mature
if we were having coffee, you’d probably tell me how “mature” i am. for drinking such an “adultish” drink such as this.
if we were having coffee, i’d probably be choking the drink down, wondering if i could ask for whipped cream and chocolate syrup and two tablespoons of sugar and milk chocolate chips and some sort of really sweet creamer and not have you scoff and tell me how “childish” i am and how i “need to learn to grow up.” if i ended up asking, i would probably laugh and say something like “oh, but i don’t want to grow up, not if it means i have to give up all this sugar” in response. you would laugh. you might tell your husband later that night, gushing about just how silly i am. i am so stinking silly, i would tell myself sarcastically before bursting into giggles, and then tears, curled up against the safety of my concrete floor and denim rug.
if we were having coffee, i would bring my stim toy and mess with it quietly beneath the table, where you could not see it. you do not need another reason to call me childish, now do you? even if it is only for my anxiety. my anxiety caused by this entire metaphorical situation. you would think me childish for needing the stimulation, and would laugh at me for having any anxieties whatsoever--because i am so very safe with you, aren’t i?
if we were having coffee, you’d probably ask me how i am. i’d say something along the lines of my being “fine” and laugh to myself, quietly, thinking of the image with text i sent to someone who i’d much rather be talking to than you.
if we were having coffee, i would ask how you were doing, too. and i would sit alone, nodding and smiling, pretending i am such an “adult” for understanding all of the things i shouldn’t need to understand. things like how your taxes are coming along and things like how your extremely-gross-novel-that-makes-me-want-to-vomit story that you’re reading is going. i would nod and ask questions at all the right times. i would make light jokes of the things you don’t really like, if only so that you might be happy about them later.
if we were having coffee, you’d probably ask me what i’ve been writing of late. i would not tell you of the multiple stories and ideas i’ve been baking in the oven that is my brain. i would not tell you of my poetry, either. you’d want to see the poems. and you’d wonder why i’d say no. and i would not have the heart, nor the courage, to say that i write so much about you and that i am angry at you and that i do not like the way you treat me and that i am trying, so very badly, to move on. to learn to say “no” to you. to learn, to learn, to learn. i would not say any of this. i would change the subject--to taxes, maybe.
if we were having coffee, i don’t know what i’d say to fill the space between the things i can’t say and the things i don’t have the heart, nor the courage, to say.
if we were having coffee, i would recall all the things you would say and i would store them up and stew on them, before hating myself for nine consecutive days afterwards. i would probably write twenty-three poems about it the day of and the day after. and i’d write so many in the days following. and i would feel more exhausted than i do at the moment, only thinking of even having coffee with you.
if we were having coffee, i would begin to hate the word “mature.”
seventy two hours
if we were having coffee, the last three days would not exist. three days, everything ruined. that's all it took.
if we were having coffee, yours would be black and mine would have mounds of sugar stirred into it.
if we were having coffee, you'd talk about your dreams and i would listen, nodding along. routine should not be messed with. i broke that rule, i know. which is why you aren't here.
if we were having coffee, you'd accept my apology. the apology that i've spoken two hundrend and thirty seven times, written eighty four times, and thought of more times than i can count. but you can't hear me anymore.
if we were having coffee, i could see your smile again, through wafts of steam. i miss it.
if we were having coffee, i wouldn't be sitting on the floor of the empty apartment, drinking bitter tea, trying to read the leaves gathered at the bottom of the cracked cup.
swan songs
swaying swans sing so softly,
soothing soft sounds slowly swelling,
seeming suddenly strident.
swans seldom stutter,
songs sweet, stable, so steady,
simply saying smooth sounds,
sending sweet songs slowly soaring.
sinking, surging, swaying,
sonorous songs sweep sooty sands,
smoothing serrated sections,
sending swirling sand segments skyward,
sand swiveling in superior cyclones,
swirling, so spectacularly,
songs switching, soon submerging,
sinking in soothing space,
significantly savage storms
stretching skyward slowly.
