Messy

Poems are like sex
But often like really sad mind sex
But I guess sex is sometimes good even if its sad
And just like sex
Poems leave you feeling something
Good, bad, horror, sadness you feel something.
And feeling something is really all we can ever do
Well not really but it
Feels that way.
Why do feelings always seem to be the reasons for mistakes?
Whether badly written poems or badly timed dance moves.
They’re always the culprit
So I guess I say all this to say feelings are always there
And sometimes they’re messy just like sex and badly written poems.

Leaning

I am too much
And somehow never enough
My only purpose seems to be taking care of others and containing myself.
They say lean on me, but when I do I only fall to the ground.
Somehow their apologies never make the bruises disappear any faster.
In an almost natural reaction I curve my leaning habits.
I stand or fall myself, not falling for any distractions.
And then a new face appears
A handsome face
A trustworthy face
And out of his beautiful mouth I hear whispers
Lean on me
Trust me
I can not disappear
I am growing bigger and bigger here with you.
I have strength and I can carry you too.
So gradually I fight my instincts and
I begin to lean
At first just a little and you accept
Calling for more and more
And then I lean, I lay my burden on your shoulder.
And that’s when I see the panic set in, the sweat drip down and the nervous smile.
And that’s the moment I know, the moment after I lean that you will not be with me when I fall.
No matter how many times you say it’s not the case somehow it seems to happen
But only after I cannot stop my momentum and
I fall alone, as always.

Undone

When I hear poems
I want to be a poet.
It sounds nice and all but it can be a real bitch.
Because that’s when I get my best ideas and dammit I’m distracted because there’s no pen to put to paper, no keyboard to record my epiphanies.
When I hear a song
I want to be a singer.
It sounds nice and all but it can be a real bitch.
Because that’s the only time my soul remembers it can sing, and there’s already someone singing.
When I read a book.
I want to be a writer.
It sounds nice and all but it can be a real bitch
Because the story ideas only seem to come while the other book is open, and it’s nearly impossible to read and write two different stories at the same time. Believe me I’ve tried
But not with books you see, I get to into the story to break out the pen but with people
Because when I see them
I want to be just like them.
Just as pretty as interesting as nice and smart, as skinny, as curvy, as beautiful, mind body and soul.
It sounds nice and all but it can be a real bitch
Because you can’t read and write at the same time, one will always go undone.

learning how to breathe

Sometimes when I can’t breathe, because the sadness that has clung to me forever is rearing its head, I listen to sad songs.
Somehow listening to someone else’s pain makes me feel better.
I don’t know if it’s because I finally feel like I’m not alone or
If others’ pain just makes me happier.

I’d like to go with the first option.
Somehow it makes it better if my sadness is only lessened by something that isn’t lesser
Because it seems that it is less to want to be more than.

Sometimes when life is too much I play simulations
I simulate life too keep myself from ending mine.
It seems kind of silly.
I listen to sad songs to ease the sadness
And I play at life in order to be able to live.

Sometimes when I long for adventure I read a book.
I see characters I have never met and will never meet go to places I long for.
Magical mystery lands that hold all the answers, and friends, and trials, and somehow the characters always seem to make it through.
Except game of thrones, no one makes through.

But with some exceptions I read to find my adventure filled with feelings I miss feeling, all while sitting on a bus going somewhere I’ve been a hundred times, without ever looking at the world around me.
Sometimes when I want to call my mother, I look at photos instead.
I look at all the memories and remember how I felt, and I stop myself from calling.
But somehow it doesn’t lessen the guilt, trying to be more than enough without my mothers approval.
She has taught me it is usually lesser to want to be more.

I wonder if that’s why I feel less because I finally want to be more than my sadness, than my guilt, than my memories, than my vacant stares, than my earthshattering anxiety. I want to be more than the memories of her hands where they shouldn’t have been. I want to be more than all the times she called me her little shit. I want to be more than the person she made me. I want to be more than the nightmares that always seem to wake me up even when it took hours to fall asleep. I want to be more than the tears that fall when I see a daughter with her mother, anywhere on a bus, at a park, eating in a restaurant. I want to be more than the sad songs, simulations of a life I could be living, books that block out the view of the adventure all around me, and the phone calls I don’t make.

But it’s hard to be more than when your whole life you’ve been told how good you are for being less than.
Less proud
Less angry
Less annoying
Less loud
Less hips
Less complaint
Less objections

She only seemed to say more to
Hands wandering during bath time,
Impromptu shower visits
Helping me get dressed when I didn’t ask for it.
And telling me how smart my sisters are.

So you could say I didn’t have the best example

But dammit
I’m going to be more
More proud
More angry
More annoying
More loud
More hips
More complaints
More objections.

And I’m going to say no to being less, even if that means I listen to sad songs because hearing someone else’s pain makes me happier.
I don’t know if I’m telling myself this to make myself feel better about everything that has happened but it doesn’t really matter.
Because if it makes the sadness just a centimeter smaller then it is more than I could ever imagine.