Kissing Dead Poetry

No one understands my pain whenever I say "I can never write poetry". Of course in admitting that truth, I always experience a thousand deaths. I try my hardest, mind you, but I guess my hardest is not good enough.
No one understands the sorrow that assaults my heart when I am stumped between tangled sentences. The brittle coldness of my uncertainty mocks me with callousness as I accept defeat from the Woolfian knowledge of the arrogant and those I consider creative prigs. And no matter how hard I stab into hell's veins to bleed it with the finest rhythms of metaphors, I could never howl with eloquence (the way others do) because deep in my heart I know that my thoughts are perversely mute. But no one cares. I am alone.

All that's left is me and my wretched poetry.

What Good is a Wish?

What good is a WISH if it does nothing but break your heart to pieces? Distracted questions shapeshifting within paragraphs of a forced empathy. They dangle it before your eyes & surely thinking you are caught by their slender-throated lies, they leap like stubborn dogs, mad in the head, howling without dignity. These stillborn shadows, they emptied my heart and left me horizontally carved, lurching backwards, fading into the lush dark of the abyss...
So, what good is a wish?

Parasitic Tendency

Who does not want to be one of those plumed people, smart as hell, who speak seven languages - drunk from the beautiful slurring of borrowed words sans inhibitions, the braided catch of the tongue at the roof of the mouth is a fastidious slum of savagery - dragging vowels and consonants at the tip of the tongue, teeth grinding at every syllable, the exquisite tempo of the words uncurls, pinning down every letter lithely, deliberately accomodating a language that reminds one of a volcanic spew?

Blackbird

When I die, I do not want to be buried in the ground for my panicked, living flesh retches at its sentimentality. I shudder imagining myself trapped in a desperate box, dark-carved wood - solid as hell; my arms all stiff not wanting to budge even for a second, not even to reach for the skies; worms feasting on my putrid body; fat stubborn maggots crawling my eyes; sand in my fingers; water seeping in lightly tickling my feet; water the color of blood.
Here, now, in the middle of the night a cobbled thought was born: I do not want to be buried on this godforsaken ground. I'd rather burn and have my ashes scattered all over the seven seas under that awning they call the sky; where I would feel free; thin as air, liberated; not dreadfully trapped.

Promise Me

How do I say "I miss you" without the rupture of distance tearing apart the tenderness of those words? How do I tell you to stop aging for at least another decade? Outside my window the roses are blooming, the trees are showing vigor to the thrilling murmur of a pending spring. Another season is about to begin - telling me that time flies by. I want the clock to stop from flailing to the endless drone of its ticking hands. I want to tell the gods to pause time until that next time I see you again. I wonder if they would grant me that.
How do I ask you to promise me one thing? You loathe promises. I am still going to ask you, though. Promise me not to go just yet. Promise me not to let sleep break your spirit. Wait for my return for I want to gaze at you when you close your eyes after I blow out the candle. I crave to sit by you to comfort you and hold your once strong but now weak and withered hands. I do not want to see the solitary confinement of your vacant eyes. Instead I wish to see magic written all over them like that time I saw you dancing the boogie at dusk. I want to cuddle your head in my arms, gently stroke your soft, gray hair while I hum the lullaby you used to sing when I was but a child. It maddens me that I am not beside you to wrap my arms, to connect our waists while walking on that sandy beach watching the slate-colored waves as twilight ends.

I dream of staggering back home to tell you how I feel right now... for there is that yearning to snuggle next to your fragranced breast, heart thrashing from the joyous derivative of being a babe once again.

SPOONING

there is so much beauty when flesh collide
skin to skin touching
on a soft midsummer night
heads sprawled on silk pillowcases
slant beating of hearts
resonating as one
the moon-shaped metaphors
of partially-owned urges
remains as a steady balm
palms tighly clasped
united in a blasphemous
fetal-like bend

then there is that
kiss bestowed at the nape of the neck

how can i not miss you?

Indulgence

On a balmy night in Cartagena, while huddled with friends, I drank glass after glass of their tangy local wine - its taste made loops in my mouth leaving a succulent residue on my pruned lips; my spirit was captivated by the full moon rising that was filtered between the slats of the carved door facing us; the summer wind made a soft ripple at the bottom of my skirt, the slightest tug of enthusiasm was resolute on my feet; the stubborn hissing of the decaying burden of our time was pushed aside, half-forgotten, matted in a nebulous form of a breaking silence that was not even a syllable.
There, in that old town, above the rectangle of soft glowing lights, I had to pause to taste the sweet joy throbbing at the base of my throat. Indeed, it is an amalgam - swallowing the lure of the likeness of home.