There's a fire
in my chest.
It's burning in
water.
The steam
fogs my glasses.
As being on the verge
of breaking down
draws ever so closer.

Closer than a lover
closer than the
decaying yellow
from the vines of
a dead fern.
So much closer than
the smoke-stained paint
which coats the walls of my home
an off-white uselessness.

Carrying an anchor
so far
from the sea,
it bears a toll on me.
Half dead
hunched over
waiting for
a candle's light to
reach my
ever-growing darkness.

My body is half buried
in the dying Texas blue grass.
The worms
maggots
and circling birds
hungry to tear away
at the flesh of a dead poet.

There's nothing like
waking up at dawn.
The plants and the trees
are bare.
Each blade of grass
is either brown or green.
The quiet demands silence.
Even the cats
that follow
me outside
lower their heads
to show some respect
to the quiet.

I collapse, surrendering
to the rocking chair
My eyes still heavy
from only having a few hours of sleep.
The pills haven't worn off yet.

A half-smoked cigar is in my hand.
I take it to my lips
flick the Bic
and give it a long kiss.
Inhaling enough smoke
to fill my lungs.
Leaning back in the chair
I release a stream
of smoke.
Sitting there watching
nothing happen.
It feels good.

Until my mind starts up again.
Like a record on repeat.
The static
and flashes of
all the episodes
with every word
drowning my brain
with loads of cheap whiskey.
I question myself,
Will I be able to make it today?
Can I outrun
this hurricane
at least for
another day?

It's awkward being around so
much stillness and having a
tornado inside.
From a perspective of
someone people watching
I'd just look like a normal lady
sitting outside enjoying
their morning cigar.
They're partially right,

It was a **** good cigar.

He watches me
going crazy in agony.
With his dark brown eyes
that hold me hostage.
His eyes don't follow me
neither do his ears or
mouth.

It hurts to be in love.

Being put on the back burner
left to forget
or told to sit in the corner
for being a bad girl again.
I've drawn all over the walls
with permanent markers
and the paint peels
when trying to clean it off.

There isn't much I wouldn't do
for him.
I would shoot up a car he was in.
Pick the most beautiful abstract art.
Jump off a cliff to land on broken
glass bottles
and try with my lack of skill
to pen him even more beautiful
love poetry.

I feel lost
in my own house.
My heart is like
a race horse running it's last lap.
Every noise startles me
and he's no where to be found.
Not to comfort
or to hold
He's just vacant
with no room at the inn for me.

I've written him hundreds of
poetry. Even when he left me
I still
kept writing.
I'm a fool
I know.
and the sadness that
comes with it all
saturates my sheets
keeps my head foggy
and my bed empty.

Being in love is hard.
When you have no one to talk to,
and strangers get the best parts of
him.
What's left for me?
scraps in a metal bowl
that his father kicks around
because it's in the way.

I couldn't let go of him
Even when he demanded I do.
Now we're here in this space of
being together but not.
and I cry
into my pills
into my cup of tea
and it over flows
becoming salty.

Where do I go from this.
I feel it slowly breaking inside.
Being not heard or understood
on top of it all makes even more
tears kiss my pillow at night.

After I ash out the final cigar of the
night. After trying to talk to him
but he couldn't choose between me
and a computer game.

I think the answer is louder than my silence.

I'm a crazy woman you know.
That's what
all the men tell me.
Even though
I'm not the first
to yell or
even the last to.

I've learned.
Don't ever tell
your partner
what diagnosis
the psychologist
tell you.
They will use it to
slit your wrist,
arms,
and soft
under belly.
Gutting you like a fish
getting ready to be fried on
a scorching pan.

They'll make you question
what had happened
and what was said.
Remember I'm the nut job here.
Not the schizophrenic man
who yells at the black blob
on the floor.

He knows exactly what happened
so don't you dare question.
It will turn into a ping pong game
one that will wear you down
and make you want to
spend all your money in your bank account.
Do a lot of drugs,
smash your face into a plastic screen

Yes, yes I see the blob too
I tell him time and time again
I've gotten on my knees
trying to scrub it out!
Even tried to chase it away with
a baseball bat
but still it lays there
mocking
mocking.

Like the woodpecker
who continues to
beat the trees
at all hours of the day.
Bang
Bang
Bang
It's like a shot gun being fired.
Shaking all the dried leaves
off your tired wasted head.

Where was I?
Oh yes I'm a real ******* nut.
That's why I cry and cry
to the point that I start
Hyperventilating
choking
on the words
I can't even get out.
                   I'm the bad guy
                    I'm the problem
and all the pressure you feel is me
me
me

I can't even write
a ******* poem
right now.
There's a broken vase
on the floor
and the house is
shaking from the
thunder coming in from the west.
The kids are whining
and the dishes are
talking ***** to each other.
and I'm so stressed
my mind has stopped thinking.

My body wants
pleasure
a little pain
maybe even a little teasing
to make it extra good.
Anything to take away what it is
I'm stuck feeling right now.

I write because
I have to.
There is no rhythm or reason.
My poetry isn't for you
half the time
it isn't even for me.
It just is.

