I Suck At Rhymes But Here It Is...

She said something about me being a good listener. I don't know, I wasn't paying attention.

This time, it's personal.

Coffee thought.

Why aren't cookies called, Bakies? You don't cook them, you bake them.

I am from Maize

and the Morning Glory

whose silent bent heads

bring memories of

obedient wives.

I am from pensive

and the introverts,

from fear and leather belts,

whose proud strikes

bruises bloom,

and the flowing crimson

tastes of copper.

I am from lands

where frail leaves

refuse to change

whose wilted and stunted

vines still remember

the mother root.

and the death of great women

whose stories remain

untold.

It is written in the stars above - that we shall never meet,

any more than lovely moon - will ever meet the beach.

To gaze upon her pale shade - mirrored off the sea,

and have her waves break on the shore - for all eternity.

Eagerly I pray for tides - like the thirsty pray for drink,

to hear the music from the foam - and sea's tranquility.

I feel her pulling on my heart - with all her gravity,

a gentle language that she sends - spoken just for me.

Yet it's written in the stars above - that we shall never meet,

but when I feel her moonlit glow - I'll wait here happily.

Matador State Beach.

The flowers do listen, like butterfly kisses. Along the wispy road.

Their crowns to the air, those ne'er-do-wells. With colors brighty shown.

No petals are broken, no fragrance unspoken. Barefoot along the path.

They sip morning dew, in gowns with deep hues. Their toes along the bath.

Slowly they sway, the wind combs the days. Away with gentle brush.

Each one a sister, the truth they do whisper. But lower than a hush.

A good life is lived on the half beat.

And is filled full with the absurd, and contradicts itself often.

And all our time spent is either sex and/or distractions from death.

And a lot of arguments begin with miscommunication and live on longer than they should because we make up excuses for our honor.

And money and comforts are wasted if they're not in service of big wrinkly laughs and smiles.

And is too short for me not to feel warm and rosy by the color pink or cry during good books and movies or care if other dudes think it's weird that I like Hello Kitty.

And is too long for me to hate people for loving who they love or what they believe in or when they cut in front of me at the market or lie to me about needing change for the bus but they're really buying beer, it's all okay if they come to me with a smile or positivity, because everyone deserves dignity and sometimes an asshole is an asshole and a nice person is a nice person.

it really doesn't matter to me if the earth is flat or round or that a god (or goddess) exists or doesn't exist or aliens built the pyramids because none of that stopped my step father from getting drunk and beating me or my mom and it didn't stop my mom from dying from cancer.

And seeing how free she was in old pictures, living like unapologetic wildfire, bending time and space to her terms I could finally love her as an individual and outside the context of a mother.

not being embarrassed anymore by how I look because those looks are the living history of the great women before me.

And that none of this is any kind of new revelation.

Screams of the city,

after autumn rains,

fills my heart,

if only for a moment.

She says, I love you

but what she really says is,

"tell me you love me."

My silence

does not sit well with her

Like Eve of Eden

she suddenly becomes aware

of her own nakedness,

fashioning clothes out of bedsheets

pulling them towards herself

with a hint of disdain.

I don't blame her,

her reaction is justified.

I have been in her place before.