Day 6

I want you to teach me

how to speak strong

the way your mother probably did

when trying to shuffle you into bed,

a presence not occupied by decibels in space,

this is about power not volume

because my words come from

a place of quiet terror

for fear of not doing my

verbs justice.

I have not come from a land

of quiet-talkers.

sound-pollution: a piece of my

genetic fabric and coding

I am working very hard at being quiet

and I do not want that stillness to be

mistaken as accident,

as self-doubt,

as stage-fright.

But, as reflective,

peaceful,

like the sound your front door makes

when you unlock it and immediately feel

at home,

because it is not those walls that

bring comfort,

it is the simple sounds the house bones make,

the silences they hold.

Day 5

you like your coffee bitter

like you like your women, jaded

like burnt pepper, broken

like ripped tea leaves.

but, today I’ve been warned to be gentle with your heart.

a heart that I supposed

was composed of smooth stones

and shells that crack with jagged edges.

I spend most of my time talking about poetry,

mostly because

I think it mirrors the way that

life spills out of mouths over

lattes that watch the snow fall.

I want to throw snowballs inside your rib cage

just to make sure you feel alive

because

you like your poetry aggressive

like you like a snow-plow, efficient

like a drive thru, metrical

like a sonnet.

Day 4

I haven’t exactly decided if I want to fuck you,

but I’m going to clean my room anyway

change the sheets and pick my

clothes up off the ground.

You see, starting something sordid on

the wrong foot will only lead to sexual disaster.

Despite my indecision, You’re pretty cute

and you make me laugh and I kinda

want to seduce you because it seems like it will be fun.

But, I’m not sure if I’m ready

to do dirty things to you though.

I’ve had a bit of a hankering for a cuddle

and kiss

where my expectations and what is

expected of me stay within my control.

I’m still going to try to look hot as fuck,

and clean my room,

just in case I decide that out of control

would be okay for a little while.

Day 3

The words feel heavy now,

enjambing inside my insides,

this does not feel natural.

I feel like a thesaurus that’s had all their

words/pages cut out and

have been turned into some fancy DIY

project where you turn your book into

a box to stash your weed,

or a purse,

maybe an art instillation.

I’m frozen, waiting for the syllables to fly out of my fingertips.

I have done this to myself,

deciding that busy means value.

But, busy is a cop-out,

a coup that infiltrates

every conversation and moment of my day.

This stress could break me,

but I asked for it.

No more calm on the outside voice

when everyone knows you’re panicking.

I am panicking.

It feels better to just say that out loud.

Day 2

That slush swish

where the icicles drip lower and lower,

stalagmite growing

swelling under the feet that bear me.

I love how the streets seem to return to

their nature,

rejecting the glossy, glassy pavement

feel.

Now the rocks and dirt penetrates their being,

forming fissures,

exposing fossils under the building of our concrete city.

I wonder what I could find there,

under the ground?

I mean this prairie no disrespect,

but I like to focus my attention on the sky

because last night all I felt like doing was breathing

and the crisp stars permeated each corner of

my nighttime.

I’m trying to love my simple home more.

I think it’s working.

The bones of our ghosts live here.

Traveling through these library stacks

the bones of our ghosts live here.

I feel the remnants of our tired eyes dropping

as the librarian kicks us out at close again.

Academic dwellers,

our romance existed inside the dusty volumes of poetry

and word play.

Bookworms make for the busy sort,

the tired sort.

We often don’t know how to put down the book,

or page and pen to enjoy what’s

happening right in front of us.

I do not mourn these ghost relic memories,

but they stay with me as I pace from

shelf to shelf,

trying to shelve our

story among the others.

Trying to bury the words inside a thick

worn spine.

Maybe when this volume is littered with dust,

I can open up another one,

enjoy skimming a chapter or two,

look back with fond memories

instead of the usually tired response

of an over-analyzed piece of literature.

National Poetry Month

I can't believe it's been more than a year since I've used this blog and I have decided to put it to full use during the month of April. April is National Poetry Month and I intend on challenging myself to write at least one poem everyday for the entire month. I know this might be tough because of how academically taxing this month is, but I'm hoping this blog will keep me accountable. Also, I've kind of hit a word rut lately, so I'm excited to get the creative juices flowing. Sometimes you just need an excuse to dive back in.