Take me to the moon so many promises have failed to climb.
Show me the sunset at sunrise.
Will you make come true that song’s lines,
and for me the Kilimanjaro climb a thousand times?
You vow never to make mistakes,
but human we are and we break.
If I’m the sole reason that you breathe,
promise you won’t die if I leave?
Told me I’m more precious than the Stonehenge stones;
I can’t promise you forever, I’m flesh and bones.
Loving can be short, Neruda said,
and forgetting, so long.
Only proceed if you know you’re strong.
For us mortals the impossible seems easy;
we become dreamy when we love so deeply.
That’s me — the woman with the misjudged good intentions
and misused overqualifications.
Underestimated by many and rejected by plenty.
Always seeking refuge in all the wrong arms;
playing it safe just to end up with scars.
Can’t you see, girl?
I’m trying to get to you,
Doing crazy things
that only artists do.
A shadow of your posts
appears on my feed,
my keyboard gets all eager, girl,
A tweet I must set free.
I try to play it cool,
pretend your face don’t matter,
Date one here and there,
But low-key it’s you I’d rather.
My style, very different for
An erudite like you.
Don’t deny yourself the pleasure
Of calling me your beau.
I think I’m ready to live my life the way I wanted.
I think I’m ready to live my life and not look back.
I think I’m ready to see more than white and black;
to fly a little, to wake up late
no voices saying to face the day.
Sit in complete silence from dawn to dawn,
stay up ’til inspiration is gone.
In search of independence I’ve run away,
but the road is long, I’m halfway.
I miss sometimes the days I could write,
when I borrowed verses from the night;
the same old nights that made me ill,
but things seemed always a bit more chill.
Tranquil hibernation is what I long
in a chaotic world that’s gone so wrong.
I think I’m ready to let go of the past.
I think I’m ready to make my way out of the glass;
to mix the air with different waters, shake well,
barefoot walk on grass, break the spell.
I think I ought to live my life, I must.
Letting go would hurt less, at long last.
“Are you grieving?”
“No,” I quizzically said.
“You only talk about sad things.”
How to tell her that I’m a requiem; an airless breath, a heartless ribcage, a misunderstood sonnet. I want to tell her about the times I’ve stared blank at the silver clouds up in the sky, never hearing a reply. So unable to express the feeling of not feeling. I felt so much that now I grew immune. Just emotionless.
Am I grieving? Maybe I am. Hands forced up in the air by circumstances, while life points a riffle to my back. I’m detained. Can’t escape. Change your ways, they say, for a tree you ain’t. At least a tree can be uprooted and that’s the end. I’d much prefer a painless death.
Sad things because, it’s all my now heartless ribcage knows since long ago. I know of instances and mental getaways, and thoughts of a time when I’m less insane. We sometimes lack the things we need the most. Like Cowardly Lion’s, my courage is a ghost.
She knew nothing about me, yet she noticed all that there was.
She remembers the times
he rubbed it all in her face.
Car payment, shopping sprees,
fancy meals, his fancy place.
Every argument led to one direction,
“I’ve done so much for you;
I’m the answer to your equation.”
he said so often times,
made her question decisions
she made in her prime times.
Guilt, insecurity, loneliness, and misery,
She raced against life,
trying to change destiny.
Maybe he was right;
maybe she owed him a hundred.
He picked her up, after all,
when her days were thundered.
Pounding her head
with the hammer’s claws
until the impact
cut loose the gauze.
Countless years with no elation
were indeed grounds for cancellation.
Pretty even, she thought,
it had been paid off.
My feet up on a table, hands writing my life. Papers, sticky notes, cheap street art. All overlapping each other, hanging from a wall so plain and white. Receipts everywhere; months old, years old. What’s the point of holding on? Organizing them is futile, I long gave up. Paper towel wasted, not my doing. ‘Til Monday I’ll be buried in them, when the trash truck comes.
Outdated tapes hiding years of better days, and people by whom I was betrayed. Standing there begging to be watched, yet another pile of shit I don’t give. A dried bamboo plant wonders why I let it died. But we’re all dying over here, maybe not as visibly as its leaves.
There’s no more room on the coffee table; my bags and other random objects have taken over. I used to be better at putting these away. It’s the end. Can’t find room, can’t find time, can’t find motivation, can’t find…life. It’s as simple as living, if only I remembered what it meant.
Computers with connection. Not one, not two, not three; they’re about six. The great escape is as easy as 1, 2, 3. Walls, they’re more than four. The ceilings are high. Functioning doors from July to July. Big windows welcoming the air. Not too far from the ground if running I should need. Still, I can’t breathe.