Poem – I Know

I was going to start this piece by saying things you already know.
You’re beautiful. You’re charming. You’re…….more than nice.
I do not know what would disappoint me more;
you knowing these things because you have an inflated ego
or you know because you have a reflection in your bed who mirrors-
everything you whisper to them.

I avoid conversation with you in the sheer hope that you
are interested in me and will ask me directly about my day.
Ask me what I had for lunch,
ask me what song I am listening to,
ask me what I think about at night,
ask me something, anything and all that matters is that-
you are curious about me.

When I see your phone screen light up your face-
like the moon lighting up the nightclub ocean, I
struggle with my decisions.
Do I admire how beautiful you are despite the lack of light
or do I curdle at the fact that someone else has your attention this very night.

I ignore your presence on purpose sometimes,
I pretend not to hear your questions,
I divert my gaze so you don’t catch it,
I give you as little of myself as I possibly can in the day-
because I am saving my energy to give you as much as myself-
will allow in the hush of my dreams.

Deep down, I know that all I am is a face and a name who
appears in a time and a place to you.
Deep down, I know that you are already dialling the number of
a taxi cab to give yourself more time to look pretty for someone else.
Deep down, I know that you ask me questions just so I reciprocate them
and pay your interesting life a favour.
Deep down, I know that I would dial the number of a taxi cab to see you
look pretty, even if it was for the eyes of someone else.
Deep down, I know that your interesting life does not really care for mine.

I know that this space and period we find ourselves in is temporary-
and I know that romanticizing you will only put fuel in a car with no tyres.
I know that when I see your presence, you have already accounted for mine.
I know when you hear my questions, you don’t care if they are answered.
I know that if I catch your gaze, it’s because I was blocking your view.

A story of something (poem)

There is a poem in you somewhere,
between the freshly inked rose and your rockabilly pose.
Your core once rested between my index and thumb,
I should of known the sound of your happy goodbye was-
the sound of a starting gun.

The transition from a Werthers original to a Ferrero Rocher-
swooped the hipsters into pastel shaded tornadoes,
and now the party goes wherever she flows.
Underneath your sweet layers I know there is a crunch-
where the aesthetic really does not matter all that much.

They say the language of the lovers is in the books-
but for my sake, I pray it’s in your venomous dirty looks.
Now the warm city glow is just the amber in a-
dysfunctional traffic light and I know there is no
direction left for me to make this right.

In a darkened club with leather sofas covered in vomit-
there’s a piece of paper with my name scribbled on it,
and there was once a girl who clamored with excitement-
to find a vodka rinsed pen,
that same girl erased those numbers and never dialed again.

It broke something when she declared herself busy-
the girl who could not help herself to once miss me,
debated with myself where it all went sour-
but sometimes you can be on time for something
and still be late by the hour.

Asking (poem)

Your laughter muffled by the icecream,
the hectic fairground in my daydream-
did you know that you’re the queen?

The coal in my veins-
curdles at the thought of you leaving,
but as I feel the mountains take a closer look,
I soon realize that I am living in a book.

When the tide foams at your feet
and the sand becomes slushy but soft,
does your mind think about quicksand-
or a memory that time swears you forgot.

I know words can be powerful-
but your Bruce Lee kisses have that uncanny sting-
where you know they could be simple whatevers,
yet they could mean everything.

Making you mine is no simple task-
it’s a marathon just to ask,
and your feelings are frisbees-
hoping they are returned back.

What do you guys think?

so this blog I mostly post my poetry here and there, I kind of want to do a little bit more on this blog. Now I’m thinking to perhaps indulge a little bit more of my personal life on here (dun dun dun!) and use this as some form of diary perhaps. Talk about certain topics I feel strongly about. Simply, bring a little more of myself to this blog, show the person behind the poetry I guess. I understand that sometimes the poetry tells a better story so I am not going to force this on my readers, just a thought.

What do you guys think? (what would you like to see more of?)

Masquerade (poem) (Stories from nowhere street – part 3)

‘You can either make yourself happy
or others, but baby your heart or pocket, cannot afford it all.’

——————————————————

As the poor paint their sheds;
royal blues and carpets of red,
for this imitation-
their backs they bled.

The judges panel,
located by the washing line-
wearing clothes scrubbed thin-
and bearing downloaded smiles.

The material masquerade,
the party where you are obligated to stay;
darling, your worth is your mask-
not in the things you say.

Happiness a lavish luxury,
all spent out on others you see,
we pander to a strangers eyes,
neglecting the vitals inside.

Stories From Nowhere Street (part 2)

‘The drugs, the routine and the circle’

Only a God can make drugs feel great-
to the kicked out kids,
man, there is nothing in my body-
that God hasn’t put in my soul.

What is the point of being squeaky clean?
To end up six feet below the earth,
tell me man, what is the difference?
In the end, we all lay in the dirt.

I’m not saying that-
doing what your not supposed to do
is the best way to live,
but for the people of nowhere street-
it is all know to get by.

The hot pursuit of the high is eternal-
the drugs never change,
just like the kids they infect,
only the date and name changes.

This is a tragedy of greatness-
it never comes to all
and for the few
not being great enough is the tragedy.

Some follow their own battle call,
some answer to a God,
but in nowhere street,
no one even tries to cry.