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.
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.
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
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.
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.
happily ever after? not really.cinderella is dead,prince charming,because you read other storiesand just couldn't keep your handsfrom tangling in rapunzel's golden hairor caressing aurora's sleeping face.
rain.i still have buckets in my roomfrom when you poured your heart out.plastic pails full of pain and loveand lust and tears and names and smiles.i don't know why i keep them...maybe i hope one day you'll come backto claim them.or when i'm being really dumbi let myself hope that you'll come back anywayfor me.
Insomnia.I’d stay awakeAll nightIf it meant you’d still be breathingIn the morning.
Artists.Youcan be the painter,paint words on my lips.Iwill be the writerand write kisses on your skin.
hushed.i'd tell you allthat's wrong,but I'm scared you'ddrown.
Give Me a Portrait.Paint me without aface,because I'm sure youdon't remember mineanyway.
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.
Mea CulpaI.I thought you were the rain, but no,I was the rain. I meant to drown you. Iwanted you to be inescapably drenched-your trachea clogged, your mouth an 'O'of desperate gasping, your lips partedand blue. If I wasn't enough to die for,I wouldn't ever be enough.II.Your disappearances were noted withdarkened clouds- thick and heavy, tightwith waiting. You always returned with athunderclap, moving me to a downpour ofdeprived longing. I was a flood and youwere a desert begging to be a sea. Butflood-waters river into oceans, anddeserts are meant to be dry.III.It was selfish of me to treat youlike a boat- I liked you better capsized.But in your shipwrecked depravity, yousought sunshine and calm, so I took pityon your seasick state and blew over landsthirsty for my brand of nourishment. Thenwhen, with saltcaked skin and cracked lips,you ached for my answer to dehydration, Iwas busy raining over the lush.IV.In your time of drought, I placed theblame in your ribcage li
friday night.on our firstdate,you took me to a cemeteryjust outside of town.i guess you wanted toshow mewhat you would do to me.
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.
midnights always last longer than they should.i spend sleepless nights in my roomstaring at your picture on my mirrorand wondering why on earth someone as beautiful as youwould ever love someone like me,but then i rememberyou don't.
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.
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
.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
Let me be your poem.Let me melt the cold pain from your skin, transform into the sun and heat your hurt––so it evaporates into white clouds of hope that inspires the trees to sway.Let me touch you like the first story I've ever read in brail, after deciding to go deaf before letting another sound replace your voice.Let me shatter every tiny ounce of doubt from your being, using the weight of my love for you–– to demolish it's once relevant place in your thoughts.Let me carve holes in to the night sky, so you can see how my universe revolves solely around you, making the moon shine bright with jealousy.Let me fly you to the nearest nebula, so we can finally be as high as this love makes me feel.Let me drive you crazy like a mirage in a desolate desert, making you crave it so much you imagine it in front of you, dying for a taste.Let me be the sun to warm you and you can be the rain to cool us down, and we can make the sky blush a million different colours.Let me be the baseli
SynchronousA little girl waltzes to a tune in her head.A young boy begs the streets for some bread.A mother waits in a hospital room full of dread.A groom smiles at his wife-to-be as they wed.An old lady pulls the last bit of her thread.A homeless man stares at a stores comfy bed.A boy loves a girl; she loves a woman instead.A teenager writes a suicide note to be read.A drunk man doesn't see the truck up ahead.A once minor virus, begins to spread.A billion single tears are being shed.An army of first-time soldiers are being lead.A colourblind man see's a lady in red.A heartbeat begins, after being pronounced dead.© Rocio Belinda Mendez
almost thereI suppose if I had to write outthe imprints left on mein three hundred and sixty fiveturns around the sun, thenI've learned that love is not measured in sacrifice,that forever isn't definedby the footsteps it takes to get there;I've learned that words are wind, andyou'd better build ships with sails large enoughto catch even the whispers;I've learned that we don't always get what we deserve,and if we try to take it by force we are only ever metwith resistance;I've learned that empty promises are as heavyas the silences that occur after them,that wounds can stay raw long after they stop bleeding,that happiness is hard work, and love is even harder,and that being human is an excusefor nothing but magnificence.
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.
.when her love left, it leftthe house emptyand she saysi hope one day it'llcome back to me,cos i don't keep this shotgunon my front porch for nothin'
sea sweptpoor, lovely symphony,you've fallen in love with a shipwreckand are doomed to be dragged out into her sea;you're just a boy, drowning in the saltinessof her bitter tears - shed to stain her ink-smudged misery -and i know you taste her painas if it were your own.
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.