Every single poem is about
being alone
I’m in my feelings
Fat and ugly
Home doesn’t even feel like home
I’m tired and hangry
even when I’m full
I can sit all day hoping
but my nights are always cold
I wake up feeling weary
knowing each day to just drag on
I can’t even rhyme
my poem into a lovely song
I’ll choke before I lie
just as I’ll cry before I dance
I hate this fucking place
and all of the reflective glass
Hope lives where courage is found wanting.
For me it dwells in the moments
I leave empty
instead of filling the quiet
with thoughts I should speak on.
I allow for hope as long as I don’t ask
you for your honesty.
Knowing your answer will be
the wet fingers that staunch the flame on our match.
Raging against the hurt in privacy
I settle for inbetween
in place of the commitment that I need.
I settle for “not tonight”
in place of dates and consistency.
I settle for “wyd” at late hours
in place of the word “us” being said with a tone of normalcy.
The thought of being alone
less likely to scare me
than alone forever….
Less likely to hurt me
than knowing I wasn’t enough.
Never a cheap date
but always free for your company or phone call.
Rejection: everything that kills my voice
when courage seems to draw in a breath.
I will choke on my words
before they leave me
left wanting of your bed.
I welcome the days of forever
Where I will not wait for a text
Sunflower fields and daffodils
No more love me not petals spent
My children lifted by the sunshine
Their feet pitter patter on the oak wood floors
An echo of promise
Carried in the breeze, to my home
Which whispered that God has plans
Even for me, who was alone.
I will be given the fields of flowers
Where songbirds and bees love to grow
Here among the company of genuine souls
As God saw that I was something
The world could not know
He heard me cry in pain
When my heart shattered so.
Leaving me not to die of promises broke,
He led me where I could sleep among the trees
With the beasts that, like me, will die alone.
A pitch of steam from the teapot,
Parchment paper to write my woes
I welcome the days of forever
Where I will watch my children grow.
Dearest Fuckboy,
Where do I begin
when addressing a middle aged man
with his dick forever in his hands?
We all know what you like:
Fuck me once, fuck me twice
but get limp dick when my feelings get precise.
Not ready? Working on yourself, you say?
Been out drinking every week
since before the legal drinking age.
Not a day in church since
you chased the tail of a different babe.
Can’t handle honest feedback in any sorta way.
Get offended when my patience runs out,
act like working on things isn’t getting real
about the gap between your actions and what you actually say.
Climbing the latter at work is also out.
Put a baby inside of me though just as well,
Then act like you’re shocked at how things work.
(Insert dick, spray, now baby is on the way).
Say you’ll be there and then don’t,
Want me to act surprised but I won’t.
Got Friend of the Court’s number saved.
Go ahead and start referring to me as Bae.
#pissmeoffagainandiwillfileforchildsupport.
If you call me only when you think of me,
do you think of me only after you’ve been with another?
Or when you’ve hit a dry spell
that seems easily fixed by dialing my number?
If you think of me when you do not call,
does it cross your mind that I am not one
who appreciates lonely wednesday nights
and unspoken truths?
Can you tell that I am sick of you
after only a couple hours?
Annoyance at your lack of luster towards me
when you sit buried in your phone,
no doubt for girls that will fake smile for you
while I make myself at home.
You lie to me like the weather man,
finding it so easy to say things that
really shouldn’t have been said to a woman
who lives by literal text.
I can hope for sunny weather
but my umbrella stays unpacked
next to the bottle of red that helps me
sleep through reckless anger.
Honey tastes like the way you look me in the eyes
and apologize for not being there…
A star twinkles in answer
when my heart hears you say
“I can do better.”
Fire is my soul when you gift wrap your lies
in empty promise wrapper.
I want to remind you of a truth
that sits on the elephant’s shoulder.
If you are not there (literally)…
If you do not celebrate me,
Then you leave the door open for another
to say goodnight and goodmorning
to both your child and I
while you comfort yourself in excuses and lies.
I’m lost in oily skin
and unkempt hair.
No visitors and dirty dishes
a reminder that I’ve retreated.
I’m found in the energy
of a hot shower
and blowdryed ends.
I’m lost in my living room,
without a book, or even a friend,
pajamas from two days ago
slung over my tired figure.
I’m found in the sunlight…
in the wind.
At the beach, sand on my skin.
