Tag Archives: sad poems

I too

I wonder if
maybe I like listening to lies
and that makes me a liar by association
because every time your lips open
teeth part
and meet
and part and meet
leaving room for untruths
to be spat out
I look at you delicately
almost proud of how good you’re getting
at making me want to believe you.

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Telephone wires

Does your here-ness
cancel out all of your there-nesses?
Does your love signify the end of my loneliness
or its transformation?

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It’s okay if I’m not what you need
or want
or can handle
but let me know
so I can find he
who has been praying
for me to come along.

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when it aches.

I am not exempt from love,
or the elements.
I am no stranger to the dark
in a heart,
in a sky,
in a love dying cold.

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He tries
but his words are gasoline by default
only because he is a man
and men are pyromaniacs in suits ,right?
They love to watch things dissipate.
Don’t they?

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When he couldn’t love me
I crazed over his lips
and imagined how they’d feel against mine
I stole the honesty of a dream
and envisioned his arms consuming my frame.
I cried like my body was a cloud of fire
when the solitude showed me its skin.
This was my darkest point,
I lived,
And love was funny again.

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The bruises have a way of accenting her collarbones
so you can make out by the sight of them
that the city is her only home.
They frolic this city with maps,
Her mind has sewn the streets together
she knows her way around.

The craters of her pockets, the pockets of her bras
are filled.
She takes to food her plate
To clothe her back
To roof her head.
With this she survives the city. And its spectators.

Men love her.
They say they’ve never seen bone and flesh
so beautifully entwined.
But she doesn’t believe them.
she lets them love her in vain.
Then, without prior warning,
Weans them of her body
Starves them of her skin
Robs them of her stagnant conversation.

She forgets them.
And blue skies make way for dark ones.

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…Tired wheels

[ For mothers of young angels.]

Gnawing butterflies

On taunting onesies,

Spinning mobile.

Molding crib.

Unsung lullabies.

Bibs and bows.

Training wheels.

Sunk beneath myself.

What now of these carriage bones?

This never tiring silence.

These ogling teething toys.

This roaring pain.

Disconsolate tears,

Branches broke,

Stars mistaken for rainbows,

Shed of laughter.

I need the other end of this cord.

This is a two-way conversation,

I need the other end of this string.

What will I do with these carriage bones?

This crib blood?

This sinking depth?

This teasing child-cry replaying in my head?

How will it waddle in on new walking feet

And mumble my name

From behind two inchoate teeth?

Carriage bones.

Restless hate.

Homeless love.

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I touched his leaves and felt
time shiver in its shell.
If only I could have told him
about his beauty and how
the peak of his voice
makes my heart itch giddy.
That guns don’t heal wounds
or end rainstorms
stopping thunder in its tracks
they seal fates
and untie flesh from bone.

I wanted to tell I was sorry
that he sat in the back of
the class carving his story
so deep into his palms
I could hear his skin tear
and bleed bold magenta.

I meant to tell him that I’d
goten the same tattoo
“Invisible never once Invincible”
ink glazed over my sleeping
And that rivers cry as much
as skies do.

I wanted to say that I still
remember him
using each crayon in
the box to color
himself in loveable.
and how he knocked down
the doors in which he’d
hidden himself.

I wish I could have told
he that he was my hero
and that I found his number
twice and
still couldn’t bring myself
to call
because I’ve never worn
his cape,
the albatross dangling
down his back.

If only I’d told him he had
a friend the many times
his soul was broken and
pinned to his locker.
I wanted to say I know
about his peacock-blue bruises
and that he sheds joy
like last year’s skin.

I heard his lunch money
dance sambas in the
pockets of his demin jacket,
I heard the slight drag of
his left shoe from
that one time
he “fell”.
I heard them part
and wag their tongues
at him.
He was here
It was him.
His fingers dug
into his jeans


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..La Soledad..

Nothing but paper-thin loneliness
and salty tears
nothing but loud music
as I make a home of the corner.
be brave, and I can't hear my
heart yell at me,
from wherever it ended up
shelled in a helium balloon
nothing but sighs
and sore fingers
from writing letters on the
Beware of the dust,
paint chippings,
forests of cobwebs,
and the boxes of leftover Chinese
Beware of the thick emptiness.
Nothing but rain hitting the same
spot twice
flooding young plants in
old pots
aligned on my balcony starring
out at the city
watching it rise and set.
Nothing but a singing telephone
replaying its favor song
ring ring ring
Nothing but the silver-grey
coiling itself
then foraging through
the abandoned counter top
of my kitchen island.
Meowing from behind the door
at the persistent
whos making envelope hills
at the foot of my locked
Nothing but heavy eyelids
unmade beds,pillow-deprived
nothing but absence and melted
feeling emotion without consent.
Picking at sin and nail-biting.
Nothing but bills and bruises
and self-destruction
under one more dark sky.
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