post my poetry here for 43Thingers to read.

There’s the boy in khaki shorts.
In the driveway, in the weather.
And there the words fall, just before
He can make his news sound any better.
He says “Oklahoma has nice skies.
Yet Texas has ripped holes in jeans.
And I stand torn between Arizona
Or frigid Ohio in its misery.”
And I ask him when the next plane leaves.
Or if I can have his khaki pants.
He’s correct in both his theories.
But I argue against taking the chance.
Because he’s the boy in khaki shorts.
In my driveway, in the weather.
And I’ve called him home many times before.
Cause I know his arms are so much better.

_{People, not places.
M
8/27/07}

I feel weird tonight.
I am floating, and I can’t stop.
Darling I think I am still high.
And I think it may be your fault.
Not to point my shaky fingers.
Not to place judgmental blame.
But this has certainly been a rough one.
And where have you been today?
I feel foggy tonight.
I am drifting, and I can’t stop.
Darling, I know that I’m still high.
And I don’t mind that it’s your fault.

_{Still high as I finish this. Prescribed meds, I swear.
M
8/23/08}

Follow my breaths down the hallway
Into the loneliest of rooms.
A double bed and a useless bulb
Where sleep teases as it looms.
And while I’m mocked, I’m mute.
Though my head battles a riot.
Silent visions of catastrophe
Keep me restless in the quiet.
And I find that those old songs
No longer settle my thoughts.
And the dreams that I keep fighting
Follow identical plots.
I’ve taken the pills prescribed.
I’ve tasted the streets in the night.
But the thoughts and the dreams and the scrapes on my knees
Are always creeping their way inside.
So follow my aches to this room.
Find the bulb and double bed.
And move closer to me in my delayed, deserved sleep
As my restless body has begged.

_{Part two in the mix, perhaps.
M
8/23/08}

There’s a bottle at my bedside.
Next to a pile of pages
Of unfinished, scribbled poetry.
It’s orange and full of pills
That taste like chalk and moisture
And of visions that I see.
At night it’s on my headboard
This bottled, intoxicated fog.
My only supply of sleep.
And on afternoons of rain
While he packs and she has plans,
It substitutes for what I need.
And I know I shouldn’t swallow
Chalky pills with my intentions
Larger than pain relief.
Yet the bottle at my bedside
Is next to an octave of keys
That have been dusty for two weeks.
Because he’s packing cardboard boxes.
And she’s driving around town.
And I am pleading for relief.

_M
8/15/08

Surrounded by pillows
For a cliche solution
Or lack there of, I decide
Because this never truly helps
On nights of which I’m still.
Silence at my bedside.
Beneath a handmade quilt.
A family tradition.
Or overrated, I dare
Because it has yet to warm.
Hands and heart still freezing.
Does silence ever care?
Tempting memories.
A rebellion, a lashing.
The nightingale sings.
And he teases, I feel.
The craving never rests.
The longing always stings.
I let him get to me.

_M
8/13/08

He says people like me feel things they can’t.
I’m a thinker, a writer, the one in the back.
The one in the coffee shops, thinking too fast.
Watching men’s shoes as they order their decaf.
Thinking of a world and how it’d be fine
If there were less broken hearts and more pockets with dimes.
If we’d avoid conflict and thus less would die
If only we’d think and develop our minds.
And I wonder why it is that they live
With simplistic thoughts as their grandfathers did.
And why teachers never taught this when we were kids:
To be thinkers and writers and a little creative.

_{8/5/08
I don’t think anyone should be afraid to overanalyze, or even think. And no one should be stopped from doing so. It seems like an obvious statement, but I feel like no one says things like this.}

M

I’m your secret that took a summer to find.
So think of the night, you won’t stop me.
A stolen kiss to thoughts amiss.
And your hands placed where they should be.

_M
7/31/08

Your father left when you were ten
And they labeled you as one more trouble kid.
But “better now than then,” you’d say.
Families in movies were enough at that age.
And you grew to love the man next door
When he proposed to your mom at a park by the shore.
And you’d walk down the pier to dream of the day
When you’d have your lady and she’d take your name.
But there were so many years till that time
Said the man from next door as you rolled your eyes.
The more lessons he taught on the edge of the pier
The more he was Daddy, the more impatient your ears.
But that park became yours with the friends you had made.
And just like the movies, you all wasted your days.
When sixteen approached, you spent your nights high
And just for the danger stole his car for a ride.
You snuck out to meet the girl who had fallen
For you head over heels before the cool start of autumn.
You sent her mixed signals: big smiles and grins.
And that night in his car, she sent you her secrets.
If not for the fog of drugs she’d have cried
When you gave a chuckle and acted surprised.
She claimed you had shown her affection and clues
This was what he had told you never to do.
So here was this girl breaking down in his car
Coming down from a high to land in your arms.
But your arms were attached to hands at the wheel
And you’d broken her heart by at last being real.
Why did the man from next door never say
“Even if you hurt them, their feelings won’t fade”?
Could he get by with insisting he’d joked in reply
And then learn to love her by the shore on these nights?
Perhaps that’s how his Daddy had realized
That he loved the woman with the husband who lied
And left her with nothing but a heart for a hero
To put back together by a man she could know.
So you thought you would spend the whole summer driving
And then pause at a red light to find yourself falling
For the girl who had been in the passenger seat
The girl at the shore whom you’d call your lady.

_M
7/20/08

They haven’t changed since they were twelve
So the two of us, we’re by ourselves
Driving into this conversation
On Barker Cypress, toward frustration.
And dear, I’ll spill my secrets now
As you gently turn the volume down:
I’m not playing games with her.
And this confusion is deep enough to drown.
And you’re the only one in our group of four
Who understands enough to not ignore
The crack in my voice and chaos of words.
My pathetic attempt to diagnose what hurts.
Yet miles later we meet a conclusion:
We both can’t help what we feel.
And the two of us, we’re by ourselves
With confessions too dangerous to reveal.
So what is there to do but drive
Far from here and the people who thrive
On belittling others’ words and rights
And making our lives impossible to survive?
No, they haven’t changed since they were twelve.
And the two of us, we’re by ourselves
Escaping innocence, leashes and belts
On a rebellious road but driving well.

_M
7/15/08

You’re thinking something wrong of me
But I can’t tell you of your mistake
To be blunt and brave I’ll admit to fear
Of all the words that you could say.
The tone in which you speak these days
Drives the desired confessions away.
Your finger points with the glare of an eye
And words remain locked as my voice subsides.
You’re drenched in sarcastic lies of advice.
You’re obviously oblivious to the extent of this fight.
And I’ll be the first to slam the door
Storm down the hall as I’ve done before.
So quit your judgmental statements
And let me take my chances.
I’m on my own, I’m independent.
And old enough to handle consequences.
Cause we’re 16 and on different routes
Of problems placed high over our heads.
But these are the roads in which we meet ourselves.
And I’m shaking hands with my issues instead.
So don’t bother advising me to turn right
When I’ve got a good hold on my direction in sight.
And though it’s empty, damp and dark
I’ll find my way without judgmental remarks.

_M
7/15/08