Category: poems

a whole new world (of pain)

it’s been going on
for weeks now. possibly
even months. I’m deep
in denial, limping everywhere
and pretending
this is normal. I was supposed
to see the doctor several
weeks ago but I slept
through the appointment
and now I’m embarrassed
to call him back.
but it feels like
I’m walking on knives.
the worst is after
I have been sitting
or lying down, and I get up
again. the orthotics
don’t seem to help
at all. today I walked
a lot in flip flops and now
I’m practically incapacitated.
tell the sea witch
I’ll give back my legs.
they’re not worth it.

May Day

last year for May Day
I was a lonely robot,
crying out to empty space.
this year I have found my solace,
and no longer need to
make a distress call.

when I think of May Day,
I think of a maypole, peasant girls
twirling with ribbons. but
apparently it has something
to do with workers of the world
uniting and losing their chains.
I wouldn’t know, as I am
a useless, decorative flower
of the capitalist class. but
I’ll give you solidarity,
if you’ll have it
from one
such as I.

On This Day II

this time
last year, I sat crying
in a prison of my own making,
unable to see that the door
was already open
and it had been
all along. this time
last year, I was too busy
chasing after someone
who didn’t want me
to see that there were,
in fact, other fish in the sea,
and that one in particular
was giving me
the eye. this time last
year, I was a fool. a sad,
silly, oblivious fool; a bud
curled so tightly
into my misery that
I didn’t know it was
time to open.

now I can look back
on that girl and be glad
that she finally took
that first little step
towards something
better.

that girl II

really I’m the worst. so busy
being spiteful, so jealous because
a pretty girl made me feel
ugly, a skinny girl made
me feel fat, a popular girl
made me feel left out, lesser than,
that I didn’t get it: she may be
all of those things, but only I
can make myself small
in spirit. I may not be
shaped like her but
only I can make myself
ugly. who among us hasn’t
tried to fit in? tried to be
what we think everyone wants?
I was just enraged because
I thought her being the way
she was took something
away from me.

that girl

she’s all right. I mean
not my cup of tea, and
I really don’t get
all the hype, but okay.
whatever. I’m
probably just
jealous. I just think
that one should have
to work a little bit harder
to get all the accolades.
it seems there is such
a thing as a free lunch.
if you’re cute enough
and can play your instrument
even remotely competently,
they will rave. duly
noted. the next time
I’m born I’ll try
harder to be hotter.

the moon’s lament

her heart is a dusty tome
waiting for you
to read it. her thoughts
are the tone poem
in the background
of your dreams.

her shadow contains
multitudes, strange sentences
in a foreign language
that you’ve never heard before,
whispering secrets
too soft to hear.

her silence speaks
with the susurrations
of the surf and the tides.

her darkness
calls to yours.
do you hear it?

hate the art, like the artist

it’s not you, it’s me. I really
can’t stand your art. I’m sorry
because you seem fine
enough, when you talk
you turn into a real person;
still almost insufferably cute
and cutesy, but you appear
to be a human being
with thoughts and feelings.

when you sing you become
a China doll, an automaton
who never reaches
below the surface. you sing like
you’ve never screamed,
you’ve never ugly cried,
you’ve never been eaten your weight
in Doritos.

I’m just saying
your art would be so much better
if you were willing to let yourself
be real.

cold and grey

it’s too cold. the sky is
crying. all is damp
and hopeless.
I’m sick of this
bullshit. when will it
get warm enough
to stop the aching
in my bones? when
will this empty void
in my soul be filled?

the tiny voice
inside my head
that’s used to
dealing with this
whinging sounds like
a Magic 8-ball. it says only,
“try again
tomorrow.”