i hope you remember to bring the flowers.the stars whispered lateone nightas we lay beneath theirgrandeur."what if i die today?" you asked.and i told you in that case,i'd see you by tomorrow.
Flawed Canvas.Your lipsleft watercolorstainsall across my heart.My blood isn't evencrimson anymore,its a pale and dyinglilacthat bleeds onto the floorand paints a pictureof you.
december.and when they take meto the morgue,will you see the differencebetween my skin and the sheet?and when they close my eyesplease be standing over me,so that your facewill be the last thing they see.and when those tears falldown from your facepour them on my lips,so i can take you with me.and when they look awaycaress my bloodless face,give me one last gush ofwarmth.and when they bring the casketgently tuck me away to sleep,read me one last storyfrom that book atop the shelf.and when they place me in the ground,beneath six feet of dirt,leave your footprints in the snowand please don't let them melt.and when I fall to helli'll be waiting at the gates,but darling please take your timethere is no need to rush.
this can't be pain, it hurts too much.i always fall addictedto dangerous things,but at least cigaretteswarn me on the label.your smile read only innocence,but i guess that's my faultfor misinterpretation.
how to love a boy who is lost.falllike you're jumping from a cliffinto a thrashing sea whose waters you cannot tread,dive into their depths and fill your lungs with waves.just don't close your eyes,because you have to search for him.feel your weight drag you to the bottom,feel the ocean embrace youand don't be afraid of that pounding in your chest.each heartbeat is sonara signal calling him and his calling you.learn to swim nowif you drown you cannot save him.swim to the fallen cities,the submerged castlesand maritime gardens.there you'll find him,lost in thought and studying the fish.i hope you saved some oxygenso you can breathe during the kiss.
hollow.i gave you everythingi hadjust to make you wholeonce more,and then you left meempty.and now i wanderlike a ghostjust searching for some placeto haunt,because your dooris closed to me.
where do you fall when you fall in love?i see my voice curl toward the sky in crystal breathsas i stand beneath the stars and ask the gods"where do you fall when you fall in love?"and in the distant thunder roars as zeus clears his throat.lightening strikes to start a fireand in anticipation i sit by the flames as he begins his story."love," he says, "is the beautiful medicationthat we drink to still our pain,but often it is overdosedand we always end up crashinglike a star falling from my sky."as i watch the shadows dance about his faceaphrodite proudly walks to uswith her golden grace and emerald eyes."there's a kingdom," she says with ivory verse, "just below the seaand it awaits young lovers therewhere they drown for all eternity."at the mention of the sea, poseidon falls down to usfrom his chariot atop the cliff and in his booming voice he declares;"and in that cavern the butterflies are drenchedand with heavy wings they cannot flyso they suffocate the lovers."with the quietest gait of a clumsy fox
stupid youth.my lungs whispered and asked the smoketo danceto the sound of your slurred voicesinging off keyto whatever song came on the radio.i'm sure the stars looked down on usin amusementas we laughed and ran about that dying meadowin the ides of october.there's something bordering on nostalgiai feel for that scuffed leather jacketyou always wear.but maybe it's just dreaming.and when we finally started back homewe could have diedand for once in our livesit would have been with smiles on our faces.i wonder what the coroner would havethought.
Insomnia.I’d stay awakeAll nightIf it meant you’d still be breathingIn the morning.
you don't need stars with city lights.i love the city,because you introduced us.your apartment was on wycliffe avenue,a rectangular gray-brick buildingthat was our make-shift castle.i could stay up all nightsitting on the fire-escapeand watch waves thrash within the harbor.long after midnight fledand we were still curled upon your couchmy parents would call to ask me where i was,even though they already knew.late night sirensand insomniac car horns,mixed with your measured breathingbecame a lullabythat lured me to sleepadmists the ivory sheets.i would always wakejust before dawnand wait for the sun to riseso together we could watch you awaken.and even as i said goodbyei was leaving my jackethanging on the kitchen chairjust to have another excuseto come back.
5:17 AMand it's sad to thinkthat if you came backto tear me apartagain,i'd let you.
let's talk astronomy.and baby you're not a star,because there are billions of thoseand there's only one of you.with vibrant eyesand lips that steal the airthen those touches that take away mygroundingi swear darling,you are the universe.
Work of art.Don't wince at my scars, instead use them to find where I am broken, and put your body against the cracks.Don't let me fall out of myself again, the parts might fit together, but the breaks are never clean.Sometimes I feel like glass in the middle of a war zone, just the sound of goodbye may destroy me.I've picked up the pieces before, cut myself with shards of who I was, carefully pasted them together with who I am, hoping no one would notice.The trouble is the masking tape I used, doesn't seem to mask anymore.The trouble is I leave tiny bits of myself behind me, just so I can be found.The trouble is my heart is made of clay and it might just break with one more fall.Maybe that's the wonder of me, even once i've broken…I can break again.© Rocio Belinda Mendez
Parentheses(I wonder if parenthesesever see all the letterscaught in between themand feel that distanceas though it is tangible;if they ever craveto be close enough togetherso they could intertwineuntil their inkscratchescollide to incoherence;if you’ve ever noticedhow your right hand ellipsesand curves just like a parenthesis,and how my left hand is its opposite.)
