Tag: Words

Tattoos

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I wish to cover my body with words.

I could start with every word I’ve ever uttered.

The base of my feet would carry foundational terms —
where words like mom and dad still go together.

Around my ankles would be words like quiet and shy —
hush hush, stop crying.

My lower legs, those would bear the words I learned
from my brothers and kids in elementary school.
Crabs would be there, along with suck and freak.

My knees, those would be reserved for only the words
I’d kneel to, like poetry,
understanding, compassion.

My thighs would be the playground of high school days,
my pelvis that of long, confusing summers.

My stomach and back would barely contain the world
of words introduced to me in college.

My chest would carry the heavier words,
ones associated with memories and time
and love and other things.
My heaving and laughing bringing life back
to those moments for split seconds.

My arms, those would be reserved
for every lyric of every song that ever made sense.

My neck would be stenciled with coneflowers,
butterflies, and sunshine —
a placeholder for what comes next.

My skull, my face —
those I would leave blank to not cloud
future thoughts.

Ramblings unsaid

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Have you ever thought about how you will never be able to read every book ever written
nor see all of the stars in the sky?

Have you ever thought about how you will never know every poet that passes by on the street
nor know the number of lives you’ve touched?

I’ve been thinking about hot air balloons and the hidden meaning of dreams.

I’ve been thinking about why life drags on as if a wagon pulled by a small child.

There seems to be so much said in the silence, yet are we only hearing what we dread or assume to be true without giving space to that which can break the quiet?

Splintering

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Suddenly,
Playing games like house are
Lingering in my mind as we joke about lobotomies.
It would be simpler, you said, easier to endure the world.
No words lend comfort though, even in our laughter.
The light is gone from your eyes, and yours, and yours, and mine.
Every one of us feeling an unimaginable splintering as our bodies are
Ripped away.
I can’t move from this seat.
No way, we said.
Going back is not an option.

Always

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It almost feels wrong
to turn you into poetry —
to distill each layer
of what makes you, you
into a string of words
with vague meanings
and suggestions.

Yet, you are poetry,
like me and them and them.

We are particles
of light,
of stardust,
of dirt
in the form of human bodies.

We are an accumulation
of thoughts,
of love,
of misunderstandings
as individuals with private minds.

I could write more,
but my ability to place words
like “you” and “I” is faltering.
There is no “us” nor “we”
in the same sentence —
at least not how they linger
in the sparkle of my eyes
and taste in my mouth.

Shower thoughts

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I sat in the tub this evening,
feet pressed flat against the wall
under the tub spout.

I haven’t sat in the shower
since last time,
but that was a different tub,
in a different home,
in a different state.

I watched as steam rose
and water fell against my body.

Tiny droplets caught on my shins
and stomach,
pooled in the crevice of my thighs,
left trails down my face,
and soaked into my hair.

I thought about the world,
about blood draining from them —
abruptly and unknowingly —
to filter through shower heads
and cleanse bodies riddled
with ignorance and shame.

I can imagine the room smelling
metallic, metallic and sweet.
The steam would clog the vents,
sticky, and make any mirrors
appear as if a scene
from a horror film.

I also thought of you (and you)
as I stared at the green rust
surrounding the openings
in the shower head — of course,
I thought of you (and you) for
different reasons.

I sought comfort from the plastic tub
and metal fixtures.

The water weighed on my chest
like a thousand docking ships,
and the room felt bigger and bigger
as I stared off into the swirl
of the unknown.

I sat in the shower,
like I did last time,
but this was nothing the same.

I felt no gash across my head,
nor tear in my lungs.

The words for this poem
flowed, drawing me from a stupor,
and I leapt to catch them
before they followed
the water as it
drained
away.

Coming undone

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Phrases keep lingering in my mind,
simple, yet obfuscating ideas
about the existential things
all young poets strive
to dissect
with their words.

‘Life is simply a death worship.’

It’s heavy, existence
in this world.

‘There is so much said in the silence.’

