You give me
Thank yous

Where the rest
Of the world
Only ever said
I’m sorry

And for that
I am in love.

Miles between us
And thousands of faces

Adventure leads me
To the friendship of many

But when they ask
Where I’ve been
And where I want to go
I always come back
To your name.

This is how I know

Home is with you.

I loved you to the point of poetry.

That is to say,
meeting you made me into a rabid metaphor
foaming pretty words at the mouth.

That is to say,
you broke me into a hundred and forty three pieces
and I learned how to mosaic a verse from splintered thoughts.

That is to say,
I never knew punctuation until you split
all my eager exclamations into ellipses and breaks.

That is to say,
I never appreciated the pause between words
until we argued and I wished I could live inside of one.

That is to say,
you taught me how to tune out what you were saying
to hear the hurt behind it.

That is to say,
I cried when I realized all the important stuff were always hidden
beneath too many layers,
and we struggled in futility to say in words
what could only be expressed in reading into their echoes.

Last night, I was privileged to be given the opportunity to perform spoken word at Hideaway, an open mic organized by Pinwheel Poetry (of which my friend, Frankie, is a member). Honestly, I’m always so grateful to have a chance to showcase my work, and the crowd this time was awesome! I performed a new piece which I had just finished hours before showing up to the event, so I was really nervous.

The piece was very unrefined and super unpolished, but I got a good reception, even warranting some praise from the poetry group Words Anonymous, and an invite to perform at their next open mic. :))

That’s two weeks now in a row that I’ve gotten to perform my work, and I really hope I can continue this trend! When I feel a little more seasoned, I’ll probably be announcing the nights I decide to perform on this platform more often.

Anyway, thanks for the support guys, enjoy the poem under the cut!

Keep reading

I am sorry
for the moments I’ve spent with you
spent thinking about her.

She is still in my blood;
I fear sometimes she’ll show in my cheeks
when you make me blush.

She is still in my lungs;
never fully having been exhaled,
every attempt has ridden me of 99% of her air
but that tiniest of percentages has kept the germ strong.

If when we kiss,
you taste her name still on my lips,
linger for a moment longer

Make my heart race,
so as to flush her out

Leave me breathless,
and we will still her voice from my chest

And kiss me,
smother my memories,
and allow me to live in our present.

My father
had not been a kind man.

He had bandaged my wounds
as much as he left bruises.
He’d ruined my ego
as often as he’d build me up.

On the days of my greatest triumphs
he let me know of my failures
just as intimately
as my successes.

When he passed,
I felt ever more the sinner

No, he did not absolve me
as would Jesus Christ.

My father was Prometheus
who had brought fire into my life,
and I,
so often burned,
as often warmed.

Writing about love
like old-school alchemy
searching for gold
but always coming up in lead.

Touching upon something real
for which words don’t exist;
a stormy-eyed girl, a monsoon kiss,
and several other metaphors from my head
I’d miss

To grasp from the ether
something tangible,
something factual,
but it’s always been hard
for the fiction
to live up to the actual.

I still don’t have words,
or shiny gold from the earth,
but where she smiled at me
was where poetry was birthed.

I want to see you kicking up dust,
sticking back the thorns,
strolling through the forest,
running the current in the river
over to wherever it is you are.

And call your name into the air;
and hear it whistle between the trees
until something answers back:
We see you too
and we’re here.

I want you to touch the grass;
and feel the grass touch you back.
Sit cross legged, bottom legged tickled
by infinite hands: we’d lift you up
but we’re just gonna lie down instead.

And warmth of the setting sun bound itself
around your shoulders for one last time,
before it winked out
over the mountain tops;
a friend saying:
“Until the next.”

And a biting reminder
when cold sets in;
but the sudden burst of a fire
roaring itself into life
and drawing the wanderers in
promising rest
pushes back that frigid blanket.

Instead, I see you tucked into
the warmth
of friends surrounding you;
they, like curls of flames;
you, like glowing hot coals:
breathing in and out,
as bright as you can
until you’re not,
but never never never
losing the spirit to stay
burning

And make warmth.
And leave the soul covered in ash,
but still
pulsing and beating.

Oh, I’ve never seen such beauty.
Like a treasure reappeared
when it had been so at risk of loss.
I saw you glow and in me,
I’d been sparked back to life.

We’re here to burn magnificent, baby!