The Poetry Marathon

I hear rain drops but they cannot guarantee I am awake.
I see the sun, but I feel so sure that I am slumbering.
I am four legged, I cannot slither passed this.
Only the wisest men told me that snakes can climb trees and then I knew I was doomed.

“there’s still now” a friend whispers to me through the screen
as if I haven’t been memorizing the very shape of my lover since Wednesday.
There’s still now, this very minute, where it is not wrong to love her. But only as I type.

I lost many words on her skin.
Irreplaceable ones.
Alas, I didn’t feel at a loss.
There is still now.
Another minute at most,
before I feel the mountains fall down onto my head from sky that was too weak for their heavy

I am going to miss her smile and the curve of her face. There will be silence where her laugh used to be, nothing to echo around the house but the sullen padding of my footsteps.
I’ll miss the warmth in her eyes in the morning when I see her wrapped up beside me, seeking my curves for closure because her mind is scary at night and I have once again held her through it.
I will miss her.
And no amount of positive poetry or survivors of the same heartbreaking can tell me that I won’t. Because I won’t listen.
I would not love her if she was not worth being missed.
She has lit up every room I have been in for years and my soul was aching to be tangled up in hers and now it will be restless in my loneliness.

I will miss her.
I will miss her guidance.
Her friendship.

I will miss my best friend laying in her pajamas for our third movie night in a row. She always picks better movies.

I will miss how beautiful my future looked with her in it. I have to spend days cutting her out of pictures that don’t exist yet.
I will miss those pictures, those memories that have not happened.

My heart ache will be visible. And when strangers ask me what is wrong, I will simply say I miss her. In any voice.

Because that is all there will be.

I planted flower’s in the garden of the stranger
and I was called stranger for how I mourned their death.
despite my efforts, it would not rain.

even the clouds could smell the sour on the skin of my strange, forgettable gardener

I don’t know you,
I know what you smell like
I know your most favorite things
at least the ones you have written down for me.
But I don’t know a thing about you
I could wash my hands in the sink with my fervor than with which I understand.
I am acquainted with your absence, but there is no you to be present.
You are always the wrong person.

I wrote the moon about you.
I thought he was wise, but he only warns people of the sea
He didn’t warn you of me
He didn’t tell you that each passing message that danced around the night sky, calling you to my arms again
Should have been avoided
My arms are better than the night
and that is where you have always wanted to live
You keep turning the clock back on my mornings.

I’m rusty and heartbroken. These will hopefully improve as the day goes. 

Testing for Saturday. 😊

I took down the for rent sign

My scars are no longer for sale

I use them as a ladder for when I visit hell

@ angel rosen

Such a bad poem. I tried. So tired.

I’ve met you twice in every life

But nearly ten in this

Because every other meeting

was an opportunity to miss

and in most of the meetings

I had a chance to kiss,

And I never got it right 

Not until this…

I wanted one more chance to make it right

and I met you again

And now I’ll die

Holding your hand

The wind howled in the background

Like a coyote tea kettle

Begging for the attention of it’s attending swine

He descended the stairs, his hooves thudding 

And stirred the pot once more