shore and sea sway,
sufficiently synchronized,
shifting societal standards,
sinking suggestive sentiment.
some saturnalien scum scream:
“swan’s singing is supernatural!”
such screams seem
standard sentiment for suffering swans,
singing segregated,
surgical supression,
sulfurous stigma,
seperatist sentiment,
systematic suffering
sans suffrage,
seeking some suffering like
sick, substandard scavengers
seeking stiffs to scarf.
such slanderous statements
soliciting self shame.
such slander seems swamping,
senior stigmas sticking still, ceaseless.
still, such substandard slander
shouldn’t seem so standard.
surely, someone should say “shame!
shame on such sour spoken sounds!
shame on sickening scum!
shame on such cynical syllables,
shame on such senile schemes!
such scandalous sentiments should scarcely see spoken!”
swans singing should seem special, sinless,
supreme in sound.
still, some stay silent.
silence seems stinkingly substandard,
slimy sewage straining such struggles.
sound seems sanctioned,
silence supremely saddening.
seeking success shouldn’t seem scandalous.
still, silence and slander stays strong.
such sentiment stains swan’s singing.
supernatural? surely senseless!
stupid semantics of superstitious stupidity.
swans sing sans spectral supplements!
spooky specters swiftly scamper,
scared of such supreme swan sounds.
spooks spooked by splendid splendor.
supernatural singing?
silly solution to senile stigmas!
swans scorn such spiritual silliness.
singing is simply spontaneous skill,
skill and some strong seasoning.
still, skepticism stays strong.
sans suspicion, swans sing still.
seeking some sadly screened support
for some splendid singing.
singing seems so shortening.
swan songs seem so superior.
swirling, sublime swan songs,
sacrificing sand for sky.
splendid sunsets streaking
smog suffused skies,
saturated stains;
saffron, scarlet,
seceding to shadowy sapphire,
sundown, song still sustaining,
sun and sunset’s sweet satellite spinning
seldom stop such sweet swans singing.
swans seldomly seem superstitious,
still, songs seem supernatural,
savages slinking in sluggish streams.
spiritual souls singing spirits into survival.
specters sway in sophisticated shapes,
spectral simulation,
schizophrenic supercomputer of spiraling skulls,
strange sounds of sightly sinful serpents.
since such sounds seem supernatural,
shouldn’t someone say swans singing is superior?
sage swans sing such strength saturated songs,
sending song scales spiraling skyward.
songs, scaling slippery slopes;
straddling stars in space,
stretching to star systems,
swimming in stacks of suns.
sitting in swells of singing swans,
sobbing songs of sugary sadness,
so soon, sorrow shifts to soothing sanctity,
sickness, soothed.
sadness, squashed.
suffering, scrubbed.
snow, seceded from summery skies.
songs surfacing from swanly speech.
striding stepping stones,
seeing sightly scenery.
songs sliding southwards,
slipping, somehow.
sonnets stirring streams,
sequestered swans singing
striding such senseless stockades.
spawning statuesque serenity in shivering streams,
seldom settling somewhere,
ceaslessly shaping some splendid space,
shaping, switching, shifting:
shifting solid stones.
sweet, saccharine songs,
standing strong,
staying stentorian,
strident sounds,
sliding sweetly
seeking spectators,
seeding sensitive saplings,
sprouting splendid stems,
seeking sweet sunlight.
sun shines ceaseless,
stalling for some sought space.
some secret section,
super secluded from such simultaneous spoilage.
simultaneously, swans sing,
seeking some sort of
settlement for such sinister suffering,
seeking some sort of sweet satisfaction,
sounds squeezing secluded souls,
someday shading cities,
shining seas and shaking structures,
seamstresses soon sewing
spectacular scenes.
songs sung somewhere
sad, sweet, suggestive.
songs swans started.
songs swans sung.
songs swans sowed.
still, swans shuttered,
slammed, scattered, sunk.
species said
“songs seem saturated in suggestive sin.”
