poems

coffee fueled suburbia

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and it’s every note

some of which don’t get played

but they’re sounding good to me

because they sound like you

 

even though you once said,

“everything you write is essentially the same” or something like that

but isn’t that okay when you’re looking for something to make you be still?

 

maybe if i knew how to play

an instrument or something

the notes might be different,

but i’d hate to disappoint you,

a whole lot about me is different

but i can say

i love you all the same as i did when i was a kid

 

but it’s alright because i’ve kept that

and i’d rather have that

than find my head

because you took it when you were fourteen,

even though we both had no idea what that means

but i’ll take it anyway

because my headless existence tells me

it’s alright again

 

i discovered i put you in a box and kicked it under the bed

it stuck out from under the corner and i couldn’t pretend

i never got it out and blew off the dust

and the action sometimes rattled some cages

 

i’ve never known anyone to love

me through my slow transition into a garbage pail kid

it might be what i want to do

even as morning turns into noon

and you’re out there somewhere becoming the best person you can be

and you’re healing and breathing and walking through the world

you might trip again

i want to see you through this

and whatever “that” is.

it makes sense to me

we are in our “that” phase

i wake up some days

and want to define it like the weird trait your friend has, or that breakfast i eat every day.

though i’d never want to drag you into a world

of a coffee fueled suburbia

because that song you like

told me you’d hate it

 

coffee fueled suburbia

could be what you think of me

and there isn’t any appeal because it would be all down hill from there

i think that way about myself but wonder where you are now

putting the right amount of sugar in your coffee to fuel your city

population you

poems

my light is always on-

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i wish you’d let me in

and i wish the days weren’t marked

by your words or thoughts and i’m wondering if you

find this as bothersome,

as my broken heart and waking up with it each day

 

confusion is marked by words of love

and words of hate, all dreamt in my own head,

but i’ll never turn my light off

i’m leaving it on for you-

to change the bulb or let it burn out

whatever you want

poems, trash by taylor

i’d forget to tell you in the morning

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i’d forget to tell you in the morning

that i have red blotches on my right arm because a gnat received its dinner in the night.

it seems trivial, but

wouldn’t you want to know?

 

i’d forget to tell you in the morning

i have a noise machine box from a store in the shopping mall that plays me sounds of ocean tides

and how sometimes, i dream of pink hues of our time together

it’s a far fetched fantasy,

but you never know.

 

i’d forget to tell you in the morning

how i believe in you every single moment

and that all i want

is for you to know everything would be safe with me, but i’d still wonder sometimes

if i’m a waste or a faraway whisper in your daily sea of

who knows what? i wish i’d know of the terrible things, the tiny things, and the other things.

and even go so far as to organize your worries

like a sock drawer

i’m not romantic with words

i’d forget to tell you in the morning.

 

i’d remember in the morning

to let you know i love you

and sometimes (like right now)

i’m really unsure of myself

but i’m glad you wandered in

would you stay if i-

made you tea in the corner

and read you which ever words you needed at night.

 

i’d remember to tell you in the morning-

it’s going to be all right.

poems, trash by taylor

yesterday’s words

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I look at everything in halves.

It’s as if my food is getting half eaten, and I guess that’s enough.

Even the number of words I use have been affected. I never thought i’d tell myself to stop talking and be a little quieter, but here we are. I guess things can change.

I use a smaller amount of words now and I’ve started to think about what to say. I never thought of my words as an unfinished sandwich

A masterpiece with the crusts cut off.

I would write full letters.

I’d joke about novels, but I’ve realized 8 trips around the sun could fill volumes. I wonder how many times I’ve put pen to paper hoping we would talk about them one day, not through letter or screen, and I would laugh while that line in the corner of your eye did that THING i can’t seem to resist because I stored it in my memory bank as a girl.

I’m not a woman now, but I guess I relate to that Britney Spears song more than it was possible at 8 years old.

When he has time for you-

there are roses in the bathroom,

there’s pop songs sung in the shower. The absolute worst- but I still want you to know about my love for boy bands and teen pop, and how I can tell you as much about an obscure pop song from 1987 as I can about R.E.M. or The Replacements.

When words are consistent,

it brings a warmth like a slow burning candle or an ocean sunrise (have you ever seen one of those?) I tried really hard to quiet my mind at night when I’d sit looking at the ocean with my cheap beer in hand, but i really thought about you, and how annoyed (or maybe not) you would feel if I told you I didn’t want to leave this spot, sans for the 45 minutes I’d watch an episode of “Dawson’s Creek” on the TV i kept on a low murmur all day.