Laughter of my son
the joy expressed
at water’s cleanse.
I’m lost in worry,
night time trails
my mind frequents.
Pissed off at empty spaces of clutter
and the all consuming darkness,
Broken record of things
I should and shouldn’t have started.
I’m found in the morning,
jasmine tea hot
next to my tasteless plate.
In the fight for happy
that comes every single day.
I am tired
of headaches,
of living between
not being able to take a shit
and needing a bathroom right now!
I’m tired of 4am wide awake
burping up last night’s dinner
while my baby does the best it can
to kick my pelvis outward.
Of backaches and nobody to press their hands
into my sore spots.
Of crying those gut wrenching cries
that sound like a soul is dying
at anything remotely sad.
I’m tired of the chaffing of my thighs
in my flowing dresses
and the way my waddle reminds
me of my growing ass…my double chin.
I’m tired of a man that says he will be there…
And isn’t.
The one that leaves every opportunity
to be there,
in his place empty promises.
I am tired of being reminded
that every place I’ve gotten to
has been where my own feet have wandered.
That my choice in men is destructive,
guaranteeing my babies will only
ever have me without question.
Fearing the future
before it is written
simply because the past and present
cannot be forgiven.
But mostly I’m tired of waiting
to hold my baby in my arms
And whisper in my little one’s ears,
“you were made with a piece of my heart
and my love you will never have to fear”.
I can barely breathe.
My chest has been heavy
for weeks upon weeks,
years upon years.
The future weighing
down my optimism.
My patience suffocated
by the need to be real.
Can’t swallow one more
fake time happy pill,
won’t smile for a crowd
of hating fools.
Only person that pulls me back
is my son
Reminding me
not to give a fuck
about anybody
that’s not present in my circle.
Quieting the rage
I feel when questioned
by fools that play the game.
Like why do they
expect me to be graceful
when they question
my need to be real?!
Only for my child
does this deep breath
come natural.
For him,
I’ll take an extra minute
to contemplate my reaction
and not give in
to what feels
like a rage that I was born with.
Natural as the fire
at the end
of a matchbox stick
when it meets friction.
A feeling of never fitting in,
never drinking the koolaide
laced with bulshit.
Societal expectations
of happiness.
A pill I can’t swallow
because society
along with her fake ass smile
is poison
and my throat won’t open up
for even one drop of water
to help wash down
the games I gotta play
to sit at that table.
All I know is,
the only thing that’s real
is when I hold him.
Through a thousand
thoughts of pain
while my mind
fights every moment of fake,
my son’s laughter
breaks through,
shattering my misery
like cheap glass.
Clearing a space
for me
that just is.
I’m still a matchbox stick
but with him
there’s no friction.
The ropes around my neck
will always be my affliction
but being his mother
saves me from astriction.
I don’t deserve
my son’s grace.
Today I had
a hard day.
Personal stress over
the mockery of feelings
that have become
my nonexistent love life.
Instead of crying
over my broken heart,
I sucked it up all day
like a strong mom.
Until I lost my patience
over the slime
that my son had spilled…
I should have took
a deep breath
and helped to clean up
but instead I yelled
about the mess
in the carpet
before I realized
that I was
having a panic attack
over my child’s fun.
So I turned my back,
walked slowly to the couch
where I sat down and cried
my eyes out in shame.
My sweet child
who could not let me
lie down in pain,
came forward
and standing before me
he said,
“It’s going to be okay, Mama.
Don’t cry.”
Then he reached
his loving arms
around my neck,
hugging me
through my disheveled breaths
until I found grace again.
My heart knows
the loss of you
before my lips
have found the courage
to let you go.
I’m sitting inside myself,
mourning the hope of us
which will surely die
when I’ve spoken my truth.
I know what I will say,
given the opportunity
pattern making plain
the future.
I have my reply
before the conversation begins.
Saved on a notepad
for the next time that
you ask for my bed,
or claim that your schedule
is too busy for anything
more intimate.
Ask me
and I will copy and paste
my freedom into our text.
The pain, by then,
will be almost over
because I’ve been prepared
for your response
by predictability.
Allowing me to mourn
your answer
long before you spoke it.
It may confuse you,
that I even thought to
give opportunity to this conversation
when I knew your answer was
bound to hurt me,
but I thought that assumption
was shallow
and I wanted to give you
the chance to purposely
choose me.
Poetry on Paper 