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.

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Elements

When you come back

you’ll see how deadly

I bite.

I kept your secrets

as you kept mine,

it was an exchange

of the souls,

some that meet briefly,

others that depart hastily.

I may be an earth sign

but my heart is water

my soul is fire

my body is air

and your presence

is in my blood.

You should know nothing

is real in realms.

Every poem is a continuation

of the one only meant for you.

You love her so madly, It’s lovely.

It’s how a man loves his dog

and every woman swoons.

Still I read,

you read,

it may be somewhat of a variation

thematic structures

unique to us,

but if I slip your mind

I promise to hang on

that steel step. Hope is

my downfall,

my rise.

I wait for you to slay

all your demons

come back from your hell.

This silence is madness.

In September I give most of what

I settle for away to strangers.

I’ll cry if it’s my birthday,

I’ll shop at bookstores only.

I start to plant my new seeds

right about the 19th of September

as I lay naked,

in touch with my femininity

my masculinity,

swirling in hues of gold and purples

this aura conspiring with me,

as I take all my addictions

and drink them,

collect some poems

for my grave,

people like us, we’re too sensitive

to the touch,

cry too easily.

Do you feel the words

on your lips, mouth, tongue?

Do you see how they hurt

when you swallow them?

This is why I must regurgitate

all of them

and place them

in my Virgo order.

My steel

becomes tragic

in its element,

always because

of how I feel for you.

Phases of my Love

Phase one is the need
the desire
the undeniable fire.
Phase two is the meeting
the clash
the unlined life in a flash
truly unknown
the attraction to see
how we fit
knowing full well
there’s no doubt in it.
Typing like lovers
voices under covers
bellowing out needs
aches in our loins
for the dirty deeds,
my nipples awaiting your bite
my inner folds swollen in your might.
I give it all
(not sure why you chose me after all)
just a flirt, you are
but I know
I
see more even from afar.

Ready to fight then burst
finding me first,
last,
broken seashells of the past,
you hold my soul
be kind
a treasure you may find.

Phase three
is, of course, full of sorrow,
for the life of tomorrow
always apart/ from the start/
cheesy love poems in our hearts,
being the same shape it’s true,
I can’t turn away from your shade of blue.
The dark calls me
your light brings me so close
I could feel you next to me
and your words
well,
they are the foreplay
of savage hearts.

There are more phases to explore
more silence to ignore
but I need you to read this
because it’s for you.

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morning

kiss me with your words
wake me with your hot coffee
I’ll drink it how you like
you know that about me
without ever seeing mine
drinking all that amount of wine
doing stupid things with you
winking at those who have no clue
what it means to wake up
wanting all you cannot have
so grabbing it in spurts
let the pain continue its hurt
I need to work on this and that
all I want is none of it
but you
doing what you said you would
knowing it’s all there is

in this winding, staircase mood
I’m in

she says, you’re like oil,
everything slides off of you,
but I know I’m not,
I let it stick
but I told her
the only way I can survive
is waking up to a brand new day
and starting over.
She said they should make
an SNL character on you
he agreed, laughing,
it would be a hit.
I didn’t know if I meant to say
that about the gerry curls
that got them both
in a whirl
but I think I like my version
better.
They’d only botch me up
into some free-spirited
bohemian, barefoot,
impulsive, redhead,
reading Neruda
as bedtime stories,
forgetting the trash,
and sleepy eyed
poems under my pillow,
wine-drinking, trash-reading,
…(I will stop this now)
And that is just no
Story at all.

I was going somewhere else with this poem, but as it goes, who knows where it’s headed now.

I might start
another book.