My smile is always brighter. I actually hummed to myself while walking around a home goods store (who DOES that? I’m sure you can gather that I most certainly do not, but here I was, probably humming some tune you would hate if I forced you to listen to it 65 times in a row. I would do it, but I want you to want it.)

Yesterday’s words are always there at a push of a button that I can read,

but do you know how much they actually mean to me?

I don’t know if this is a matter of investment, and i’ve never thought about feelings being on a conditional basis, and they probably aren’t, but why am I going back to read yesterday’s paper when I’ve crumpled it up and i’m anticipating some new ink on a brand new day? Maybe I’d pass the paper to you, but that is definitely not all I want in life. Life is so much more than perfection defined as a quiet morning, it’s a mess, and my stress levels are on par to cry-vomiting, which I’m sure you didn’t know what to do with that information when I told you about some mess going on in my head.

I wonder what you would think of the stillness at 10am

that I believe to be my favorite part of the day,

and maybe I could share that with you just once or many times, and it wouldn’t be the silently amazing but mixed feeling I get if I choose to go back and read yesterday’s words.

poems

i feel

i feel

somewhere in the ocean, the waves will wash a memory back into my reflection from the open window.

the one where you were laying in bed trying to muster the fake erotica my heart wanted.

as you “exhaled” on your e-cig “careful” not to set off the alarm in the dorm.

i feel

somehow it will come to life that i slept with my arms pressed over my head while the drunkenness wrestled with the fire alarm signaling the end of my 21st birthday, when you walked away.

i feel

sorry for the strangers who ever wondered what was wrong with the girl

who pretended to read books

something she used to do for good,

but she was crying about how you became her left limb and broke it.

you brought it home to your mother one sunday as an art project she will probably hang in your bachelor pad

while she tells you

jesus loves you

but NEVER the longtime girl without the crucified heart.

(02.11.17)

poems, trash by taylor

warm bath (for clay)

your eyes used to read me

they would flicker from one side to the other

and i’d wonder what you’d see

while you held your breath

 

i’d look back

in an attempt to tell you

all i could see were warm spring nights

with the windows open and the faint noise of whatever you wanted to do

 

the nook of your neck

felt the same way eons later

and i went back into a world

where the light was still soft and dim

like the dimly lit comfort of a warm bath

 

i don’t think

i could ever touch you

like the warm bath on my skin

each tuesday night

where i spent wondering where you were or

what you were up to

and maybe i’d

still love the feeling of a warm bath

the same time next week

 

and maybe you would look at me again

with the same intensity

as the feeling of the lavender soap in the bath

on my skin

as you once again made your mark on my heart

poems

moon/june/spoon: national poetry month

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(I don’t know if I was writing a poem in this picture but I still stick my tongue out when I’m super into writing!)

April is National Poetry Month! I’ve been in a really big creative cloud lately, and my projects seem to all come out as poems. I’ve been into writing for as long as I can remember; I wrote my first poem in the 4th grade about a girl who liked to listen to The Rolling Stones in her basement.

I really fell in love with writing poetry in the 8th grade when I posted religiously on my MySpace blog. I wrote poems about coffee and candles: two things I associate with warmth. For the next few years, I filled journals to the brim with poems and took creative writing classes in high school, where I was encouraged to participate in a poetry reading.

I remember the exact moment when I realized the reason why I wrote poetry and why it had become my favorite medium of expression. My first poetry reading took place on a quiet Saturday morning in 10th grade. Sophomore year of high school was incredibly difficult; I’d gone through my first big heartbreak, and I wrote a ton of poems in a journal containing the words I couldn’t say to the guy who had inspired it all. After much persuasion from my creative writing teacher, I signed up for the reading.

When I stood up in front of the crowd of teachers and poets, my voice shook so hard. I’m naturally shy, but I really struggled to get through the first few stanzas. When I eventually began to relax, I could tell my voice had been slowly raising and I was suddenly feeling comfortable. I had realized I’d been feeling the feeling of warmth and security which poetry brought me.

During the month of April I’m going to try to post one of my poems daily! Some of them might be much older than others, but I’m proud of them all. I hope you enjoy them and they inspire you to go out a read or write a poem!