| 3.28.2007 |
| Poem .17 |
I'm gonna be real honest with you here.
Half the time I really don't know
What, or why I'm talking.
But if you listen real hard,
Maybe something might stick.
I am so full of shit
That sometimes I actually believe myself.
And I'm really, really surprised that
God hasn't struck me down yet
For pulling wool over the eyes of the entire world.
When I tell stories,
Reading between the lines isn't enough.
To get the truth you have to turn my words inside out, upside down and backwards.
Because every conversation is just one enormous cryptogram.
I see honesty as an elusive winged insect
Which, once caught, crumbles in the hand,
Losing it's beauty forever.
Because dissecting the truth and revealing the ugliness inside
Only illuminates our desire for the exquisite emptiness of lies.
So I take the truth,
Weave it seamlessly into a delicate fabrication,
Embellish it with whatever details my imagination can fashion,
And then wear my cloak of deception until it's worn out.
I call it haute couture.
But don't get me wrong.
I'm not saying I like what I do.
I hate the fact that my beauty isn't even skin deep.
But sometimes it's necessary to indulge a fantasy
When reality is just too hard to face.
I'm honest more than most people realize,
It just that hardly anyone believes me anymore.
All I can say is that this is real.
I will never lie to you in a poem.
And I know that most of the time these lines don't rhyme,
But they're mine.
And when my pen touches paper, it closes an electric circuit of genuineness
Where charged word particles surge from my brain to the page and back again.
So that the synapses between you and me seem smaller.
So that's all I've got.
And I can promise you right here, right now,
That as long as I'm here writing these words,
I am telling the absolute, unabridged truth.
You may not quite understand it,
You may not see it at first,
You may not even like it.
But it's only worth what you paid for it. |
posted by Little Red @ 4:42 PM  |
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| Poem .16 |
Sitting on the sidewalk
Rocking out to the sound of footsteps falling on asphalt.
The rhythm of walking keeps my heart pumping
And my pen scratching on paper.
I'm counting this community
Tallying the number of people as they pass
48…49…50…
Searching for a familiar face and finding…
Only strangers.
This hard concrete does nothing for my posture,
And I wonder what it would cost for these numbers in my head
To just stop.
And I sit and I slouch and I count to
52…53…54…
I've had more than my fair share of lovers.
More than I deserve of cuddles under covers
Of boys who won't discover that I'm not like all the others.
That somewhere deep inside,
Under this skin, behind these eyes
Is a girl who knows she lies when she says she never cries
Because these numbers in my head
61…62…63…
Make me wish that I could be a little less concerned
With how big this world is and instead come to the conclusion that
Concrete is not comforting compared to the arms of a friend,
And blue lines on yellow legal pads is not art no matter how much I want it to be,
That an old man, his wife, and her sister are so much more than
68…69…70…
And I sit here on this sidewalk.
And I am acutely aware of the fact that I am utterly alone in this crowd.
It's getting late.
I stand and stretch my stiff limbs and head home.
I walk with the paper safely tucked between my arm and body,
And the pen nestled behind my right ear.
But the shuffle of my own shoes on the street sounds strangely unfamiliar.
As I wait for the red hand to give way to a green man, I notice another.
A boy, maybe nine or ten,
Kneeling in front of a folding chair across the street.
His eyes scan the crowd as the pencil in his left hand makes a mechanical motion,
Ticking like a human metronome.
The light changes and we make eye contact as I walk towards him,
And I know for that one second, in one hash mark on a page, at least to him
I count. |
| posted by Little Red @ 4:42 PM |
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| Poem .15 |
Imagine.
You and I are standing
At opposite sides of an enormous sinkhole.
We've walked across miles of desert,
Weathered blinding storms,
Scorching heat,
Brutal winds,
And somehow survived.
There is a still silence here.
Not even a breath of wind to encourage or dissuade us.
This is our decision.
Ours alone.
Ours together.
I've been inching toward the edge.
Every step was taken only after careful deliberation.
I don't know if you were as cautious as I was in coming here.
Nor do I know your intentions.
I fear my own.
Looking down, I can't see much.
After a few feet, the hole becomes pure blackness.
No one knows what lies at the bottom.
I long to find out for myself.
There are no more steps to take.
We're at the edge.
It's only a matter of time now.
How I wish you were here
On my side
Instead of miles away on the other.
I wish I could ask if you'll jump with me.
I need to hold your hand and know that I am not alone.
I can't wait here any longer.
Curiosity and my desire to be near you are begging me to leap into the darkness.
But if I fall,
Please promise me that you'll follow.
I know this is my choice to make,
But don't make me suffer alone.
I know that if I fall without you,
I will crumble upon impact,
Shattering into a million pieces.
And if you fall with me,
We can hold each other on the way down,
Ready to land safely in each other's arms.
This lonely landscape offers no hope,
No sign of life is to be found.
My only choice is to take this leap
Because I can't walk away never knowing
What secrets lie at the bottom of this great chasm.
I think I'm ready now.
