Featured Posts

<< >>

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

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

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

Slam

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 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

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.

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,
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.

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
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.

Her and Him, a Poem or Two

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.

Pass the Starbuck

duck-and-frog-in-love

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.

V-Day, a Poem

So I have decided to contribute to the plethora of love poetry. Here are TWO poems for the books.

To My Valentine, Sort Of

I want a candy heart
that tastes like chocolate,
and says: I like you a lot
instead of love,
because for realz
it’s not that serious yet.

V-Day, a poem

I have been celebrating V-day,
all wrong,
the veins in my heart jealous of the
pump and pomp of GFs and BFs,
<3′s and X’s,
shouting vehemently,
“I am VEINglorious!”
Venting as V’s often do,
about their counterhearts,
flushing vermilion
as they reach varicose levels
of envy.

I try to calm them,
worried that they’ll vie so hard
they’ll vomit,
vitality dripping from their valves
like vitellus from a cracked egg;
then they’ll bare their fangs, carnivorous
and vampiric,
committing verbicide of any word
without the “vuh,”
that makes vixens voluptuous,
and the best villains vafrous.

They’ll vacillate in their threats,
bragging in vanity
that their wings are more volacious than Cupid’s,
swiftly giving up by sometime around noon,
because they know their value
and remember:
B’s understand their plight
on B-Days.

Source, and thanks for some definitions: http://phrontistery.info/v.html

If I had a dime…

So I’m trying to do this writing thing a little more often and decided: whether or not it’s short or long, at least I’m producing some sort of schtuff (according to Urban Dictionary, this is an acceptable spelling of “stuff,” aka “shiz”).

Two Dimes, a short poem

If I had a dime
for every time
I made a mistake today:
I’d have 20 cents,

because I made 2 mistakes
and sort of half of one,

but ran out
of nickels.

Unemployment, A Poem

Excuse me, Internet. It’s been 5 months since my last confession. That’s right, FIVE.

So I’m going to ring in my new year of writing with an attempt at poetry, and brutal honesty.

UNEMPLOYMENT, A Poem

The Interview

When you’re twenty-five
and look like
you’re twenty,
they treat you like
you’re twelve
and talk to you like
you’re ten
then make you feel like
you’re two
when they say
“no.”

The Internship

When you’re twenty-five
and look like
you’re twenty:
it sucks.

Living with your Parents

When you’re twenty-five
and look like
you’re twenty,
they treat you like
you’re fifteen,
and talk to you like
you’re fifteen,
then make you feel like
you’re fifty
when they say,
“get out,”
then make you feel like
you’re five,
when they hug you
and say
they didn’t mean it.

Switch to our mobile site