Enchanté Moi

Life is confusing and often times angering, so I write poetry to deal with it instead of slapping people. Generally speaking I write my blog about the ups, and I write my poetry about the downs. I don't know why it works out that way for me, because I know plenty of people who write poetry about the butterflies and trees of life but it's just not me.

A tip on how to read these: I write poetry like prose, as in you shouldn't pause at line breaks but only at punctuation. I usually want my line breaks instead to give emphasis to meaning or feeling of a word or phrase.

Integral

I've always valued integrity

but have only just realized

it's always been the lack thereof

that's driven me from other guys.

I tell you that you've got it

and you just bat your eyes;

I never thought we'd be here

where you force what you want under disguise.

You can't set me free,

but you can make me despise

your efforts to give me what I have.

You've let the water rise,

covering everything you want to show,

but no matter how you try, you can't devise

a plan to actually not care.

At some point you also will realize

how much you like being with someone with integrity.

Control

She let life wash over her

like a huge tidal wave

and as the ocean held

her body and choked her lungs

she could die happy

because she didn't have to fight it.

Please Hear Me

Over and through

I repeat it in my thoughts

I shape it with my tongue.

Words I long to

whisper in your mind.

Words I mean

to do to you, as they have to me.

But how might they be mailed

or conveyed through the wire?

So instead they are willed

to your wintered

thoughts.

Enchanté moi.

Little Swimmer

She swims around

with a tiny pink Speedo lifevest strapped

around her teeny ribcage.

Dark skin,

dark hair,

dark eyes.

She is beautiful

at the age of three.

As her father instructs

her, she splashes hard

against the water,

singing in a little, strong voice

with words of her Indian heritage.

Little eyes are alive with joy.

Lovely woven gold

earrings struggle to shine

as brightly as she.

Golden glints

from the sun

strain to be as rich

as she.

Then she's slipping the smallest sandals

on as her mom helps her

into a light pink robe.

She stands

for a moment

between her makers,

sipping a water

sized for her hand

with the hood of her robe pulled up.

She looks as

the world's smallest boxer

between her trainers

after her best workout of the year:

confidence is her robe,

the Word is her water,

love are her jewels.

And though she is little,

she is fierce.

So Difficult To Tell Me You Love Me

The days when I get the most angry

at you are the nights

when I cry to God,

asking “What is so wrong with me

that no one can love me

wholeheartedly?”

Prayers like these

have always made me cry

and this day is no exception.

I want to give up on you.

10 days without your voice.

No letters at all.

You won't even be my friend

and yet for some reason the little voice

within me keeps crying out:

“he'll come back . . .

if he could just keep seeing how much you love him . . .

he'll come back . . .

if you can just keep showing him your love.”

But I'm beginning to hate that little voice.

I'm beginning to hate thinking of you.

But you've already yelled the same at me

so I know you wouldn't care even if you knew.

You've been happy to hurt me and I've been loyal.

You've been quick to cut me out and I've worn your clothes.

You have taken off my necklace

and I have carried the miles between us.

What have I to show for it now?

A month-old letter

marked Return To Sender

that might end up being my last to you.

I wish everything to be the last to you,

but only God and time

will tell whether the little voice crying out within me

will be snuffed by your big thumb.