Aftermath

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Photo by ORNELLA BINNI on Unsplash

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?

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Poetry is for you

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Photo by Garidy Sanders on Unsplash

Poems are made for outsiders,

foreigners in their own skin

looking for a home

strangers from the outside

looking in.

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.

Some day

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Photo by Matteo Bernardis on Unsplash

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.

A love note to myself

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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.