Should Have…

I wish I would have known
that everything
we would ever know
was right here.
All the fragments
of forever
were locked within
a few short days
and we never realized
all we needed
was already there.
I should have stayed
and you should have asked
and all of the shoulds
are in the past
but they are also
right here waiting
for us
to find them.

Anniversary

The date is looming,
only three weeks
and it will be two years
since you decided
to sever
the only connection
we had left.
And only two months
marks the thirteenth year
I’ll have been without your touch.
These dates on a calendar
hover in the future
reminding me of the past.
What would you do
if you knew about the blog
I created in order
to fill the void
that lives next to your absence?
What would you do
if you knew the blood I spill for you,
the words I rend from my flesh?
I could send you
another letter or email
but shouldn’t I take a hint?
Shouldn’t I leave it in the past
like you said?
If it’s so easy,
why do you keep the letters?
Why do you keep coming back
just to leave again?
It seems like
the past is always
right on the horizon
like those anniversaries
we can’t seem to forget.

Glitter and Sunlight

Silver and
glitter and
sunlight shooting through clouds,
this is me when you call,
when you speak
through suspended maybes
and fractured glyphs
proclaiming my heart inside yours
because that is where the fire hides,
beneath your walls
and cardboard faces.
You don’t toss the letters
because they are your soul
and these new words
are only unfound epiphany
that you will probably never reach
because you can’t stop reading
the past
just like I can’t stop
writing it.

Righteous Immorality

I feel unhinged,
bitterly appalled
by your unintelligible
askance concerning the
riveting thoughts I posses,
the ones that hunt down
your failed ideologies,
crush your illusions
of aptitude,
and force you to
retrace the lines in
the mazes you create

These questions and reasonings
playing jump rope with my mind
deserve attention,
grace and consideration,
despite the narrow alleys you walk,
despite the doors you close
on my incessant need
for a voice in this
chaos of corruption

My only solace is
the empowerment I
glean from knowing what
lies behind your mask,
behind the facade
you
polish so incessantly –
yet even the cracks in your
veneer are like fractured
bones,
willing and wanting
to splinter,
to repudiate the filth
that is tethered to
your terse gimmicks

My comfort
comes from believing in
this me I’m trying to be,
that your ugly words
and ludicrous antics
are only an obstacle
on my journey
to becoming what you are not,
to creating a world
where truth is revered,
a place where the cracks
are healed instead of hidden

(This is part of a poetic collaboration between myself and Christopher Rupley. His talent is beyond words, so visit his blog, The Brown Bag Special, and read some more amazing poetry.)

Love letters

Patience:

I have been honored lately by people’s appreciation of my words and story. Here is a piece inspired by my blog. Thank you for such a beautiful tribute! :)

Originally posted on the Anchor & the Star:

I found all the old letters
I wrote for you and never sent
There was, and remains,
So much to say
And I know that there are still lines that haven’t left my heart
Not for paper, or ear; for fear of rejection
Has kept them sequestered
These old letters, that I never delivered,
Remain potent, their messages still current
Years later.
And Today, like back then, I am convinced that
My confessions are better left a secret
To not detract from your current trajectory
Or weigh you down in what
Could have been, and what I wanted
But could not say.
Still cannot say.
This poem lives only for those
Who are not you, but who
Are maybe like me, and have
Old unsent love letters, and diary entries
That probably should have been shared
But were not. And won’t be.
We, whose old lovers and muses have moved…

View original 22 more words

Complacency

I’ve become
incompatible with
this complacency
which is silly
because I have always been
one who hates change,
the girl who left home
to come back
and who stays here
because it’s too hard
or scary
or crazy
to leave.
My students asked
why I don’t just buy
that beach house
and write books
like I dream,
but they don’t know
that money
and loans
and jobs
and people
and property values
and love
and hate
and longing
and regret,
that it all
just gets
in the way,
so maybe complacency
is more of an inevitable choice,
something I can’t get away from
even though I want to,
even though I have to.

Addiction (or What I Cannot Have)

I’m so jealous that I can’t think straight and I don’t even know if it’s jealousy really but I know I ache for places that you’ve been or seen like bridges and oceans and people who get to hold you or feel you when I never will. My hands shake with wanting and your face wells up in my memory invading my day so much so that I can’t concentrate on all these things that need to be done. Maybe I’m addicted. No. It’s clear that I am because I can’t stop checking and asking and writing all these things that cannot be stopped as much as I know they should. I am unable to quell my curiosity or to say no to one more glance, one more look at what will never be mine. I wish there were meetings for people addicted to other people because I could finally talk about this problem, this unhealthy obsession with going back. This is my only place to speak and no one ever talks back.