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Text, An Inappropriate Poem

I usually write term-based pieces for Inspired Mag, but I’ll admit: I was too embarrassed to submit this one for their readership. However, I think this poem exemplifies taking an

On Love and Lunchmeat

I do not love the way you lie.—Me, on not wanting to burn like Rihanna In four days (and some minutes here or there) it will be February—a month of

My Write to Speak

I’ve presented several songs both with and without a video accompaniment. I’ve decided to try it out with poetry. I hope you enjoy it. If lying lies within omission, then

Thinking of You…or Why I Hate the Itsy Bitsy Spider

We wouldn’t be talking like this, you and I, if it wasn’t for her. You know her. We all have a version of her. And when she’s gone, we can’t


I’ve never written a slam poem before. Never tried. Never wanted to try. But I was so impressed with my now-published friend Amanda Jimenez’s slam poem, “This is what I

The Newsletter

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
filled my email with imagery
and a better way
to connect

you glimpsed it briefly
and unsubscribed


and I could not reach you again.

Miami Vices, a poem

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”
“I didn’t do anything
“He was such an ass.”


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.”

Lucky in Love, a poem

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.

The Caffeinated

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

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.

Writer’s Challenge: Oh, Brother

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.

The Casper Complex, a poem

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,
and pride shed,
her thinking it’s all in her head;

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.

Girl Seeks Job, a Poem

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
and look into your eyes
when I speak,
my heartbeat a whisper,
too worried the pound might distract you
from my well thought out answers,
like yes,
I have been doing so for years
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
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.
a chewed piece of bubble gum,
stuck on the seat of my pants,
a total bitch to get out.

Her and Him, a Poem or Two

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

romance smiters

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,
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:


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,
it stops thinking.

Pass the Starbuck


image source: bluebison.net

So occasionally when you’re sitting in Starbucks with a friend, you’ll write some poetry. Totally normal.

Basically, we gave each other a word, and then wrote a quick poem. Below is the result of being given the word “duck.”

duck, a poem

Duck, duck goose
this chick is loose
with words
with thoughts
with time.
And when she pecks
intent is sex
and quack, that bird is fine.

I also wrote a poem about Valentine’s Day a day later. But it was much worse. And a joke about Cupid. Judge me.

Cupid, the Valentine Monster

I am the Valentine monster
slick with sweat
as I fly, fly, fly,
catching bugs in my great white wings—
my great white butt
exposed to the wind.

Challenge Accepted

This is a poem about the literal challenge associated with relationships. It’s my reattempt at slam poetry, which I suppose in some way needs to make a statement about society. Let’s hit this with my best shot. Fire awaaaaaay.

I Like You Because You’re a Challenge

My feelings are white pegs on a Battleship board.

I think you heard me say it:
My feelings are insignificant,
don’t matter,
lack value,
can’t take them seriously,
such a joke,
at least for serious folk
who play games with hearts,
Backstreet style,
making a 20-something feel tweenish,
squeamish at the thought
that feelings should not be freed,
but store bought by someone
with the money and the care,
someone who’s mentally ready and there,
to warrant significance.

For now, it’s the same,
store bought, a game
like Monopoly or Uno,
a heart, the bronze thimble,
feelings be nimble,
Jack be dick.

And when those feelings make you sick
the game has ended,
Facebook unfriended,
king killed.

Let me tell you:
queen is thrilled,
because the knight seemed so much more
her type:
armor shining in the light, depending on the set,
the checkerboard her dance floor.

When she finds her knight,
he’ll be too kind
for a damsel in divorce…
her kingdom for a horse
whose rider is hard to capture.
The challenge is the rapture—
the game, the revelry.

But why is it this way?
We like the chase, but not the stay?

Let me make an honest admission here:
we like competition.
The Gingerbread men,
who run, run, run
as fast as they can
taste better when you trick them,
nibbling on their gumdrop buttons
like zombies eating a heart,

and if you’re smart
you’ll bite them back,
sweetness in attack,
then they’ll play;
you, alive to fight another day,
them, rewriting the rules
and searching for cheat codes like treasure,
beauty no longer the measure,
personality, the map
where an ex marks the spot.

Or a red peg marks the second seat
in a patrol boat.