I feel like I’m always apologizing for taking forever between posts, but I’m proud to say the reason it’s been taking me so long is because I got a job. Yes, me. No more screwy internships or time spent at Starbucks doing nothing but submitting resumes. And believe me, I am super happy about it. Plus, today marks my one month with SEO Brand and I’ve been feeling awesome all day. Cheers to cool things happening.

And to emphasize the dorkiness that is my life, and to stick with what I’ve been doing ever so recently, here is a poem about designing a newsletter—sort of.

The Newsletter

I wanted to tell you
that something good has happened,
but you ignore me
like you do
to all my emails

even though I tried
to spice it up

added color
added content

like I added makeup
and something more comfortable
a few nights prior
for the other you

the one who still
will not read my face
because the idea of it
goes directly to your spam folder

as do all faces
that show you love

as do all emails
that show you opportunity

my body,
textually uninviting
when sent with a subject
“For You”

and when I made
modifications,
filled my email with imagery
and a better way
to connect

you glimpsed it briefly
and unsubscribed

delete
delete
delete

and I could not reach you again.

Miami Vices, a poem

I wasn’t innocent
like I tell them in my stories,
hiding behind crushes and blushes,
little words like,
“It’s all his fault”
and
“I didn’t do anything”
and
“He was such an ass.”

No.

Not all him.

Some me.

I hurt

him and others
like I hurt
just to feel the Miami-style drama
that goes along
with Miami-style love.

Like, oh my god
the man is such a boy.
You feel me?

You’ll say this to friends,
who live vicariously
through your crazy

and you, complaining about the stress
of affection;
the complication
of trying love out for a second time,

you tell the world you want calm
on Facebook, beside a photo of a cat,
on Twitter, #singleandnotlovingit
on Instagram, duckfaced for all;

but it’s obvious, linda
you want the drama

because when it comes to relationships,
commitment is boring,
the stories too innocent,
the city somewhere outside Miami,
with less than 305 ways to say,
“I need you.”

Have you ever had a bowl of Lucky Charms? This is a poem about Lucky, the leprechaun on the front of the box. Yes, I’m serious.

Happy St. Patrick’s Day!

Lucky in Love

The marshmallows may have changed over the years,
but I have not:
my love for you still filled to the bowl brim
with helium,
red balloons floating in the air,
being picked from milk-colored skies
because the cereal itself
is just not so good
to warrant floating.

You clamp your feet down,
purple shoes neighing for attention,
under blue moons curved like a smile.

Stay a while,
and I’ll let you have me,
lucky charms
blinding like the light
from a thousand orange shooting stars.

Envy, all will envy.
Faces clover green and
pink hearts racing,

and facing each other,
we’ll exchange words like bits
of potted gold,

whether young or old,
I’ll keep you through rain and rainbow.

Despite claims too much affection is malnutritious,
despite kids beyond vicious…

Our love remains:
magically delicious.

I’ve spent a lot of time at Starbucks these days: job hunting, caffeine consuming, wishfully thinking. So this is me, writing a poem about it.

The Coffee Shop, a poem

Barista,
I like the way you mispronounce
the word espresso to sound like
that word we use
when we’re on the go, go, go
your words so quick,
I feel slow
reading Italian names
like I was supposed to know them all my life.

The caffeinated unite
to greet you,
your java tricks slick
on the upsell;
medium roasted,
like a lady in the sun,
for maybe three hours.

When you ask me what I want,
I’ll stutter,
embarrassed in front of barista and bean
for ordering a cup of iced tea mixed with lemonade;

the scoff of coffee drinkers
strong like their liquid,
three shots to no sleep.

So, I had T-minus 20 minutes until I had to leave for Zumba class, so I said, hey, I’ll write a poem. When I ask my little, not-so-little brother what I should write about, he responds, ME.

Here is a poem about me—I mean, him.

My Brother, a poem

My brother dear, is often close,
so close I hear him snore;
and when he sleeps,
sometimes I’ll creep
quite ghost-like by his door.

And when he screams,
he’ll think it dreams,
but rest no longer well
because my goal, as sister old
is to give my brother hell.

NOTE: I do not really try to scare him. We’ve just been watching a lot of Supernatural.

I was reading a piece about the process of “ghosting.” Basically, when you’re dating someone and you think “Woo! Awesome!” and then they disappear. No calls. No messages. As if they literally died. Or changed their phone number. This is a poem about how much that sucks.

