Category: Poems

it stings

I can’t let my head get filled with these thoughts
because then I’m reminded of what could have been

I’m reminded I’m still hurt
I’m still sad
I still miss you

I’m reminded there was no closure
No talk, no discussion

No chance for us to speak unfiltered

No way for me to say how much I love you
And how you broke me to pieces
One time after another

How can I tell you now
That every time I read a poem
It stings a little with the thought of you

Every sad line, every broken word
Screams your essence

And it stings me

11:11

I wish I wasn’t damaged goods.

Small shards of a porcelain tea cup
held together by crazy glue

where you can still peer right through,

used only as decoration now
because nothing poured into it stays.

There’s only so many times that you can fix something that’s broken.

I wish my brain wasn’t programmed to think
that kindness is suspicious

and that the boat is always going to sink.

All I hear is that time will heal,
and there are no flowers without rain,

but when it’s monsoon after monsoon,
and my roots keep getting ripped from the ground,

how am I supposed to trust the rain again?

I wish to be brave when they come along.
Maybe I help remove every brick and stone
as curiosity gets the best of me;

my walls would crumble down
so they could get a little closer,

but I’m so scared of myself these days,
and the way I tend to get carried away.

I wish that they’ll be patient
setting me free from this cage I’ve made.

These walls have been rebuilt
over and over again,

and I’m getting tired.

I wish for them to rush to me,
tearing at the walls,
throwing brick after brick
as far as they can behind them;

reach their arms out to me,
let me surrender every tense muscle
into the safety of their warmth,

pull me into the cavern of their chest,
hand on my head,
arm around my shoulders.

Kiss me, touch me,
love me unconditionally,

like I’ve always loved.

I wish for them
to show me mercy.
Show me I’m not as difficult to love
as the others made it seem.

That love is real and true,
and it’s not this terrifying thing
that’ll break me.

And when they ask, “What’d you wish for?”
I’ll use that same old excuse,

“If I tell you, it won’t come true.”

Lady

Lady
How I’ve missed you
With your hands around me
And the smell of your perfume

It’s been so long
Since I’ve seen your face
Since your heartbreak
Recovered

We don’t have to talk
Right now
But one day
I’d like to know how
You managed to leave

With your head
And your heart
All in one piece

Love Conquers All Obstacles

Does it?

Quite frankly, I’m not sure.

I’d argue it creates more –

My thoughts about Love and what Love is has wavered throughout the years. It’s safe to say I’m at an internal stalemate.

It can be magical, even illuminating at times. The high never seems to stop climbing. Other times, it feels like you’re continuously plummeting to the depths of hell. It’s confusing, messy and bothersome in the sense that sometimes I’d rather be a heartless bitch than have so much love that I’m bursting at the seams, only for it to be selfishly consumed, mistreated and taken for granted.

So, Love conquers all obstacles, does it?

I’d say it creates more.

Why are poets always sad?

I’m tired of mundane bullshit.

I want to talk about life, music, purpose, ideals and eccentric thoughts –

raw conversations, deep emotions.

Get a coffee and talk about the symbolism in our dreams.

Go to a park and let me join your internal debates.

Take a walk by the water where we discuss life’s purpose.

Drink wine by a fire and reminisce about stories from when we were children.

And when I say I want to talk, what I mean is I want someone to listen.

I have these thoughts in my head that stay stagnant.

Poor things never see the light of day.

Only when I remember

to jot them down on paper

to reference back to later.

Fantasizing about being able to express these things

without judgment or weird looks

that make me regret even saying them.

To be loved, they say, is to be understood,

and I think I’m misunderstood a lot.

So can someone please explain to me the complexities of those words

before I run from a possible reality

I’m not ready to face?

a woman with purple hair and a pink sweatshirt with her back to the camera walking away in the midst of a field of flowers, surrounded by pinks, reds, oranges, and yellows. Tall vibrant green trees in the background with rolling hills, contrasting the baby blue sky with white puffy clouds. Image for the poem, "Why are poets always sad?"

Submerged Subconscious

I had a dream that I was drowning

But it wasn’t like they say –

That it’s peaceful, you accept it

And you slowly drift away.

No, it was chaos. It was panic.

I just couldn’t get a grip

Onto the ledge of that massive pool.

Every time I thought I did, I’d slip.

What if the me in my subconscious

Is the one who feels this way

From all the stress and judgement

I put on her every day?

I guess I’ll be more mindful.

I didn’t mean to put her down.

The last thing that I want

Is for that part of me to drown.

Submerged Subconscious

Peace

As the day turns in to rest,
A reflection on the day.
We took control,
We made amends,
And said as much as we could say.

Now the night creeps up on us –
Silence seeping in.
A deep breath,
A restful mind,
A sense of peace emerges within.

Innervision

I want to be writing all the time.
No sleep, no work,
Just line by line.

Letting the words come and go,
Jotting them down,
Letting them flow.

It’s a super power and mine is well known;
Being able to compile words
And making them my own.

It’s truly a blessing to be able to express
An idea, a moment,
Thoughts not put to rest.

There’s so many ways to describe
A cloud of thoughts
Built up inside.

A waterfall of aimless prose,
A metaphor or two,
Something more composed.

The creativity is never bleak.
When I write these words,
I’m at my peak.

So, to be able to share my work with you,
Is something I cherish
And will always do.

I was born to be a poet.

I was born to be a poet.

All these thoughts inside my head
Come to me in metaphors and
Used to go unsaid.

Until I found my poetry
And look what it’s become –
A flowing sense of inspiration
For years on end to come.

And though I have my struggles
And battles like the rest,
Poetry is always there
To make me feel my best.

I was born to be a poet.

It comes so naturally
And now I know my purpose
Of whom I’m meant to be.