Care to share?
Questions it always came back to questions.
They wore me down the way her eyes did
when they looked at me with such expectation.
What did she want? Hadn’t it been poured out
to her through the hearts of saps that looked
as drained by the poem as by the pretense of love
within?
I was smart; but not a p***k. So I kept some words
hidden.
Besides, I liked seeing
the approval on her full lips, in those
dark brown eyes. Answers. Words. Poetry
- I contemplated them, all.
They were few and far in-between. Quick ones.
She’d be disgusted with. She wanted a search
true meaning something inspiring .
Preparation.
I’d been doing this for some time.
Fingers dug into pages turning them quickly before
landing on letters falling into places, words falling
onto lines, lines creating poetry. The demand. What
she wanted.
Time seemed to be captured between my breath and
the first word that nudged against my trachea.
Introductions were not needed. Always un-original.
- Change curls life
only when time
stops grinding
it against motor in bowls
crafted under hands of
politics.
Races run races against
treadmills trying to shift
the speed.
Identity became an
invisible friend to the mind
of the weak.
Washing sand from its
side with a vigor that can not be
remembered.
Intelligence becomes manipulation
when the dna of the street
leaves imprints of itself on your feet.
Steady strong. My voice wasn’t made for
love poems. Thoughts weren’t meant for feelings
the body was. Why speak of loving when it was an
action? I never understood the whimsical fashions of
love on the paper when so many run quickly from it.
- Silence
I have nothing to offer the mind of love.
They have forgotten
Just as she said.
If suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me
for I shall already have forgotten you.
Love was a game of hide and seek.
Lust was stable. I trusted it. It had proven to be
as reliable as she. Every time I came it walked with me
hand in hand as sure as she did through the door
ready to prod and probe the creative mind
of the weak. Give to us your brilliant wisdom
as the light dances on your skin and your hair.
It’s been half a year, yet I still can’t get that exact
texture of your skin down to a science.
I wouldn’t write of it. I’d make it a flavor an ice-cream
to be had any time, any day.
It’s a shame.
The waste of space that separates us so that you won’t even
Look
Look
- this way.
We all have our price to pay;
roles to walk in.
C’s had never been my specialty.
That first month you gave them to me with
rapid familiarity.
Got my attention as I’m sure you meant it to be.
Haven’t worked with C’s much since. Moved more to
B’s-still not my most comfortable place but slow and
steady wins the race and I’ve always been known
to ENDURE until the end of the race.
Do you notice the familiarity in which you call my name?
Mr. Dupont.
Sounds like affection wrapped in the promise
of your lips, stroking your tongue and the vibrations
strumming the beat of your throat so my name
lingers, peaceful in that captured air right before it
escapes like a sigh to the patience of my ear.
- Maybe only I hear.....
Oh the things we do for free, the things we do willingly
that tie us to affections. A smile. It’s freely given because
I know you don’t know. I wonder what you would do if you knew
just how often I yearned for the lessons you have to teach.
I’d be willing. More than willing to be caught in the roles
nestled perfectly in the darker parts of my mind.
Watching the discussion move away
I sit and listen as time drifts by.
Lamborghini. Yellow. Butterfly door.
Impossible to catch; Impossible not to stare.
Blinking can’t capture things that don’t
want to stay.
- Time Goes On
“Prof. Alveria I have a question.”
Swirls in seats brings the attention
to me. I don’t seem to speak enough because
the interest of the class is peaked, if the looks
are any indication. What are they all expecting?
I’m no Gandhi.
And, my focus isn’t world peace. Just the space
to be had between me and she
“The piece you read.
Where do the pretenses end?
In this game of forgetting where no one ever forgets?”
Where do the pretenses end?
In this game of forgetting where no one ever forgets?”
Clearing throats seem a mark of distinction
so I do it.
so I do it.
“ If the writers desire is to forget...why write.?
And, if that is the very nature of the piece--
the contradictory nature....then what does that
say of the things left unsaid?
What do we do when we forget
if the forgotten remains?”
And, if that is the very nature of the piece--
the contradictory nature....then what does that
say of the things left unsaid?
What do we do when we forget
if the forgotten remains?”
Discussion?
Mummers of possibility.
Then this is creative writing
what’s to be done with the mind if not
evoke thought creatively?
She wished to breed thinkers.
I wanted to be her doll.
I’d let her breed my mind to thoughts
she desired so I could win her own.
Allowing her to create her own downfall in me;
is my objective. Single heartedly? No. A good grade
would be nice.