still, some stole such strong swan songs,
stealing superb scales for selfish services.
snatching songs,
stealing spots,
swindling such sugar sweet singing.
so swans surrendered,
staring sadly skyward,
such sour savagery
solicits savage storms.
since shelter stolen, survival seems strenuous.
sad swans sunk southward,
snuggling with suffering,
sinking subterranean.
swans sang sirenlike,
spawning sordid superstitions.
shores where swans sat seemed shrouded in strangeness.
swans seldom cease singing,
still, swan’s strength seems strained.
sapped by superstitious stigma.
so such sweet, soft, struggling swans
stopped singing such splendid sounding songs.
such silence slowly suffocated said swans,
swans seemed striding to secede from sickening silence.
such supressed songsseeingly spawned self scorn,
swans strangling selves to supress sudden songs.
suicidal sadness, staining songs,
siring sinister scrutiny.
songs and swans surrender in sync, severing,
splintered segments spinning
shattered stars,
slumping scalps,
some suck satisfaction from straws.
some slice selves senseless.
some surrender, suicidal,
seeking solace in swaying strings,
survival’s strings snipped shamefully short.
some seek serenity in schizophrenic sources.
some still see serenity in such ceaseless suffering.
still, summation of such sad swans
smooch sorrow so severely
that such sickness seems ceaseless,
submerging sweet songs in still spreading sadness.
significant shadowed space,
sun stymied,
stars snuffed.
sinning spreading starkly,
silencing serene swans,
stifling silver sterling stars.
should swans still start songs?
or should silence stretch ceaseless?
song seems salient to such soundless suffering.
such senses seem safe.
still, suspicion, stigma
staying stuck in some spacey souls.
serenity slips, sinking subterranean.
sadness sways,
swallowing some spacious cities simply.
swans suffer, species swallow sorrow.
strangling on soundless sickness.
silence seems like sickness.
sagely, someone suggests
some supreme suggestion,
stupidly seeking
some sure solution:
since swans seemed secondary.
schooling seems significant.
some say swans swim subordinate;
suggesting stereotypical stupidity:
some species seem stunted,
societal straitjackets, strangling sweet singers,
scapegoating swans.
sometimes suspicion stays stuck.
such stigmas seem super strenuous to shake.
still, someone should stand;
seek the spunk to say:
“species sustain soul,
safeguard sentience,
spawn saccharine songs,
sabatoge solitary strays,
soon, subsidence stays sure.”
swimming swans, slithering snakes,
sewing silkworms, slimy salamanders
slippery salmon, strong scorpions,
stalker sharks, special seals
sprightly seahorses, stinky skunks, and slow sloths.
soaring sparrows, spinning spiders, scurrying squirrels and squirting squid,
sacred scarabs, squirming starfish, shrunken shrimp,
shriveled shrew, slimy slugs, shelled snails, silky servals,
stately stags and spirited storks.
each species seems salient and splendid.
even small sardines: significant.
such species seem small,
scarce, sporadic, strange, substandard.
such stigmas are slipshod.
so species still seem salient,
spurning such stale sentimentality.
swans seek survival,
subsistence, not superiority.
such selfishness is senseless.
such species spurn seeming sheeplike,
shunning shepherds.
species seek strength.
strength, scornless spans of survival.
seeking seen: strong, splendid, sweet.
some still searching sundry sands
so someone still stands satisfied.
sailing sun stained seas,
sapphire swells surging to sandy shores,
spawning sudsy cerulean surf.
sequestered shores, subtly shadowed.
sparkling sunbeams shuttered,
sending swans to sibylline shade,
searching stripped shores for sidelined silvery stashes,
sanguinely suppositions of safety and salvation.
swans searching, shepherding scheduled saints.
scavenging sandy shores,
and slothlike, shattering.
swans start slipping.
slowly, souls shrivel, semitransparent.
searching for supreme solidarity,
sidestepping serious storms.
surely, success sits somewhere,
secluded in shadowy shores.