One could point to the
character flaws of humanity —
the ignorant and bitter
ruses of power,
the battles of
pessimistic optimists —
but none of that seems to matter.

‘Everything was beautiful and nothing hurt.’

How do you do it?

‘The heart carries scars.’

How do you see
the world without
faltering?

‘Stuck. Like glue.’

These phrases seem small,
non-consequential at first glance,
yet I feel unsteady in their wake.

‘The world is coming undone.’

Peas

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I’ve been wanting to write.

Words swirl around in my brain,
but I have no funnel to let them out.

Once, I wrote that my autobiography
would be written in stanzas —
my last act a poem to the world.

This is not that poem.

The words blink in and out
like fireflies, slowly
shedding light that quickly
extinguishes.

This poem feels like a letter,
a note to you
and perhaps even you.

But I don’t have the words right;
I can’t figure out the order,
as if I’m a type-setter
and this is my printing press
and the letters won’t click in correctly.

I want to tell you about the roots,
the silly truths and lies,
the movement of water across the planet.

I want to explain what is hard to say,
and yet, I’m fumbling.

Perhaps the words don’t matter,
I mean, have they ever?

Maybe the oaks and peas
know about us.
Maybe all that I want to say
has already been said.

Words and battle scars

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I’m still here,
typing with mostly one hand,
the other stiff and swollen.

While not wrapped
from knuckle to bicep,
I am splinted from wrist up.

I’m tired,
though the pain
is mostly gone.

It’s easy to think of you,
with this bodily reminder.

A scar, inches long,
now takes up space
on my word arm.

If sculpted, shaped
into phrases or thoughts,
no words could describe
*everything.*

You’re not to blame,
by the way.

I fell; I broke; I laughed;
and I nearly fainted,
all in good fun.

Scars run deep,
both visible and not.

But I don’t think all scars
are blemishes,
marks of defiance
or pain.

Some are sweet memories,
ways of remembering
passing days
and blue skies.

I hold tight to my scars,
both visible and not,
because I think they mean something —

I think they define me in beautiful,
messy patterns,
like a chipped tea cup glued back together.

You are now a mark,
a scar upon my body.

Thank you for adding
to my story.

It’s long and sad
but oh so beautiful.

Written.

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I’ve written much on
feelings of sadness and dread
and loneliness and pain.

I’ve written much on
being in a state of flux,
confused.

I’ve written much on
how dreams are scary,
and how I wish *this* was different.

I’ve written much on
you and you
and you.

One could say you
are my muse.
You are fuel, at least.

My fire is burning
brighter and brighter
with every word,

every thought,
that escapes my
crumbling mind.

I’m tired —
I think I’ve written
much on that too.

But this flame,
this red-hot sore
bursting from my lungs,

from my eyes,
my lips,
screams for attention.

“Look at me! Look at me!”
it says when peace
comes to visit.

I listen, of course,
and I watch and wait,
a vessel to whatever comes.

Could I mold this fervor,
this light?
Maybe,

maybe the brightness
I yearn for
sits within me.

Maybe I will be
consumed in light —
but not in a fiery event —

simply as a side-effect
of letting whatever is inside
shine.


Would.

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If I was to send you every poem I have ever written about you, would you read them?

All of my questions, musings, and feelings would be free for your interpretation.
Each word, each twinge of my heart, would be available for scrutiny.

Part of me thinks it would solve my dilemma — my dilemma being that this is harder than anticipated.
If only you knew, I’ve thought, then I’d have clarity, somehow.
Clarity on what? I’m not sure.

I don’t expect you to change your feelings, but if, for some reason, you felt the same,
maybe, maybe we could work something out.

This is a pipe-dream, I know. We split for reasons that don’t fall into the traditional categories.
We are an enigma.

But, I like the hypotheticals.
It’s ironic, I lean towards the warmth of imaginary situations and shiver in the present coldness.

One day, I’ll learn to create my own fire, but today, I sit within the flames built by dreams.