Posted in Poetry, The Modern Classics, Uncategorized

“You kissed me first, so of course this is all your fault. You didn’t have to kiss me… You didn’t have to make me fall in love…”

Your lips bewitched me.

A glossy coat of distilled resin,

Edges tinged by the Sun,

And so my heart lingers

On a shaking yellow dream, 

The same shade 

As dandelion wine.

Your kiss took root,

Sinking into my veins,

A poison, like acid rain,

And it burns, burns, burns,

Until nothing remains

Save for the idling taste

Of ashes on my tongue.

Posted in My Daily Adventures, My life - Written by God, produced by 21st Century middle America, and lived by me, myself, and I., The Modern Classics, Uncategorized

“A night without liquor, mistakes made in poor lighting, and the numbing taste of a strangers lips would do me a world of good. If only I knew how to accept anything good..”

Coiled around every kiss is the taste of a temporary love. It’s a bitter pill to swallow, but we’ve all forced ourselves to stomach worse things than this, in the name of desire. Nobody enjoys a burning esophagus, nor the rancid taste of stomach acid that accompanies every exhale. A goodnight kiss has been replaced with a shot of sour breath breaking across the face of a stranger. Going to bed alone would be the smart thing to do, so of course you drag a warm body up and under the cover of your sheets, because under those covers you can almost convince yourself that warmth is coming from a place of genuine care. But that lie falls down, down, down into the cavern that used to be your sense of empathy, and it keeps falling until the air is filled with the echo of shattered porcelain, and you begin to realize how empty you’ve become in your search for another love.

Posted in My life - Written by God, produced by 21st Century middle America, and lived by me, myself, and I., Poetry, The Modern Classics, Uncategorized

“Nothing can compare to the feeling of your kiss, the friction of our lips slowly burning the red out of my blood, leaving me drunk on your love.”

I like shy, cherry boys,

Who act sour, but really they’re sweet.

They slowly creep around the corner

And go speeding down the street

 

I like those shy, cherry guys

Who’s faces all turn red

The second that they see a naked lady

And never try to rush them to bed

 

I’m a sucker for those cherry dudes,

Because I really like the spring

They blossom into beautiful petals

And aren’t ashamed of being pretty things

 

I’m a fan of any cherry man

Who at his core isn’t a bad seed

Yes, he comes off self-centered

But he’s not afraid to admit his needs

 

I like shy, cherry boys,

Because they are prettier than me

They taste good, and look so tasty

I want to teach them about the birds and the bees.

 

I like those shy, cherry guys,

Even though they act like they can’t see

So I keep away and hope that someday

Those cherry boys will come to also like me.

Posted in My life - Written by God, produced by 21st Century middle America, and lived by me, myself, and I., Poetry, The Modern Classics, Uncategorized

He loves me; he loves me not.

“He loves me.”

He shared with me his secrets,

Hidden between kisses.

I stockpiled every last one,

Treating them like stained glass;

I avoided touching them,

But I loved watching the world

Through his colorful view.

 

~He loves me not.~

He only ever looked at me

Through a rainbow lens,

And it leaves me to wonder

If he saw me for who I am

Or for the person he wants to see?

Because through his kaleidoscope

Even a gray sky

Can be mistaken for

A perfect, cloudless blue.

 

“He loves me.”

He knew my body,

Ran his fingers over the war

I had scratched across

My wrists, shoulders and stomach.

His hands never shook,

And his warm touch

Felt like it was melting away

Every mistake I had made.

 

~He loves me not.~

But those scars weren’t mistakes;

They were choices.

Regardless of regret,

If I just let them disappear

Without confronting the reasons

I made them in the first place,

I’m not learning a damn thing.

In the end, his hands

Weren’t trying to heal,

But instead hide the truth.

He couldn’t love the scars

So how could he love me?

 

He loves me, he loves me not.

He loves my potential; he loves the thought

Of what I could be, the perfect future he sees.

He loves what might come, but he doesn’t love me…

 

Posted in My life - Written by God, produced by 21st Century middle America, and lived by me, myself, and I., Poetry, The Modern Classics

“I loved the way she touched me, the way she ran her hands over my past without reservation.”

Her hands trace over your body,

And as they move down your neck

The butterflies in your stomach

Melt into a solid mass

Of fear and uncertainty

For what her hands will find…

The scars you’ve tried to hide

In your summer hoodies

And forced affinity for jeans.

 

Her fingers reach your shoulder,

Burning a trail down your arm,

But the heat it quickly replaced

With an empty regret.