success should be sought speedily.
strife seldom stops simply.
serenity seeking swans still sing,
starting songs supplementary.
suddenly, swan source surfaces,
striding stormy seas,
seeking spawn’s songs.
she searches for strayed sons.
she seeks to spark satisfaction.
swan’s source has seen suffering.
she seeks to soar skyward,
spurring swans to surmount sad situations.
seek sustenance!
swan source symbolizes success,
seeking strength in scary scrapes.
swan source saw small sons suckling from soft spheres,
seeking sweet solution.
she says, “seek survival!
seek satisfaction,
seek serenity,
satiate starved swan sanity!”
she shows swans skills,
students studying stateliness.
swans still sailed skyward,
so she shows swans supplementary sailing:
swimming salty sapphire seas.
such shining seas sequined with shining sunlight,
such sojourning seems sufficiently satisfying.
“spurn stereotypical status!” she says.
she starts shifting said status:
swans see what she sees.
swans surround system’s stop,
swamping sectarianism,
so simple, so sophisticated.
simply stunning, sublime,
stimulating, stirring sleeping soldiers,
spurring salient strides,
striding sagely,
surpassing senseless slights,
supressing stalemate,
smothering such senseless slander,
sailing sinking ships to shore.
struggling swans swung swirling shouts,
scouring shores, ceasing strife.
such splendid savagery,
so sour shifted sweet,
swan source scored success.
she significantly shifted such sights.
so stigmatized scorn shifted to celebrated.
scratch shabby slants,
substitute sincere sentiments.
surround, subdue senseless slander,
swans sing still,
swearing no cessation,
stubbornly securing ceaseless support.
standing still, strong,
smashed scizzors still slice separated;
suddenly shining swordlike.
sprouting sudden splendid shoots,
swans seem suddenly successful.
still, swans seldomly succeed stopping seiges solo,
so swan’s serendipity strays.
still, swans search.
seeking sweeping songs,
swelling stations,
successfully suprising.
suitability supercedes sameness,
surely, shouldn’t stay synonymized.
such stories solicit sincerity,
supposing stories sit secure,
solemn, stirring,
superposing sciolism.
slashing superficial standards.
swan songs stain sciolistic spirits,
supporting schooling simpletons,
scattering scorn.
simple strains spawn sophisticated speculation,
soul symposium,
sole soprano singing sonorous,
strong swan singers synchronizing.
some struggle to strangle such sounds,
souring such sweet swan style.
still, sighing swans stop scarcely,
songs soaring skyward,
sky sketched silver,
smog, spinning string,
shaping sheepskin shrouds.
suffering seemingly spawns
some super special songs,
sending such supremely splendid signals.
songs start seeming like sheets of spectacular sky
stretching stately,
surrounding swans,
skin of soft support,
suspending swans in stunning stillness.
still, shouldn’t stop.
still, ceaselessly strutting,
seldom setting selves south of success.
swaying, synergized song.
synchronized, spiritual, shatterproof song.
spectacular, significant, substantial song.
so suspend scaredness,
swans shouldn’t stop singing.
still, songs sustain significant significance.
such style, such symmetry,
shouldn’t stop,
shouldn’t stay still.
so swan songs seldomly suspend.
sustaining seems salient.
ceasing soon? surely silly!
swans should scarsely stall!
surely, such superior singing stays.
slackening, strengthening,
simply swaying,
subsisting silently,
suggesting simple songs,
still, striving for sophisticated sounds.
ceaseless sound,
stopping seldom,
subsisting in seemingly silent states,
staying sonorous in shining stars.
swans started sweeping sojourns,
searching for some same strategy
as similar successful species.
swan songs steered
such stigmatized species
somewhere super special.
swans seem so special someday starting soon.
such sentiment should stay.
such sentiment should have stuck from start.
still, swans strove to swim skyward, socially,
seeking society’s summit.
such struggle seems so serviceable.
stop settling for supression.
stop silencing spectacular sounds.
celebrate surpassing societal summits
swans should serve as similes
for societal supression.
schooling is super superior,
spawning sensible solutions,
stirring students to seek some
substantial shifts in sectionalist sentiments.
seems sensible that some stuck in similar situations,
such sad species seeking some support,
should study swan’s successes,
striving to simulate shangri-la’s smooth skies.
