guys kind of new to this all but just curious if I could get possible "professional" feedback on how to improve it maybe??? Thanks a lot if you can.
It's like a kink but I'm sure,
I need her,
I need her more,
At her soul I knaw,
Down to the core,
The way she makes my heart race,
I need her more,
I like the way she makes me feel for sure,
Her hand around my neck, secure,
To be completely in love with the allure,
I need her more,
When I drop to me Knees I plead for her,
The urge to F**ck her like I want to breed her,
She calls me "pathetic" like a slur,
Trap me in your love potion,
Everything feels like it's in slow motion,
like a blurred memory,
Of her repetitive motion,
As I yearn for her more,
In my heart I am sure,
I need her,
I need her more.