Just another middle class American.
I don’t make friends well.
Everything I do blows up in my face.
Every minute in my life is barrowed time.
Just one more loss somewhere down the line.
But for a friend,
I would push each loss aside
for a friend.
a precious room.
A banana breakfast and
coconut milk today.
A remarkable little monkey
runs around naked without a bit of shame.
Inquisitive eyes grow amused by a tangle of cotton sheets.
The perfect afternoon jungle is beckoning
this innocent youth
to limitless exploration.
Written for Short Story Slam Week 7
It’s completely mental.
I would work endlessly towards this
experience with music.
I never back down.
I want you to forget all of your insecurities;
Any thoughts you do not belong.
You are the instrument
no one taught me about.
I’m the girl everyone looked at and said
I don’t get it.”
Leaving home was liberating.
I define individuality for myself.
I define my own existence.
I define my own beauty.
No one defines who you are.
I remember holding back the tears.
Are you about to cry?
Are you about to cry?
You make me address what makes me
My love is such a porous thing
a Technicolor phase.
It reaches through the window
of your old apartment place.
If I tried I’d know my failure.
I love another? No.
Climbing iron rails to greet you,
my love, don’t let me go.
Gravity has no law for me,
this truth I sing is new.
City lights bask in hues of gold,
as I confess my love to you.
Am I your Romeo, my Juliet?
Your serenade of sound…
For on this night upon rooftops,
our love won’t touch the ground.
This dense forest, those lush avocados, and sincerely fresh.
The unwanted taste of my neighbor’s newly cut grass.
The western Missouri wind and worn down faded paper.
Boundless thunder and the laughter between good friends.
The unknown future, my unfinished painting, and your Emerald City.
My pride for you.
Our last summer night.
An enigmatic figure in my life,
this person that died.
A pulse connection I never knew.
printed your poetry in my first novel.
You are a published writer now.
I am Italian.
I believe in ghosts
and bad luck.
How do you have so much energy?
I have two hearts.
The dream of my family
the first to go to college,
the first to finish school.
Every song has some
we have yet to conceive.
Your show is a religion.
Your fans have become a cult.
After all that fornication—
this is how it is.
You are a tan that will never fade,
all the dirt turning into gold and rainbows—
a neon record in the dark.
The world is
It is not linear.
Just look up at the sky,
I am a sinner.