Flower Massacre

A field of flowers, a plague wrought upon by my insecure thoughts:

Does he love me, or does he not?

I scatter the petals into the wind; they falter, unable to answer my question

A daisy chain is broken with ruthless pain as my fingers commit a massacre

He loves me not, or does he? Why don’t the full blooms answer?

They say a lady should never sleep with a stranger

But his arms felt like freedom to my entangled heart

The blood-thirsty lips of the devil have a taste for foolish girls

And their foolish desires which wholly satiate liars and their sick lusts

Are they any less savage than those of us who lay waste to a field of roses?

Licking the blood the thorns draw from our fingers

The pain of bleeding is far more satisfying than that of a broken heart, constantly wounded and dense in scar tissue

He loves me, he loves me not.

Strawberries in the Winter

Strawberries taste like summer, with a sweetness that gives me visions of green strawberry fields

With bright red gems glittering with the morning’s slowly dissipating fog

And fragile white, round-winged butterflies fluttering through the miles and miles of sweet strawberries.

Tasting a strawberry in the midst of a winter, I wonder how far we roam to find strawberries in a place so cold

Across the country, through the snow, to the other side of the world where it isn’t below zero

Or maybe just a little down south, where the porch is warm enough to languidly rock and watch the trucks drive by

Through day and night, to bring these strawberries out of the light and hope they survive.

A journey up the coast, to where the sun doesn’t shine and the earth is too cold for strawberries to grow

They taste like another place, or another time, as I’ve witnessed summer before with my own eyes:

It smells like the green leaves of the strawberry, tastes just as sweet and sounds like cicadas

Feels like sweat on my forehead, my bare feet on sand and a cool salty wind with an ocean wave cadence.

I wonder if strawberries in the winter taste just as nostalgic as pomegranates in the summer

To fully validate the irony in that I only miss one when I’m with the other.

Lagos

There is no wind for whispers; just the silence of the sea.

As the waves lap at my feet, I soundlessly weep at the solace the sun has given my soul.

At last, I am whole, together with the sand from which my form was span

And the salt that seasons my tears.

After so much time alone, I’m finally home to a place I’ve never been.

I long to see that blue sea once again.

Lagos, Portugal

Your Shadow

He screamed at a shadow to get out of his way.

Perplexed, she said “Why shout when you could walk right through me?”

He shrugged. “I want to be heard as much as you want to be seen. Now we’re both satisfied.”

So she remained by his side forever to dance before his eyes, and he whispered his dreams to her in the dark.

I Believe

More than any other color, I believe in blue

The widest outstretched arms I’ve ever seen above and below the moon

In bright pastel or tempest grey, she always builds a day anew

With hope of sun or fear of pouring rain, my prayers may still come true

If I were to pick a religion, I believe it would be you

You, the watcher who hides away and watches from a brighter view

The invisible smile of a stranger that I picture in my dreams

I ponder on how you’ll never know how much your unseen smile means to me

More than any time, I believe in midnight

The one second on the clock that an erroneous day is blown away

A flitter of hope in a shivering heart beat leaps awake

Ready to make right this fresh new day

Yes, I believe in this the way I believe in virgin snow

That quietly covers our footsteps and holds our secret close

She wistfully shifts around our frozen trails

And slows the time just enough for us to observe the small details

I suppose it’s hard to not believe in God;

Who else can I find to blame the hardships of life on?

Or where do my prayers go after they fall as weary tears?

What idol can I rely on to placate all of my fears?

But no one can reply to all of the questions, all of the demands

They fall back into the frail fingers of my tired hands

So I believe in magic, the magic that makes up time

Who meticulously grooms the sea and the sky

Patiently healing wounds and removing the iron ball and chain

So the hope in my heart can finally fly.

Messages You Will Never Read

I’m only sometimes sober when I write you messages you’ll never read;

Silly thoughts and forbidden words that bring me solace you’ll never see

I hide away from terrifying truths for fear of what you’ll think of me

I lie to you, and to myself too – the truth is such an ugly thing

I wear a mask of several layers, just in case you can see through

I wander round earth’s many corners just to stay away from you

And still I circumnavigate the globe to watch you from afar

I’ve known you only in concept; I have no idea who you are

Like religion, I see you only how I would need you to be

But you’re more of a demon than an angel in reality

But that doesn’t discourage me from heathen thoughts or sorcery

I’m closer to hell than heaven, and all you’ve done is encourage me

But not enough, not quite enough to send these messages you’ll never read.

Malingering

I tip toe over broken glass with the same meticulous pace that I distance myself from a broken heart.

One and one don’t always align, and I fear the sound of shattering from a pair mismatched. Like magnets, only the opposite sides attract, but when pulled apart, a bit of myself leaves with you each time.

Under planetary bodies, rising sun and waning moon are no match for the tides that move me pensively in your direction. Were you any more poisonous, I surely still would long for just the slightest taste and suffer the lasting bitterness.

The home of your arms is lined with brambles so shallow they only pierce my skin. Alas, my buoyant heart rests at my surface to bask in the heat in your eyes – vulnerable for those thorns to pierce.

With closed eyes I meander around sharp debris, heart still aching, hoping that things will change. The scars haven’t faded, the pieces of me have not regenerated, and though in my latent pace I hope you return to me, I know that I’m shamefully malingering.

Just a Bunch of Words or Phrases in no Particular Order.

Precious silver succumbs to rust and crumbles to dust

In the palm of my hand, I remember what it used to be and I miss your touch

Life stages change over incremental ages

The awkward sprouting of a tree on the face of a mountainside

Lost and humbled, my strong fa├žade has crumbled

I never knew that I needed you this much

Excuses and silly reasons, lies and treason

Back and forth within our own minds all of the time

I speak for myself, and for everyone else

Who has ever had drunken words occupy a sober mind

Can you empathize? Sympathize?

Anything to seem more kind?

I think of you, I dream of you

I hate you and I miss you at the same time

I wonder who really holds my heart?

The thought of being loved, I know

But the moment you embody hope

You become the one I need to hold

Nicotine and liquor make long nights go by quicker

And my patience that had run so thin can run a tad bit thicker

My weakness is my weakness for glimmering eyes and seductive smiles

And for a glimpse at a lustful gaze, I’d travel for many miles

But I won’t malinger on my pen, I’ve exhausted malformed sentences

I had no reason to write this, but I suppose if I was sober

I’d say the same thing in less words –

And also, in less honesty.