Tagged: writing

The Embodiment of Imperfection

I am the embodiment of imperfection
often the secondary selection
after others have been disrespected
and mentally molested
by manboys on a quest to
conquer soil.

To conquer what’s already been made dirty
by short shorts and skirts too flirty
coupled with men who don’t value the worthy,
but I can’t tell you which is worse because
I am the embodiment of imperfection

With the ability to provide mental erections
and spiritual suppression
before even considering physical sessions
and vice versa.

That’s why I can’t tell you which is worse.
In midst of praises,
I get cursed.
And thought often secondary,
I’m sometimes first
Without warrant, I’m searched
and researched
Where’s my shirt
and flirty skirt.

 

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I’ve been trying…

to write a poem about him but the words bang around in my head and I end up writing all over the paper like a child.  Words  and lines and drawings are everywhere, but those words and lines and drawings don’t makes sense emotionally (my way) or logically (his way).

The words just won’t seem to come together yet.  That’s quite frustrating to a writer.

Somewhere wrapped in all of these papers filled with jumbled words and cloudy thoughts, is a great poem.  I’m sure of it.  Because love this big and sadness this strong is the stuff great poems are made of.

Red Carnations

He gave me flowers once,
red carnations

to say he loved me
and to say he was sorry
for the women who clouded his mind
while I dreamed of
the forevers we’d spend together.

I think he wanted to love me
and he wanted to treat me right
and I never wanted to let him go
and I wanted him to show up with more flowers.
Perhaps those flowers could remind him that he loved me
and perhaps those flowers could remind me that I loved him
and perhaps our love could pull us through the pain of wandering eyes and insecurities.

Flowers can do that, you know.

That day he gave me flowers
we made love
like before I knew there were other women
like those women didn’t matter
like they were just a phase that he’d grow out of.
That day he gave me flowers
he didn’t seem ashamed
or embarrassed
only proud to have brought happiness back into our love.
That day he gave me flowers
I felt like we could make it past the hurt
and to forever.