Feeling low, kinda high

Theres a sentimental semi-permannt high in being your lover

The kind of love that just pinches your ventricles and squeezes them to clot,marijuana

The kind of high that makes your heart race like its a little kid rushing to their bus stop,cocaine

I dont want to stop the dizzy blood rush I get when I kiss you a little too long,Methamphetamine

But drugs are only short term and the high can only last so long

So dont pass me the next pill or call me your only lover

For being your lover was just a phase,onto another

The fire ignites

Is the notion of a soul mate true, I sit and ponder; waiting.
I beg to be saved from your tornado of “are we doing this right” or “can I actually commit”; a joke
But here’s the thing about being a boy with a bookshelves of hearts,
Your sanctuary can be burned down and there’s no beauty in a fire fuming, suffocating and scorching, a heart being held for ransom; theft
I pluck vessels from my soul as I sit and watch it scream; surgery

Tell them how your name
Tastes of bitter medicine.
Curing but sickening
I fought to swallow it.

Tell them how my weeping eyes begged
for a dry night’s rest
As I counted the stars I once saw in your eyes.

Tell them how the bookshelves broke and burned as I held the matches; ending in a victory.

You’re More Than Just Poetry — Thought Catalog

Sophia SinclairI had been drinking cabernet sauvignon, so it isn’t fair to say I had no help, but my nerves melted off when you came in and sat on my couch. I had been anticipating this meeting all day and my stomach was in knots. It was. We jumped right into the real things, because…

via You’re More Than Just Poetry — Thought Catalog

The beautiful the hurt and the ugly

And here are the people with the lost souls and damaged bones that get their daily medicine from the man on the corner or in the cup of joe that moves their soul

The smell of day old cheese and café con leche burns the hair follicles in my nose

as im surrounded by the freaks, the normals, and the geeks

With Irish folk music as their wake up call or the voices crying out from town hall

The smell of onions in the air or the sound of some girl yelling at her boyfriend that “its just not fair”

These are the people of Clematis

The beautiful the hurt and the ugly

There’s the girl with the crying friend and

theirs the man who couldn’t meet his ends

This place he calls home, a bench as a bed

The only place he can rest his head

For a day or two, and a few nights more

Their he lies with a heart so sore

But this is Clematis where we all unite

May we all keep fighting our fight

Milkin’ Mommas smile

 Instead of smiling from cheek to cheek she smiled with her eyes

She gave you the kinda look that made you fall to your knees and plead

She said its not bout what makes you happy but what keeps you happy,son

Momma always told me a woman’s always right

She always found the beauty in everythin, her and daddy never fight

Then came a day when he stopped milkin’ mommas smile

Her eyes stopped a gleaming that contagious smile

But momma fought on when daddy didn’t care

She said I’ve tasted the sweetest of loves and no man gonna ruin the “glare”

Till the day I die ima milk my own

And the look in my eyes

will make my happy known

Apple Pickin

As the mesh bag breaks
under the coral cove I ponder
of a day made easy
and a time I’m much wiser
There’s beauty in the trees where the apples grow above
Like the fresh scent of cobbler or my momma’s cider
Auntie Em made the milk and daddy made the butter
I pick through the mess of shrubs and clutter
A day’s work is done and I will soon head to town
Where I will sell mommas apples for a ride to Motown
A ticket out of this place
O’ the dreams I will chase

Finders Keepers

His whisky words cut my wounded skin forming scars on my collarbone; blistering and bruising
I trace the rigid feeling below my fingertips
The thought of him enters my brain; uninvited
We hold our breath and he counts to 9
And for one second I forgot where I was; alleviating
Roaring in the night comes a howl
Waiting around the corner a voice came creeping in
‘Finders keepers”
At the palm of my hands lays a heart breaking

Il Mio bambino (My baby)

 

So she danced with her mother’s feet to the song her daddy speaks
The smell of the warm June air whispers and lingers
He says “mambo me amor”
As her feet sway across the floor
Dance as your mother has taught you
Let your sun shine through
She lifts her arms up to the sky
As her momma did like the other angels in the sky

/S.C

This warm Sunday morning

It’s hard to find the beauty in being married to a man that is married to his country

I wake up each day in a half empty bed with the sheets tangled between my legs

Every Sunday I receive a letter saying, “ill be home soon”

And each time I read it my heart begs for you

I open the curtain to this daunting home that the outsiders call “base”

It’s a lot like baseball some hit a home run and make it home safe

My husband is married to his country a commitment so true

Still I fear the day when the knock on my door is from the soldiers and not you

A risk every time I open the door

My heart races a mile a minute and my teardrops fall to the floor

But today is the day the knock is from you

My husband a man with blonde hair, a chiseled chin and eyes so blue.

A man who cannot not promise his day because his country might call and take him away

But a man who promises to keep me safe, day by day I wait.

We head to the dinner on this warm Sunday morning; we sit and talk over coffee

and cheesecake

You tell me our new plans and how we are moving to a new place.

I pace back and forth letting my mind wander

As I dream of a place with fields of sheer pink and dandelion weeds

I repeat to myself “I love this man each day he makes my heart grow fonder”

I take a step back and realize I’m married to a soldier

A man married to his country a man, with the weight of the world on his shoulders.

The married mans mother

He spoke.

The words fell from his lips, they swayed; the salsa.

They lingered.

His breath smells of whiskey and pickled relish; nauseating

Sweet ginger that’s what he needs

I watched in awe; distracted.

He needs more whiskey to talk about his mother

He spoke of her velvet chocolate eyes

How they slowly faded to gray; the tango

His voice shakes

Her soul lifted and her body covered in dirt.

I wait.

“I miss those chocolate eyes”

I miss her.