The three triumphant Tom-cats
The three trimumphant tom-cats: Timothy, Theodore and Travis. Trickle through the taxi, telling them this and that. Travis is a taunting, tricky teen with a tail that trembles . Theodore was the tender teen that thought of theology throughly though no one seemed intereste. Timothy thought throughly of tremendous thoughtlessness with no tern or trek of the future. Together they were the tremendous trouble trio that terminally test the tenacious testomony the textbook thrash. Truely, the tantalizing Tom-cats try thrilling thunderous tasks.
till death do us part
nothing is forever
~ and yet ~
you never fade
an i m a g i n a r y friend
who never said
“goodbye”
/i’m\so/lost\in/you\
i can’t find my way out
of your mazes
eyes
OPEN
or
>closed<
{it’s all the same}
the only thing that changes
1s/the/date
as my youth
b
l
e
e
d
s
a
w
a
y
you grow
STRONGER
》a shadow《
cast by bitter sunshine
f/i/l/t/e/r/i/n/g/ t/h/r/o/u/g/h/
the cracks of my prison
isn’t it time to let go?
but when people left
[when my world s h a t t e r e d ]
when time
》》sped up 》》
and left me far
b e h i n d
you stayed
》the same《
the taste of pain
should teach us happiness
but smiles hurt more
laughs steal the air from my lungs
leave me gasping for oxygen
as your waves close over my head
(i never learned to swim)
the mirror mocks me
: who I was :
[who I could be]
i can’t reconcile her,
//who I am\\
i’m scared of you
i’m scared of
me
i want to get away
but you would follow me
even in death
Upon A Grassy Hillside
Nearing midnight,
surrounded by quiet,
and above me
the blackness
spackled with starlight,
and a full-moon
encased in an aura,
It is here ...
I wish,
I hope,
I dream,
for better days.
Songs ring in my head,
songs from days past,
they tell me
love is such an easy game,
you win, you lose.
When daylight rises,
night dreams will fade,
the day will begin,
but the songs play on.
Forgetting
I wish I could forget the entirety of my childhood
All of the judgmental looks I got from others
All of the calls to the front office to explain all of the bruises on my body
I wish I could forget the childhood trauma that caused me to become so hateful
I wish I could forget everything and begin anew
I wish I could forget ever existing for it would bring me peace to not know anything
If only I hadn't been conceived, then I could have avoided my fate
I wish I could forget, but everytime I try the memories come flooding back
There is no forgetting the catastrophe of my life
there is no forgetting, but I wish there was a way for me to forget
you ruined fortune cookies for me.
i skipped that song because it reminded me of you.
- but the next day i belted those words because they made me feel like you were mine again.
i can’t eat at that restaurant because it just isn’t the same without you.
- but i’m constantly craving their fortune cookies--not because i like them, but because i loved reading the fortune then giving you my cookie afterward.
i refuse to read poetry because it all seems to be about you.
- but then every time i write something, i end up writing it for you.
i know that it’s over, and i know that you’re leaving, and i know that i need to move on, and i know that we had our last kiss and our last moment as an “us” and i told you that was okay, and i know that i need to stop writing about you but it’s just so. hard.
how do i forget about someone like you?
how do i learn to live a life without you?
how do i breathe when it feels like you took all of the air from my lungs?
it feels like i miss a person that no longer exists, and i think that might be the worst part. my heart has been squeezed and pushed and poked and shattered but i still go on wanting you because i have NEVER felt like this about anyone else. it feels like i found my soulmate but im losing them at the same time because we are on different paths and i am not sure they will ever cross again.
my heart is breaking.
will i ever see you again?
and will you love me then?