In the Middle

Once I was at the end of the love song

crying for years because it was over

before it even began. We were caught

loving the wrong person. I immersed

from my drowning and swam to the

beginning of the line. I sailed across

your poems and floated on your words.

You sent them to me by mail, on out-

dated postcards, you wrote them on

the back of my hand with your

fingertips. I sent you magic and

illusions with one needle on your

arm. We lived in a movie and

recited Shakespeare naked in bed.

You were not even close to being

who I thought you were. I was

too much for you to handle back

then, wanting to do everything

and doing absolutely nothing

about it. I climbed Mont-Royal

in heels and you laughed at

my absurdities. I was spontaneous

and explosive, until I wasn’t anymore.

I bent backwards on words

and the power of your hands.

Now I’m in the middle of something

that will change me forever.

I will never bet that girl again.

I have to be someone I thought

I would never be. Life throws you

these wicked curveballs

and I am catching them,

ready to be stuck here

hoping that it will not get

worse. All this hope

for songwriters and poets

but for a regular woman like me

it’s a waste of my time.

Discussion

I don’t fall into categories

I prefer to create them

make them shine on my skin

so only lovers with no thoughts

can see them. Leave chat groups

that are toxic for the soul and

create an affair with words

you adore. I discussed poetry

and words and how I have always

been writing, only now it has

controlled me, I can’t contain

it in a beer barrel anymore and

put a lock on it for happy hour.

I can’t shut it off and go to sleep.

I wake up with it and walk around

with these words on the tip

of my fingers and my tongue.

Here they are discussing the

way we move in and out of bed,

the way we talk, with respect

and patience. The way you ask

questions and wait for a reply.

No one ever cared for the same

reasons. Discussions of the soul

with no words are the ones

I cherish. The way we communicate

without words

that first brought us together

and will eventually tear us apart.

I can see the story, I can write

it, I can direct it, I can begin

and end it. I know how to

do it all

for I am a dreamer

and so are you.

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Poets

Poets want everything

that you can’t buy

so please don’t be a beautiful fool

full of that deep ache

you label

either love or anxiety

confused with what your brain

tells your heart.

poets should inspire

hurt, reveal, cover up

use foundation on rhymes

but we tend to float

between lives

and we know it takes skill

shallow waters

and observation of the highest calibre.

use a gun on my thoughts

destroy the need to get in my mind

and settle for my body.

fill it up with your elbows, knees

beard, shoulders, lips

any part that the sun kisses.

sigh a bit over my drum beats

red carpet humanity

don’t be ashamed of who we are

be proud

be brilliant

in this poetic grace

only the few like us

survive.

when I left you the last time

we met

I tried hard to not look back.

don’t  you find poets

look back way too often

in real life in  pretend?

some questions are better

left unanswered.

there is a riot

in our minds

and hugs and kisses

to all of you

who love how words

kiss us and kill us

in unison.

 

https://www.youtube.com/results?search_query=poets+the+tragically+hip

New chapbook

Hey lovely souls of WordPress & bloggers,

 

I am so excited to announce that I have put together a chapbook and it will soon be released by a publishing company run by my poet friend Chris. I will slowly reveal the details as soon as I can. Just know, that my book is going to be one of the first released under this company and it brings me great joy to share with you some new poems that I practically wrote in forty-eight hours straight. Hardly ate, hardly slept. Wrote the words like waterfalls.

I am on the first draft right now, and I will be editing and working hard to create a chapbook for my readers. I dedicate this chapbook to all of you who read me and support me.

 

I want to thank you for reading and commenting on my work. Without you guys none of this would be possible. My passion is writing, and I have written books and I am still working on a novel…however poetry is closer to my heart than anything else. It is that instant downpour of emotions that comes out. Sometimes it’s not personal at all, it could be the news, a conversation I overheard, a dialogue, a word, all these inspire me and help me to write better.

 

Thank you for being here with me.

All my best,

 

Chrissy x

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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”

Excerpt from my chapbook

My chapbook is sold here: http://gold.upstreammerch.com/products/your-ink-on-my-soul-chapbook-by-christina-strigas

And here is an excerpt from my chapbook. I am also doing a book signing in Pointe-Claire at Chapters Indigo on Sunday, April 10th from 11-5 p.m. Starbucks upstairs, so come and meet me.

My poetry book is going to be released in June. All illustrations in my poetry book by Kate Theodosiou.

Follow me on Instagram to win a free signed copy of chapbook. c.strigas_sexyasspoet

Thank you so much for you support & much love.

Closer to loving you

It could have happened sooner,

if you had let me go

but, no

let me not love you, i said.

two joints over the jewels

you intend to buy.

She said

i was ready to trust

my instincts,

only put up those walls, my darling

you’re too giving.

don’t want to see you

in my spirit guide.

don’t trust the animal.

My sweet intelligence

is my curse. Keep my

one eye open.

i can feel the earth’s

sadness: my morning

tears, the ones you feel

from miles away

as you turn the key

to my heart.

depends on the song;

my serendipity mood

the phases of the moon,

the clouds, the sunset time,

my misplaced dyslexic words.

Kiss down

my nervous energy

warm my hands

with yours.

bring

back the romance.

just make the voices

fucking stop

no rhymes in paradise

only peace

to the sound of my heartbeats

turn off notifications

no internet connection

shut the blinds

open my heart

its glowing

bright orange.

free me

and undress

my wounds.

Fall apart

I’m holding on

only to

fall apart

over and over

until all

my limits

are made

into poetry.

Until all my body parts

turn into your leaves

of grass.

This is my sanctuary.

How I love your roots

that pull my gravity

toward your earth.

All the steps

to your street

are silent.

You know how

to hurt me

with no dirt.

I sent you my love

in a sealed package

you ripped through me

instead of opening me

up gently.

Who cares where i live?

My middle-aged craze

I have never changed

I have always been in crisis.

i flushed my cigarettes

broke all the bottles

all I have

is this pen

and paper.

Most of the time

it’s all I need.

other times

it’s what

I hate the most.