There are ten poems everyone needs to read,
there is always the one missing that makes my heart bleed.
since feeling is first,
if you forget me,
or still I rise,
and forget J. Alfred Prufrock?
Who comes up with this silliness?
articles of futility
poems one cannot hold on to
read them over to change direction.
Bring that handsome face over
fill me with your surprise
it appears that every day
is a special one
for those who never carry a gun.
Use those hash-tags
for today to promote the crap we buy into.
They need to find reasons to love
and weep details
not even skin deep
it’s not a shovel they need
but a tractor
to dig up all the days that mattered
to create new ones
to crush depression.
My guns are so far
and only your hands will do,
they will feel the night
through my soft skin,
my handwritten notes
yes, their gentleness will definitely do,
just tell them to leave us alone
you’re better at delegation, direction, distraction, damnation.
my triple d’s will knock you over
can they not see?
how our thoughts submerge
under the salted bath water
under their microscope of past lives
(in public, among the sheep
in private, among the wolves).
It is five a.m
and words wake me up from my slumber.
I have secret morning passages
to my soul
and I wonder
how you have
always held the key
before I willingly gave it to you.
Did you skip to the best parts
of the poem? did you vote?
(did you run far down Broadway)
I am your pretty downtown girl
with suburban angst
who is feisty to the core
and you are my cute blue eyed boy
who is such an actor on many stages
and beautiful to admire from afar.
Tuck me in with a poem
kiss my forehead with a rhyme.
I hate that place with fake accounts
and writers I chase down Park avenue.
do You really care to see my pictures
from last night’s shenanigans at The Rialto?
Keep some love private,
some pictures to myself,
can’t show all my flaws
point them out and act like some kind of fucking star
I’ll meet you at the famous bar where all the poets go
the one at Hotel 10
drinking wine and acting like groupies.
It is what I do best. Pretend.
And tonight another night of Book Club
love affairs under five star restaurants
trying Indian, Mexican the latest trend.
High heels and poetry
tight jeans and coquetry.
So much more than ten measly poems
to read. So much more than ten. So much more
I can go on like this forever.
Originally posted on Writing & Poetry by Christina Strigas:
rip me apart into tiny pieces
put me back together
am I not your human puzzle?
obscure imagine my skin
concrete touch my skin
or did you bury me
left me to die
when I told you to do so.
you know how to put me underground
I spit out dirt
my hands unbound
addicted to you
like all the drugs hidden in cement
while I read all the poets
published or unpublished
poets or so-called poets
running from themselves
I took poetry like accountants
it is an art
to love words
and soak in them
feel them on your tongue
and along the chambers of your heart
it is the soul
it came to this
so I could come to you
with words cracked on my lips
syllables forgotten in steamed pots
arrive at my window with tiny pebbles
tap tap tap
View original 99 more words
Do you even get it?
Originally posted on Writing & Poetry by Christina Strigas:
I want to take back words, sentences,
metaphors, idioms and
all the run off sentences you never got. I will
burn them in a pile by
your door. I loved it
when words remained in my desk drawer.
It meant something to know when
and how to use a comma
and periods. They always mattered
to me. It was final somehow.
I knew where you began
and ended. Now everything
is blurred and I type on a tiny screen.
Do you even get it?
Once you told me keep on running baby
break on through
with your words, your drive, your sexy
energy. Once you told me to stay,
don’t leave, come back from the dead,
from the people you never meet. Here I am
in all my vulnerability; everyone loves you baby,
but no one knows you. I can hold
your hair back while you let out your fears
all over the toilet. Tell me your favorite poem,
lay back and listen to the words while I whisper
them in your ear. Destroy the times of the day
with your lips. Open all my closed doors and
dig deep because the treasure is waiting. Hoping.
Caring. Singing. Loving,
No one can be as patient as I am. Flocking to
concerts, art shows, literary festivals, and
still you are not in the crowd with me. Poetry is
the destruction and motivation of our lives. Breaking
me up inside, spreading my legs wide for you,
salt sea baths under water.
