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, trash by taylor

yesterday’s words

window

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.