Honeybee

I caught a whiff of the final rose
when following a trail of wilted petals,
on a search for a place to heal
the damage caused by running
through thorns.
I found you behind emerald vines
clinging to the sills of open windows,
tending neglected flowers,
in a garden with little hope
of regrowth.
And I knew that this
was the beginning of forever
for a broken honeybee.

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Trust Issues

Betrayal rests in the walls of your mind,
empty canvases of past promises
hang in the back of your throat
like an unfinished art museum.
You hold your experiences within you,
trusting only the art with fresh signatures,
a minor detail in the corner
against the entire painting
out of fear of being fooled again
by the fakes and the lies
you once spent your whole allowance on,
believing you were holding
the value of an original.


Active writing contest, found here!


Check out my book, The Four Stages of Poetry, available on amazon!

I Thought Wrong

I thought I fell in love with a gentleman
on the night we sat so close, our shoulders
kissed, and my hands did not know where
to rest.

When he stilled the wind with my breath
as he brought my fiddling fingers to his
lips and told me I looked beautiful in the
moonlight.

I thought it was a compliment. To be
beautiful in the spotlight with the stars’
light show. I did not yet know that he
meant I looked beautiful after dark.

When the sun hid under blankets and
took my details with it. I was no longer
flawed if he could not see them.

I thought I fell in love with a gentleman,
but he was only using his mouth as a way
to keep me interested until he did not have
to see me to love me, and could instead lie
to everything he was blind to.


Check out my book, The Four Stages of Poetry, available on amazon!

III. Wildflower (I’m Sorry)

*This poem is a part III, to a series I have started for events in my life, called To Plant the Memories Like Seeds. Check out the first part, Chain-Link Fence
Check out the fourth part, IV. Pesticides*

He was a wildflower,
free in the meadows
of possibilities.

His petals stood golden,
a marigold in a field full
of daisies.

I’d never been much of a
flower person, but the
oddity drew me in.

I dug under his roots, and
planted him in the safety
of my home.

I whispered my secrets to
him on nights only the wind
would whisper back, and
mistook his silence for
understanding.

I worshipped his beauty on
my windowsill, but failed to
notice the petals drooping
in the dark.

I failed to notice the crisping
leaves turning brown and
curling in on themselves.

The plague was spreading
through his veins, and I was
the chemical that put it there.

I only wish I’d realized sooner,
you can not force a wildflower
to love the same as a potted
plant;

They’re just meant to remain unbound.


Check out my book, The Four Stages of Poetry, available on amazon!

Flames

I knew you had to be part of my story,
so I began scratching words into paper
under your candlelight
on nights I wanted the wax
to cover the fairy-tale fantasies
in a thick coating
to hide the storyteller’s impossible dreams.
I wanted real,
which is why I forgave you
when you plunged from my dresser,
and set fire to the we
I was creating
in gasoline-tinted ink,
and created a fire so bright,
I had to close me eyes to see it.


Check out my book, The Four Stages of Poetry, available on amazon!

Our Story

Our story’s barely begun,
but conflict is already surrounding
our character development,
the setting interfering
with our plans
for the plot sequence.
I refuse to neglect our book,
and will continue to scribble
until we write
the resolution we deserve.


Check out my book, The Four Stages of Poetry, available on amazon!

 

Your Poem

I have finally crawled out of the shadows
from under the bed to write you the poem.
You do not deserve my words.
You do not deserve my hurt.
But this,
this is your poem.
You are that stray Lego throwing yourself
on the carpet to cause me pain,
begging me to hurt myself,
so you did not have to take the blame.
You are a first draft.
And if I need to explain the horrors in that statement,
you are a writer
that doesn’t know the difference between ‘your’ and ‘you’re.’
You are the opposite of poetry.
You are a kindergarten art project.
Everybody wants to spare someone so small,
so they lie,
“Looks great honey.”
I’m dragging my way out of the crawl space,
putting myself in the open,
to write you a poem you won’t even read,
but will try to find the spark notes for.
You are the worst kind of person.
Making me feel stupid for my excitement,
making my feelings seem unjustified,
making my emotions yours.
You always wanted a poem about you,
so here it is.
You are everything I now know to stay away from.
You are my warning signs.


Check out my book, The Four Stages of Poetry, available on amazon!

Chameleon

I fell in love with a chameleon

He was adorable

at first

He was beautiful

at first

He was one color

at first

But as his hesitation to come off
his branches  faded, he began a
series of changes.

His color, once a beautiful green,
became a swirl of red and black,
a sign other animals use as the
universal poison warning. The
markings of one in for the fight.

I heeded my warning too late,
injected with a toxin that still
runs through my veins to this
day.

I was infected by the once harmless,
now fatal attraction to change.