It is a short song, a long sigh
a poetry book in the making
with no buyers. Who buys poetry books
anymore? It is a short poem
with tons of nuances, spices
of love to ignite some recipe
within you. I check up on nothing.
Just to see your name and how
everyone loves you. You wait for her
I wait for him. Maybe the crowd
will disappear, as it eventually does.
Thank you Chrissi for your amazing review. I am really humbled and touched that you liked it that much. Reading it was kind of surreal and I kept on thinking is she talking about me? Weird and exciting to read it just because you actually got most of the nuances and enjoyed the sex scenes, which I loved writing. My second book will knock you off your feet and be full of erotic scenes. Got to get to that so back soon.
Shout out to her blog:
Enjoy your day lovely people of the blog world.
silence me with a kiss, a word, a sentence
make it balance out the passion
in ways you never knew you could,
in a love that you never felt you had
did it consume you? perhaps you have
moved on. so easy to do nowadays.
like a stream never stops so could
your eyes, your needs, wants. desire
is inside not outward. did you love her
more? less? not so much as you thought?
is he giving me all I need? do you care?
you know how I obsess over skies
lyrics, poems, movies, art, museums,
my record player, obsolete love affairs,
handwritten post it notes. it’s not me,
it’s just a voice. i gotta cook, clean,
do groceries, work. he asked me what
are you good at and the top three
while he quizzed me. wow he says
you really do what you love. I would die
any other way. you would find me
like Virginia and he nods his head again
as I write poems and throw them
in coffins, been doing it since I was a kid
so nothing ever changes. just the people,
just the clothing style, the latest shitty song,
but you remain the same. throughout all my
lifetimes. you. remain. the. same.
View of the world
Originally posted on - RedHuman -:
My view of the world in relation to you
Technology sculpted me like a great master
aligned my brushstrokes, stroked my ego
hid the island of Grand Jatte
behind a tablet of apps never used.
That picturesque picnic will be nostalgic
but the dead see nothing
and the living look at their phone
rather than the brilliant sky.
I gazed into your eyes
and romance was alive again;
I squint into a small screen when
you send your love
intertwined with sunsets and songs,
your chiaroscuro words
illuminating my soul
bringing me closer to you
as highways and oceans
Do you feel the phone is alive
with my poetic introduction
into your world?
I am your new acquaintance
knowing the words to my internal river
unlocking passwords and jpegs
lovers of lover’s past
breaking through hearts
with satellite love and lyrics
View original 210 more words
the styles come in threes
the kisses on my neck gone like the bitter breeze
the words you say don’t imply a thing
you are the bee with the venom sting
I am just a girl with a pocket of words
embrace your love in herds
Did you see my dreams last night?
Did you kiss me good morning in mid-air flight?
Caught a train to the viewing
sewed my heart with some syllables you were chewing
Rode your horse while you were away
burnt my poems in a binged out artistic way
Bottles of booze on the floor
of course on my knees like last night’s whore
I am never bored with the sky
with his eyes and his mystic lie
I am in love with the way words unfurl off my tongue
to trap you and leave you heart strung
Too easy for us to go down the wrong one way street
never know the signs to retreat
Listen to no one
hear the music coming from the sun.
You want to continue this charade
or dance naked to the lost parade.
The art that surrounds me is in your eyes
you can feel the brushstrokes from where you sit
I can mix the colors to create more lies
the people can swarm us with their wise and wit.
Walls are exploding with canvases
you never showed me how lovely you are
now I am aware of all your paint messes
and I aim to finger paint you from afar.
The selection of flowers and still life
is speaking once again to my sleeping soul
that will awake once your wandering wife
is finding her Truth at a Rabbit Hole.
I can analyze the colors you choose,
while you moan and cry about painting the blues.