Was it my words, so sweet and deliberate?
Was it the way I dress, all whimsy and feminine grace?
Was it the way I looked at you when you talked–intense and doe-eyed,
as if no one else mattered in the world?
How was I to know that you would block the freight train force of my love
And leave me alone along the tracks of a wild, strange place
To navigate on my own
Walk off the shock and disbelief on my face
Was it all a lie–one confusing puzzle of misread signs and over-analyzed lines?
I was never one to lie
My only fault being an open book for anyone to read
Then why do I feel as if the same freight train knocked me over
and left my heart on the tracks, bleeding?
Poems are made for outsiders,
foreigners in their own skin
looking for a home
strangers from the outside
Poems are for the heartbroken,
drunk on love
full of longing
the disappointed, those still
waiting for their time.
Poems are for dreamers,
digging for jewels within
travelers to their inner worlds,
chasers of the light
writing their way to clarity.
One of five poems I submitted got published on the erotic poetry anthology of NY Literary Mag. It feels great and inspiring seeing my words and name in print.
I hope this is only the beginning of more writing jewels to share with the world. Cheers, and thank you, Muse!
Get the digital poetry magazine issue on Amazon Kindle. Or read it for free on Issuu or Scribd.
Some days I wish I could write the way I used to before
back when I wrote those poems of you,
back when I was full with longing and driven by need.
But I know I will write again someday
and not just about you
maybe it won’t be about you
I’ll write about red nail polish
and biting into apples ripe with truth and knowledge
I’ll write about the sea–
one part calm, one part stormy
and oh, how I thrive in both,
how I am both,
that I would continue to be both.
Maybe I could write about you someday with no regrets
And finally lay these bones of longing to rest.
time is ripe to pick
red purple plums from boredom
and into my mouth
this makes my breath hitch
tip of the knife against skin
We’re a pathetic lot most of the time, running around like headless chickens and lost puppies, sniffing for love in all the wrong places when it’s been here with us all along.
Love is inside your world-weary and caffeine-battered soul.
Love is that tiny surviving spark at the corner of your cold heart.
Love is that niggling voice at the back of your head that tells you not to lose hope.
Love is that child in you who wants to ride the Ferris wheel all over again, get lost in a foreign land, and find her way back home.