Friday, June 1, 2012

Sexy Books

Well today is another day for poems, my friends. These are a few that I have written in the past month and are mostly about relationships and self-reflection. I mostly write when I am having weak moments, so these really don't represent my every day state of mind. Writing really is a great outlet for me when I feel overwhelmed and hopefully they will help you too. Please let me know what you think!

I Only Need Your Love Because I Gave You All of Mine

I cannot know
what you need now,
so I give you
What bigger gift
could a person
Yet it scares you more.
You need to know
that which scares you
(my emptiness)
comes only from being
so full
I had to dump my purse.
Now you have
my coins,
and instead of refilling me
you run.

Can I Kiss You?

I should have said yes
when you asked
so innocent and delicate
what held me back
I had never been asked before
only pressed
by any parting lips
whose fancy may have been
what was so wrong
that I said no
not now
not any day
because I ruined your
beautiful question
of can my lips
touch yours

My Robin

I walked right along
and so also did he
I thought that the robin
was walking with me
but it seemed when I moved
so also must he
until I moved too much
to stay comfortably
then he fluttered away
my robin from me.


How do I look when I'm mad?
Only you'd really know.
Do I look like a child,
a girl who can't have her way
or do I just look tired
of arguing all the same?
What about when I'm depressed?
Are my eyes all puffy
after hours of crying
and your gentle hand on my back
and soft song over my fears?

On the Same Page

Your hand is around
the top of my hip
but you're grabbing
me like a book.
Flinging open the cover
and stealing all
the words, the ideas,
the big picture
of my pages.
You finger the leafs
with soaking, trembling hands
that rush
to the corners
as you smile
at me trembling too.
Your eyes melt 
the print with speed
as you consume
every breath
that ever held air
in my plot.
I am used and beaten
and tattered
but your body knows
that inside of me
is still
the same story.

About poetryA poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness. - Robert Frost

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