Categories
Poetry

Renaissance

If I ever had writer’s block you would see me dead

at some corner in a bar with your typical

bottle of Jack and burnt notebooks. I swear

if  I lost the ability to think through poetry

and write about my ripped up demons,

my past haunts, my future encounters,

then I would be dead inside for sure.

I can barely breathe now with how

real life sucks up my soul in conference

meetings, evaluation of employees,

frustrated children, parents who

neglect, my faults piling up

as I see how awful I could be

when confronted with life,

car crashes, headaches, aging,

poems pouring out like coffee

from a pot.

I took a class at Concordia

called The Renaissance

the History professor

proved that all these statues

had a story, all these white perfect

Roman gods had the same life

as the Greeks, changed a name

deleted a column, added an arc

and revived humanity.

If only I could do the same with poetry

make it my battle

rebirth

to the art that few protect.

Grab your pen

paper

raw words

and create

a new renaissance.

What else is there to do

except your nails? or your hair?

or your membership at the gym

needs renewal,

don’t forget to post pictures

of you and hubby at so-so restaurant

yes, I’ll be over here,

writing poems

and showing you my heartache.

You never knew I could write.

I know.

You thought I was just another wife,

but you saw it in my eyes.

You told me that once

I remember everything.

 

Categories
Poetry

Water Under the Bridge

I thought maybe you were different

but anybody can say anything with conviction

tell you that you are the most beautiful

the most talented poet

that your words speak to my soul

and everything you never believed in

becomes some ethereal proof.

There is not enough

water under the bridge

to forget how her lies

twisted me up

and left me vomiting up my guts

on words, on hatred

on putrid ideologies

of muses that do not exist.

I give too much benefit of the doubt

when I am not even a lawyer.

She can eat you up and spit you out

a lover,

she can see how a and b equals

her own fucked up perceptions,

the people I once loved

still love me back,

still want me,

ask to be forgiven at funeral parlors

through silent texts,

by changing how their darkness

strengthened their light.

But no need to search for you  anymore,

download any app you want

you will never see my name there again,

for

someone who is toxic

someone who is a devil in disguise of an angel

is the fruit that spoils.

Change your name again

create a multitude of accounts

I am  still me

one account

one love

no one can break through again.

ever,

women like you

make me lose faith in our power

and our sisterhood.