Clarinet Reed
My heart's just a weak
Clarinet reed
Vibrating at your moistened breath
-But it's been neglected however
It's grown mold and has cracked
Now it's missing chunks from its tip
And can barely even make a noise:
Nothing but an airy, spit-filled sound
-Maybe it's choking on the blood
It can't pump from my chest
It's stagnant and useless.
With regards to the good cry
It never happens the way you see it in movies- the long soliloquy of tumbling words followed by the quiet sobs.
No, it's more likely to be
words are cut off
with tears
choking
every syllable
words strangled
at the top of the throat
words stopped up
with crying jags
like cotton stuffing
in a soda pop bottle
that's been shaken
and nearly poured out.
Don’t you hate it
when you think that you don't matter enough,
that you could be pushed aside so easily.
when you depend too much on other people,
that you can't stand the thought of living without them
but when the tables turn, they could live without you,
no doubt.
when you cry my self to sleep almost every night
because you can't stand the pain you've bottled inside
scared to lift your expectations higher
Even though you know it won't change
We believe, anyway.
And we know there's a way to stop this
but we can't because we're afraid of how it would turn out.
Scared, that in the end, it'll return to
how it was before.
Cold. Lonely. Alone.
How long will you allow this to happen?
Tree
i guess i died a long time ago
i guess i didn't notice that blood was no longer flowing through my veins or
that i was no longer breathing
i guess i didn't notice when i bit my fingernails down to the quick or when i stopped blinking to refresh my eyes
i didn't even realize when my body turned from glorious green
to raging reds and yellows
now i'm dead and i've lost my leaves
you have a way of doing that to me
Fair Hair
I never cared much for fair hair
until they dipped your crown in gold.
And the lights have dripped into your eyes
like candles on cerulean waters, leaving me quietly ready to drown in the stars you keep in glass jars.
I have held your hand on Friday afternoons, held your face on Saturday nights, and captured your eyelashes on pillowcases during Sunday mornings.
I have watched your lips part around my name--
a name that has never charged the air until it fell off your tongue--
and I know that I want to fall into you.
I never cared much for fair hair
until you traced sunlight along my stomach with your fingertips.