Note: I also tried to play with a refrain. Experimentation can breed greatness, or some other really weird shiz.

The Casper Complex, a poem

She didn’t expect it.
She didn’t know.
But that’s the way that ghosting goes.
He’ll tell you pretty things to make you stay,
yet when another set of spirits comes his way
he’s gone.

They say when a boy goes ghost,
it’s because he has unfinished business,
but honestly (as honest as he can be)
his heart’s not in this,
not even a little,
her feelings stuck outside the middle, monkey-like,
his ego the gravestone that sinks her down.

But this is not the first boy to haunt her, nor the last,
relationships burned out so fast,
it’s hard to slow the breathing.

Death, more than a feeling—
a reality,
heartbreak the fatality,
the victim unaware,
until she realizes he’s no longer there
on the other end of a phone call.

She didn’t expect it.
She didn’t know.
But that’s the way that ghosting goes.
He’ll tell you pretty things to make you stay,
yet when another set of spirits comes his way
he’s gone.

He dissipates, anticipating lacked reaction,
more satisfaction that the relationship is all bones,
the grave dug,
the body laid to rest,
while the girl, she’ll clutch her chest
where her heart once beat,
accepting defeat
after a few desperate messages,
tears,
and pride shed,
her thinking it’s all in her head;

him,
believing she thinks he’s dead
and moving on to his next life,
the after-strife,
his funeral, the knife
that stabbed her.

If he only knew the way he’d grabbed her,
the disappointment now lurking in her eyes,
so bloodshot her friends can see the surprise
that came with vanishing.

She didn’t expect it.
She didn’t know.
But that’s the way that ghosting goes.
He’ll tell you pretty things to make you stay,
yet when another set of spirits comes his way
he’s gone.

And when he realizes what he’s lost,
that his future plans could never match the cost;
he’ll learn that even fake death has a price,
for he became a ghost,
and she, his life.

I obviously have a theme going, figuring I’m looking for some employment. So here is a poem you might like. #lashforhire

Girl Seeks Job for Commitment, a Poem

I am qualified
to love you:
my skills in romance, adequate;
my experience, 5-plus years and counting.

I have my master’s in affection;
my bachelor’s in faithfulness,
with a minor in telling the truth.

When you ask me,
why do you want to work here,
my response will be
more than genuine,
my heart so in it,
it might burst,
a tropical fruit Gusher,
crushed between pointer finger
and thumb.

I will smile
politely
and look into your eyes
longingly
when I speak,
my heartbeat a whisper,
too worried the pound might distract you
from my well thought out answers,
like yes,
or
I have been doing so for years
or
I left because they couldn’t support me
like I needed.

You’ll ask me if I have any questions, too,
and honestly, I may ask you
if you could love me,
like a child can love the fizz of Pop Rocks
as they hit against her tongue.

We’ll part, our hands touching
lightly,
ever so slightly
lingering as you pull away,
telling me you’ll call me in a few days.

And when you don’t call,
or you tell me I’m not good enough,
I’m crushed.
Disappointment,
a chewed piece of bubble gum,
stuck on the seat of my pants,
a total bitch to get out.

Two new poems for the lovers fighters, emotional biters, argument igniters…OK, OK, I’m done.

wrong-feels-righters
romance smiters
out-all-nighters

Or not. I wasn’t done.

Either way, hope you like the below plays with language. You know how I do.

Her and Him

If I am not she,
then I am not
and so it is and shall be,
she with him,
and her as me.

But I’ll be a she,
eventually,
perhaps,
as a her can only hope
a he
will love her.

And him,
him’ll soon realize,
that she was never what him wanted,
that her was what him needed,
his past, once she,
was then completed,
and in him’s lack of faith,
him’s chance defeated,

for her had found a he,
and him had found a hole in she,
where her would have been needed.

If you didn’t like the above version, here’s another:

His-tory

Sometimes boys will leave you
for their past,
and you’ll feel sad until you realize,
when the pain comes back full blast,
they’ll again need you,
feed you lines as if to please you,
and you’ll say “no.”
You’ve found a man to guard you from the blow—
the boy now pushed into history,
until you miss him,
leave your current man to kiss him,
because history repeats itself,
a heart defeats itself,
and a brain,
well,
it stops thinking.