Reflexes kick in, and the tears begin,

Until you realize her hands,

They never stopped.

 

You expected a shudder,

A slight intake of breath,

But no; she never wavered.

She gave the same affection,

From your head to your wrists.

You know she couldn’t have missed it,

The war you’ve etched into your skin.

Yet she acted as if those scars

We’re just another part of you.

That thought alone

Is enough to make you cry.

 

You begin to pull away,

But she holds your arm in place.

Her touch is still fire,

And you feel that if she stays

You’ll both end up as ash.

Still, she won’t let go.

Even more so, her lips find your wrist,

And her fire has turned into the Sun.

 

It’s crazy, because you know,

Those scars are there forever.

They will fade, but never disappear.

But in that moment, you could swear

Those scars didn’t mean a thing.

The anxiety is still present,

But so vastly diminished

It might as well be gone.

And in its place, you find

A feeling you thought

You’d never find again;

Acceptance.

 

The scars weren’t erased,

And who can say if her fire

Will be here to stay,

But for a moment, you weren’t afraid

And if you found it once,

You can find that feeling again.

Who knows; maybe one day

You’ll wake up and see yourself

And realize you’ve always deserved

Forgiveness.

 

 

Posted in My life - Written by God, produced by 21st Century middle America, and lived by me, myself, and I., The Modern Classics, Uncategorized

“I want to give you pretty things, like seashells, forehead kisses and promises I’ll never break.”

My smile isn’t what it used to be. I’ve managed to put some miles on my smile, which is inevitable for anybody who’s ever allowed another person into their heart. That sounds negative, but it’s a neutral fact of life. Honestly, if I were to meet an adult whose smile shined as if it had never been touched, I wouldn’t trust that person. Nobody would trust that person. We would all call that smile “fake” and take everything that person told us with a grain of salt.

A smile isn’t beautiful for how big or bright it is. A smile is beautiful for the soul behind it. My smile as a kid was a big, goofy smile, with every one of my teeth out on full display. It was innocent and genuine and reflected my good fortune to have amazing parents and siblings and friends. Now my smile is a thin line that barely curls at one end. I hate showing my teeth, or even opening my mouth, so I know my smile must look miniscule compared to when I was a kid.

But I’m still smiling. I like to listen to NPR in the mornings and at lunch, and after getting through the dense political stories, they always have a lighter piece that makes me crack a smile. I like listening to my coworkers talk about their kids, and when I see the pictures of their birthday parties or trips to the beach, I can’t help but point and chuckle and smile along with everyone in my office. I like watching stand-up comedians, and short skits on YouTube, and re-runs of Who’s Line is it Anyway, and since I’m often (always) watching alone, I laugh out loud, and my mouth can’t stay closed, so all my teeth are showing, and my lips are curled up, and I can feel my cheeks lifting, and my dimples showing, but I don’t even think about it in the moment, because I’m just enjoying the moment.

I don’t have a smile at work while I’m trying to make month end adjustments on my balance sheet, but I smile a bit when it’s finally done. I don’t smile when I’m prepping up dinner for myself, but I know that when I take that first bite of a new recipe, and it’s not a complete failure of a meal, I feel a sliver of pride, and I eat my dinner with a smile on my face. I don’t smile when I’m driving to and from anywhere. I don’t smile when I’m out shopping, or shoveling snow, or applying for new jobs. I don’t smile during Autumn, nor in the weeks following the New Year, and never, ever, on May 3rd. I don’t smile more often than I do smile, but the fact remains that I do smile.

So, my smile isn’t what it used to be, but it’s still there. It’s a bit smaller, and the moments when it comes are further and further apart, but it’s still there. And as more years are added to my life, I’m sure my smile will shrink and shrink even more…but it will never fully disappear.

My smile isn’t what it used to be, but I’m still smiling, still hoping, still living. I’m still here, and that has to count for something.

Posted in My life - Written by God, produced by 21st Century middle America, and lived by me, myself, and I., Poetry, The Modern Classics, Uncategorized

“For all the feelings I’ve managed to capture in my words, I’ve never managed to write down anything that could compare to the feeling of kissing you.”

Our kisses were the best.

From the very beginning,

When they were shy and unbalanced,

To spending whole evenings

Buried in each others faces.

Those exchanges were wonderful,

And time made them unforgettable.

Kisses through the Summer,

Seasoned with familiarity,

Containing a dash of desire,

A sprinkling of passion

And the unmistakable rush

Of a blossoming love.