Tag: love

home.

I like you, and I like how
you’re not afraid to say
you like me. you tell me
that you’ve always thought
I’m gorgeous; you tell me
that I’m nice – I’m not always
that nice, but ok – and you tell me
you don’t understand why
anyone would not want
to date me. part of me
believes it. another part
whispers, "but he doesn’t really
know you yet. he’s going to find out
what an unlovable monster
you really are."

Continue reading home.

a conversation greatly to be desired

I’d like to hear
what our therapists would have to say
to each other. in a mythical world
where such a conversation
might be permitted and
not considered a gross violation
of our privacy (or HIPAA,
or the Hippocratic oath, or
some other dumb law),
I bet with an hour together
they could sort out our problems
in a trice – a jiffy, even.

Continue reading a conversation greatly to be desired

bipolar witchy nightmare girl

I may seem like a manic/magic elven/pixie
dream girl. I may even
play one on Twitter.
but those portraits leave out the down side
of the swing. mania
has its price. those girls are
always so whimsical, happy, cute/kawaii,
they never cry
themselves to sleep,
they never set themselves on fire
for love, let alone for hate.
so I’m burning up in here
alone, ’cause I’m searching
for other mystical, half-mythical
creatures, heroic figures
riding up from the West
appearing suddenly in the forest
shrouded in fog and mystery; the Wild
Hunt – that sort of thing.

Continue reading bipolar witchy nightmare girl

new growth

my heart was desolate, a
blasted wasteland where nothing
could grow, I
salted the earth and pulled up
every flower – they weren’t viable,
there was no hope for them – and I thought
I could never feel anything again
but my ever-present
companion, my dark and lonely,
sometimes lovely, bone-deep sadness.

but.

now there’s a chance, somehow
a new shoot is trying
to grow. I watch it in
amazement, touched
by the way life insists
on coming back, no matter
how annihilated
the garden. I’m rooting
for you, little shoot. good
luck. you’ll need it.

ingenious

I’m laying down
my arms. I suppose
I must admit that
I’m not entirely
free of fault here.

I could have retired
from the field gracefully
when it became apparent
that I had picked up
the wrong kerchief. to fight
so fiercely for the favor
of someone whose eyes
and heart were elsewhere
was my own pointless
misadventure.

sometimes a windmill
is just a windmill. the
Fair Dulcinea is not really
a ragged peasant girl under a spell
that requires me to give myself
three thousand lashes
to break it, she’s just
otherwise occupied.

burn all my books
of chivalry, then
and let me swear off this madness
for a year. we’ll see
if I still want to pick up a lance –
or a Lance – when my blood
has cooled.

the agony & the ecstasy

well done. with a single stroke
of your pen, you defused
the bomb in my heart. with kindness
you snuffed out the raging bonfire
burning inside my soul
as if it were but
a guttering candle.

see, the furnace that feeds my art
has only two starters:
the pure immolation of love,
or the furious conflagration
of rage. everything else
is just wet kindling, the dank despair
of smoldering coal
that lurks and murks and smudges
up the air with its stench and
nobody wants to read that shit,
myself least of all.

I can set myself on fire
and burn everything down
in the white hot, purest savagery
of protesting every fiber
of the way things are,
or I can let the delicious agony
of love purify me with
its transcendent ecstasy.
if I had the choice
I know which way
I’d rather burn.