More than ten

There are ten poems everyone needs to read,

there is always the one missing that makes my heart bleed.

Read Daddy

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,

oh yes,

they will feel the night

through my soft skin,

my handwritten notes

yes, their gentleness will definitely do,

do Us,

do Them,

do Both,

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

than this.

Eating words


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

self-fulfilled prophecies

running from themselves

I took poetry like accountants

study numbers

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

that reads

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?

View original

Everybody loves my baby

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.

My first amazon review by Christine M. Sepe

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

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

or deserved.

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

were correct

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.

Featured Image -- 1472

The World Through Our Eyes – Canada


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

with pointillism,

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

matter not.

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 flow in me

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.

Sonnet #3

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.