Poets sleep awake

Photo by @dan_cretu from Instagram

 

I need my naps

I am a modern poet

in semi-deep sleep

never fully awake

dreaming about pre-raphaelites and the Rosettis

still thinking

in all the colors

you left behind.

I hug you close

yet you disappear

into orange clouds

and sunset lawns.

I want to forget

the long trails

to your heart

and climb up

your mountain

to kiss your eyes

to sleep.

Alas, I slumber awake.

Awake, yet not.

In My Own Flood

 

It was a crisp autumn night. We changed

the course of our history. We lit

up the night with the stars in our eyes.

A thousand ships sailed by. Still. We

did not look away. I tried to drink my

cosmo slow. I tried to not peek at your

hands. But nothing I tried, worked.

I’m drowning in my own flood of words.

Can you still see me or have I faded out?

Hope and hockey hold hands in love and I

think about you. All the fucking time.

You did it. You made me want you when I

didn’t even try. You said nothing about me

was common, and other phrases that kept

me awake. Running to the moon, right before

sunrise. Your words are ingrained like

photos in a wallet. A lost love. Art. Habit.

I should insist more but I like to drive

fast and sing along to your favourite song,

wear your favourite perfume.

But the most impressive part of this book

is how it showed me how to find myself in between

the realms you never looked. img_0793

 

 

 

This is the first time I am publishing this poem on my blog. It is from my book of poetry of the same title.  Hope you enjoy it.

Working on a new chapbook, to be published by Mad Wolf Publishing.

 

The ticket

I said,

stop the car, I need to vomit.

What’s wrong?

Must be something I ate.

I ate words.

His words

for breakfast

lumch and a québécois supper.

I told the police officer.

I never drive down this fucking street.

I wanted to be thrown in jail

but she let me go. Who knew

that being a bitch really worked?
I can’t sleep well.

I feel like I can’t write anymore

and I fear my secrets have a way

of becoming my only company.
What do you think Simone would do?

Is everyone knocking on his door?

Why should I care?

The line must be long

intense with chatter.

I struggle with letting go

holding on too tight.

I kept chains and locks

for him

but he cut through them

with penstrokes, cockstrokes

brushstrokes, I made up words

with flair and desire.

The full moon is in my heart

beating inside my chest

where he once rested.
There is someone else for him

so many lovelies

all colors, nationalities,

pageant show beauties

all for him.

She has brand new shoes

and purses to match

his ego.

I stumble around bookshelves

wander through poetry sections

take a look

at legends and death

peeking under glass bottles

from the wrong side.
Miss, be careful out there, it’sslippery. 


I thought it would be different this time.

I thought he could love me

for the right reasons

but a million poems

cannot make up

for all the lies.

I will stomp the grapes

write my name on the bottle

and dedicate

a book to him

so he could throw it out

and never know me again.

Drive carefully.




Loving a Writer

loving a writer is only for the strong,

the ones who care to stare

at the sky with you. or at a locked door.

you refuse to open. and this is why

love remains crazy. undefined. unbearable.

irrational. because loving a writer

has no rules. it’s like seeing the

world for the very first time.

 

 

from my book of poetry “Love & Vodka”

The Art inMe

if you could just dare

to fuck the art in me

the kind of sex

that would put

us both on fire.

the part where you

never leave in

the morning. i

disappoint you

all the time,

with my past,

my present,

my unstable future.

if you could just dare

to love me,

none of it would even matter.

 

 

From my poetry book, see link below.

Book cover reveal

Dear readers.
This is the book cover for my soon to be released poetry book. For everyone that has stuck with me along this publishing to self-publishing ride, all I can say is :I thank you. I curtsy and applaud all writers who self-publish. It’s hard enough to put together a book, let alone publishing it. I pulled my fucking hair out along the way so many times. So many hours of staring at my laptop wondering what the fuck did I do now? For instance, clicking on accept instead of revise and somehow or other led to some scammers and hackers…then my husband took the phone and told them where to stick it as I sat there wondering I thought I was talking to kindlepublishing sales team.

Drink a bit more.

Then praying that my chapbook is formatted properly because I clicked the wrong button. Refusing to pay someone 1,900 dollars to do it for me. How hard could it be?

Hard. Then not so hard.

Now I am doing it all over again. This book is edited and waiting for final print format. Waiting is fine. A relief actually to let others do their thing.

When you trust a publishing company to publish you, when you give them your money, your words, parts of yourself you can’t take back, it hurts when they disappoint you and the writing community. I don’t care about the money I lost, I care about integrity, loyalty. Twenty-four year old bosses who take advantage of poets, who promise them dreams and take them away. I received a paypal amount but no sales report, no termination letter, and on and on how the lies piled up for me and my fellow poets under this company.

It’s never water under the bridge. You just learn to swim because drowning is not an option.

Hence my title, In My Own Flood.

I will keep you posted as to when I publish my full-length poetry book, not much longer now…and I thank you for reading my work.

A huge thank you to Kate Theodosiou for the illustration. My sweet soul sister I have never met.

Best regards,

Chrissy x