He doesn't write poetry anymore.He doesn’t write poetry anymore,even if he still collects it, reads it, saves it, treasuresfaded verses from his wife the way connoisseurssavor vinyl over metallic rainbows on disc.I don’t mind not knowing, but I can’t stand not asking.The record needle hits the groove wrong;he stumbles over words that aren’t there,rummaging for an answer he doesn’t really have.He doesn’t write poetry anymoreand his confusion is strangely endearing.But there’s a lyricism to his words that I love,poetic lines inserted between the daily grindof character names and who said what;voiceless boys in white and draymen carting the dead to saltwater lakes,elegiac undertones that haunt historians and forlorn painters.He doesn’t write poetry anymore –except when he does.
We're Perfect, aren't We?There's nocolorin my face,maybe you can paintsome there.Perhaps thenyou'll actually want tolook at me.There's nowordson your tongue,maybe I should leavesome there.Then when you tell methat you hate me,the dialogue will bepretty.
One Day His Life Will Be a Classic.There's sorrowon his lips,and sonnetsin his eyes.Each scar on his wrist,speaks in fatal monologue.He lives a tragedynot evenShakespeare could write.
Speechless.I wanted to writea poem foryou,but when you leftyou took everything,even the wordsI never spoke.
you were always like a tidal waveI crave your hands in absurd amounts.Amounts that bruise and scar,amounts that leave me gasping for breathonly to be spent begging you for more.
all this and more.I'd make a listof all the things I'd learned this year,all the things I'd lived through underneathtepid sunshine and dirty bedsheets,all the love songs I'd learned the lyrics totwenty times over, butlists can't tell the worldwhere hands have held youand how they've moved you,lists can't tell anyonethe places you've beenbruised and broken byyour own anger,lists can't ever saywhen the magic filled themoments in between,and when it went away -and I was never one for counting out heartaches anyway.
Said the Peasant to the KingI find it quite displeasing,all your self-righteous claims.Darling, don't you know,that they won't buy you fame?So flaunt your lovely vocabulary,knowing that we can't seeyour large print Oxford Dictionary.For the thesaurus behind your back,can't make up for what you lack.Lying is an art,and you've proven yourself the best.Sharing all you've learned,when you didn't even pass the test.I see nothing here to admire,and the only titles you'll earn from me,are fake, fraud, and liar.And all those people that you rejected,are hopeless victims of the venom you've injected.So tell them that it's easy.Continue with your childish teasing.Yes, indeed, I find it quite displeasing.
Don't become an artistFor you will look at love as abstract art.You will look at the sky as a canvas to paint your heartFeel raindrops ink your skin with poetry.You will draw curves out of straight linesYou will make sense out of slant rhymeCall empty space, a place to contemplateAnd fill walls with kaleidoscope memoriesYou will inject beats in your veinsAnd get high on good musicYou will dance to the pitter-patter of rainand sing of melancholy and painYou will taste ink in your first kissAfter which, you’ll ask the weirdest questions.You will make a carbon copy of the intellectual conversationsYou had on your first date.You will see depth in his eyesDepth, you’re ready to fall into.You will love his every word-Truth or liesFor you will be a victim to metaphors and similies.You will live in your tiny world of storiesAnd when someone out there, outside your own bubbleOf profound thoughts and fantasiesShare the same story, you let them write yours too.You let them read your
SehnsuchtOctober again;and the curtains billowwith broken glass echoes andMendelssohn's bride waltzingto better times(einzweidrei)She becomes the rain,and breaks her own heart as the sounddripsright through us.
...i stand facing the windso i canfeel the world hitme at a 1000milesa minute,to provei can take a blowstronger thanyou.
TonightBring me to lifeWith your touch.Love me now,Forget me later.Set me on fireWith your lips,Breathe heatInto my soul.At least for tonight,Let me feel again.
.i've been breaking out ofhell, but the devil don'tstop mehe slips a return ticketinto my pocket and says,you're gonna wannause this, kid
in the name of lovemaybe if I stopped trying to give so muchI wouldn't have to ask -we only need the things that aren't there, after all :elephant-headed godsand the freedom to love -but no one who has known a broken dreamremembers how to live outsideof 4am poetryand coffee-stained heartbeats -and we only hold handsto hide theiremptiness
Empty Pages.You are the perfect story,A plot unfurling from your touch,And poetry in your eyes.You speak with golden glory,Into sentences of hate,And promises of lies.You are the bookI never had the words to write.