My Young Heart

 

It has no age
it feels as if you
grew ice in your heart
a magician constructing homes
out of broken hearts.

You wanted to love the parts
of me that no one knew existed.
It is hard to live
in a hidden world.
I never understood how
graveyards worked.
You could have killed me
with all the love and romance
as if teenagers had nothing
on us.

I wanted to know why
but these questions
are never answered.
I suppose wanting someone
with a heart
that matched mine
was too much to ask for
and I know that now.

See how my young heart
has no wrinkles?

See how my young heart
professed my love
to you? And all you did
was nothing.

You accepted it
and never gave me yours.

My young heart aged
and now it needs
a kind of love
only strange girls like me
require.

I can never go home now
it does not exist anymore.
All the furniture is gone
all the memories are packed
in used boxes with labels
of time and place
that I will not even look at again.

Erase my young heart.

Let it break over and over
as it is accustomed to doing.

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Every Woman

Christina Strigas

I am not every woman
I am an extraordinary one
because I am not a beauty queen
or a wanna be a porn queen
no queens live inside me.
Also, I am not into princesses
who claim to not carry their crown
but act like they own the internet
with no graceful words.
I like to party and suck words out of worlds.
I live like every woman
managing love and kids
and work and asking the mirror
why do I look so tired?
I don’t ask who is the fairest
that question stopped at seven.
I am weird and quirky
and I eat in bed.
I like to read books
and watch the sunset
pull dirt out of sentences.
Pouring my heart out at cashiers
is what I do best.
I keep the lid on at all times
and laugh out loud
at slang and such nonsense
to keep us guessing at how
everything changes.
How long has it been since
you loved me?
I am right here.
I am every woman
and man.
We all want the same things
only we ask for it differently.

Ode to Bukowski


People think it is easy to sit all day and write,

but what do they know of working and not making any money?
They would think it absurd, an absurd comedy out of a play. Waiting for a book deal.

Waiting for a reply to a magazine.

Waiting for rejection letters.

Waiting for no one.
Years of this. No partner would accept this kind of relationship. I hate
myself. I hate those

so-called poets

who get book deals.
Why do I suck?

Why must I collect

rejection letters. My

poems tell no one’s

story but mine.
I am so poor, I am so

hungry. At least I have

my music

record player

books

typewriter.

I will be dead one day

and everyone
will finally know
I was a poet.
Not that I even care what

society thinks about me

thunderstorms ache.

trees cry

sidewalks shake.

 

I write poems to make a living

rejected

artist. A few times in my life,
I had great connections

with the homeless
the poets hated me.

but not as much

as I hated them.

Infliction

At the time, I was nervous

for living,

when no one else

 

wanted to talk with my mind.

You have no free time

to sacrifice, nor do I.

 

All our time is filled up

with taking others for granted.

Yet we talk on the phone

every couple of years,

and become friends

 

over preferred lovers.

When  we were lovers,

we loved each other,

we lamented our skin

 

As old lovers do.

It never gets old. Your skin is my map

home.

Time makes clouds

of us all.

 

I have no hard feelings

over deleting you

It is merely a word. Define it.

Gone, evaporated. Hack me!

 

The moments are in hearts

reliving the kisses

and the touching

 

every spare day

I spent it all. Poor again

loveless;

Childless.

To Love

Did you forget what it feels like to love?

You would prefer to hate the past

and blame me for all your wrongdoings.

I am an open dart and your hands

the weapon. You did forget,

say the truth, you pretend

to love me. I see through it.

I lay down awake,

but I was a cliche dead

inside. I cried and you watched

me, sending others to comfort me

while you left

silence

destroyed us once again.

I knew this would happen.

I am a witch after all. Love

has a way of pulling you apart

when you close it down.

I can detach, this is my power

I can run, this is my ache

I can stay, this is my mission

I can order for two

and only be one.

All the love you promised

I mopped it away

with the urine stains.

Did you forget what it feels like to love?

I can no longer remind you,

for I forgot what it feels like to love.

I do answer my own questions

I am a poet

after all

and my dog needs me.

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.

Les Enfants Terrible

http://www.femininecollective.com/les-enfants-terribles/?utm_campaign=crowdfire&utm_content=crowdfire&utm_medium=social&utm_source=social#2195478619-tw#1497834079543#2195478619-tw#1497834330095

 

Hello everyone,

 

Excited to share a new poem with you. Click on link above. I am also excited to announce that I will be a new member of SD, (Sudden Denouement) a first rate literary collective.

 

Much love and gratitude,

Christina Strigas

 

 

The Fire of my Storm

Inside my chest

is a raging child

she buckles up her seat belt

and waits for the accident

it is coming

it always does.
I remember her at six

how the piano freed her soul

and anger burned her wings

in burial grounds

where her mother met her fate.

This storm inside her at sixteen

tore apart all her friendships

these addictions to people

taught her about toxicity.

Now at thirty-four

she sleeps alone

and waits for the shores

of her youth to be

taken by the roads she missed.

She is a calm wave

waiting for her destiny

and lightening.

Spilt Wine

Start the night with wine

in my hair, on my dress,

in my stockings

brand new shoes

bare shoulder

and a few broken

apologies. I saw it

coming too,

and just watched it.

Kind of like life

that was yesterday.

Tonight,

now another bar

another jazz singer

singing the blues

under copper tiled ceilings

and feathers in her hair

you’d think it was suddenly

1920 art deco Paris.

But no,

it’s the house of Jazz

in Laval, Quebec.

Hanging with the girls

who sold my life away.

Do you pay the bill?

Cosmos and red chandeliers

blue bottine in the vitrine

and it’s a wonderful world

in here.

The only thing missing is you

with me.

It makes me cry

you’ll never see

what I see.

Not even pictures

do it justice.

Rita called me

she’ll be 20

minutes late,

god damn Montreal traffic.

It’s fine.

I’ll order another Cosmo

write a poem.

Listen to the jazz singer

and lament

you.