I've made up my mind.
Holding my breath,
I stretch my arms out like wings
And prepare to take the plunge.
3….
2….
1….
I'm falling. |
| posted by Little Red @ 4:41 PM |
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| Poem .14 |
There was a new guy at the bar last night
Well, at least he was new to me.
(Thank you NBC.)
He spoke with a smoky Carolina twang
As he proclaimed,
"You're the cutest thing I ever did see."
Good to know, dude.
I asked him a question,
It had been bugging us girls all evening.
"Are you really married to a Britney Spears impersonator?"
Jason had told Lauren about it,
And Lauren told the rest of us,
So it must be the truth.
It was.
Or, at least, he said it was true.
His wife made a living looking like Britney Spears.
Lauren says he could pass for KFed,
But I disagree.
He said he does Jerry Lee Lewis down in Branson.
That explains the hair.
Trust me, it was amazing.
Abby said he's 31,
And that he told her he wasn't married.
He wasn't wearing a ring.
She said that he said
That he just tells people he's married.
The Britney thing sure makes for a good story.
I noticed when he spoke to me
That there was something familiar about him.
I couldn't put my finger on it.
He reminded me of happy times,
Of creativity,
Of sweetness.
There was something exotic about the way he smelled,
But I just couldn't place it.
It hit me when he kissed me:
It was Christmas.
The man tasted like Christmas.
Okay, I know I must sound like a complete
Raving lunatic, but please,
Bear with me.
Here I was,
Telling this stranger that he tasted
Like a holiday.
"Well, it's better than tastin' like beer and Jäger."
Okay.
After several minutes of trying to save face,
I decided that he tasted like molasses.
(Molasses goes in gingerbread…
Gingerbread means Christmas...)
It didn't help.
But he looked like sunshine,
Like California sunshine.
Apparently this also only made sense to me.
He was tan,
Slightly aging,
And that bleached blonde hair gave him the surfer look.
No one else agreed.
He asked me to take him home,
But I couldn't do it.
Not because he was married,
Or because I was tired,
Or even because he was way too old for me,
But because I couldn't sleep with
Jerry Lee Lewis,
Britney's husband,
The gingerbread man
Who looked like sunshine
And tasted like Christmas.
No one would believe me. |
| posted by Little Red @ 4:41 PM |
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| Poem .13 |
Today I woke up
After a ten hour nap
And I still felt exhausted.
I had two new text messages
From two different guys
And I had no intention of replying to either.
I skipped my shower,
Fearing the effects
Of the dry winter air
On my already too-sensitive skin,
And instead washed the sleep
From my eyes in the sink.
The reflection in the mirror stared back
Challenging me to try this time, to
Make this day better than the last.
I threw on a sexy blouse,
Sexy shoes,
Sexy jeans,
And did my hair and makeup to match.
But I left my house feeling every bit the frump.
I got to work and began my routine.
But something was missing.
There is no joy in accounting,
No thrill in organizing,
No more zest in opening the mail.
Not even my eighth cup of tea could energize me.
Tonight I'll go out with the girls.
We'll play dress-up
And flirt for drinks
In a lonely bar
With lonely patrons.
We'll see old high school friends
Who got fat,
Who got knocked up,
Who got ugly.
There is no love in liquor.
I'll drive home alone
To my empty bedroom
And its empty bed.
And I'll sleep cradled in my own arms
Until my alarm goes off
And I get to do it all again tomorrow. |
| posted by Little Red @ 4:40 PM |
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| Poem .12 |
Smile a bit. Just for me.
For once let go of the burdens
Holding you down and
Fly a bit. Just for you.
Spread your wings and soar like
You were always meant to
Sing a bit. Just for them.
Show them the music inside that
Sometimes only you can hear then
Cry a bit. Just for him.
Let him know that he meant
More than he knows but don't forget to
Laugh a bit. Just for us.
Remind us that you're the funny girl
Who was never afraid to
Glow a bit. Just because.
You're too amazing to let your spirit fade
Into the crowd of those who've forgotten how. |
| posted by Little Red @ 4:40 PM |
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| Poem .11 |
Hold me.
Just a few minutes longer.
I want to make this vulnerability last.
Press your chest close to mine
So our hearts will know their match.
Wait until I fall asleep and softly whisper
All the things you can't say when I'm awake.
Tell me your secrets.
Pour out your hopes and dreams to my sleeping mind.
Some part of it will register,
And I will love you all the more for it.
As I lay safely snuggled in your warm embrace,
Kiss me tenderly.
And I will dream of you.
Hold me until we are no longer two bodies
A massive tangle of arms and legs,
Until we are nothing but
One heart,
One soul,
One being.
I want this night to be a turning point,
Changing the direction of our lives,
Making everything different than it was before.
I pray that I don't wake up the same,
That from this moment on, life has meaning,
That life is poetry.
So hold me like you've never held anyone before.
In sleep, let us learn to trust one another.
In dreams, let us never part. |
| posted by Little Red @ 4:39 PM |
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