Once in a while
the hands from the "chosen" gods of
allpoetry.com
will deem me worthy
to grace the stage
of "front page"
Where all the big wigs of the site
get flowers
their proverbial ***** stroked
and told how pretty they are.

Poems like mine don't get chosen much.
I have to be
literally *******
the picker
to get one of my
mediocre writes
displaced for
a few hundred
or thousand views
some likes and of course
DMs from boys.

There are times such as today
where my writes get taken off of "pending picks"
The God of this land finds my words to be too offensive.
Asking what do certain metaphors mean
and my formating is wrong.
I make my own words "weak"
That the word *******, is
too strong.
To that
I light my nightly cigar
and the urge to burn
my page down
is fighting
with the cats and possums
clawing into each other's back
between the shed and old fence.

To hell with
modest clothes
that cover full breast.
**** the short skirts I wear
and the boots that I could very easily kick your teeth in with.

If you want poetry
about babbling brooks,
tall red wood trees
and metaphors you can
sing to your
small child at night
while her father
slams down
another empty can of beer
hoping to not wake
up in a bed of his own ****
in the morning.
That won't be misplaced here.


Dear reader
my poetry
isn't for you.
Neither is it
front page
"worthy"
I write about
depression
***
cheating
loneliness
being ******* over.
About being
Bi polar
and all the
******* pills I
have to take
to let me sit
near the "normal crowd"
and if that's not what you want to read.
then go **** yourself
*******.

"I've already told you
it's like you don't understand"
" We get paid
on the 17th and
no doctor tickie,
no money"
"So I have to stay
until then
and pray they don't call"
"No it's not about therapy or work it's about the goverment"
       He says all of this and more.
It brings back memories of yesterday's
episode of
" She doesn't understand"
followed by
" It's like talking to a wall"

I'm the wall you see.
I'm the one
that doesn't understand.
It's not that I lack
the capacity to do so.
It's just when
things don't add up
I ask questions.
It shouldn't trigger a bomb
or
light
a bon fire.
At least
this one didn't
end with
him
punching
himself on the chin.

At least I don't think it did.

Each time the topic comes up-
moving here
and the steps
it takes
or God forbid
a time frame.
Everything goes
down the crapper.

It feeds my insecurities
and need for reassurance.
You see this isn't our first rodeo.
He was already suppose to be here.
Now with our second go around
and the topic of conversation is
when will he be here
All I get:
lost in translation
between
him
me
a cigarette
with tears,
angry tones and silence.

My head begins to throb.

This brings up old issues.
The time when he left me
and found
comfort in woman
*****
and drugs.
So naturally
I get afraid,
something  will come up
and I will be left
even
more
shattered
then
before.

Last night
he said,
I don't trust him.
When all I
wanted was
some comfort.
Because all I
see is I can't
ask
him
anything.

a " Hey baby it will all be okay, I want to be there just as badly as you want me there " but
No.
He told me
he didn't know
how to do that for me.
How to comfort
or what to say.
This made me
scared.
How can we last if someone is
incapable to comfort me
when I need them to.

I asked him to apologize at least
for putting me through all this.

"Would that honestly even help"
.......to my reply,
not with that attitude it won't.

After all the weeping
anger, finger pointing
and frustration
here we are today.

It's going to take longer now
longer than he initially said
and when the
discussion came up again
out of the blue
I refrain myself.
Still being told
how much
I don't
understand..

What I do know is, these
back and forth arguments
are over 400 euro.
That may or may not come
which is prolonging his trip
back home to me.

His eyes are a beautiful dark brown.
They have a way of sinking into the very fiber of my being.

and I'm tired
of things being up in the air.
Tired of being told
I'm like talking to a wall.
Tired of not finding any comfort.
That nothing
is in my control
or even his,
to be honest.

I just know none of what happened
last night and our small conversation
about it today
was worth 400 euro
not the argument
not the waiting
or the ache.

Not even this poem.

The way
I love you isn't perfect-
it's probably not the way
you dreamed of.
I imagine you thought
someone would understand
you more,
not be so volatile
maybe even less of what I am-
show
and
give.

I'm sorry I can't give you
the things you deserve
or the way you deserve to be treated.
That the stars hang low
not low enough to touch
but near enough to tease.

I want to be more for you,
in ways that I struggle.
I wish on those same stars
that they'd fall
softly
one by one
to comfort you
gently,
kiss you
slowly
and burn at a pace
that's suitable
for a gentleman
such as yourself.

You deserve
every
thornless rose
and a vase
without holes
that keeps the water in
not drip
by drip emptying it out.
not to question if the
vase is still there
or wonder where
the cracks are.

You deserve someone
who can dedicate
beautiful poetry to you.
One who can hold a candle to
your own.
Not someone who
fumbles with words-
can't string together
a metaphor
or misinterpret
your brilliance
for whiskey
without a little water.

I love you
the only way I can.
Like butter
that over-saturates
toast, that's straight
from the toaster
with no chance to cool.
As mud is born with dirt
and soil.

I love you with all
my darkness
in every shadow.
Behind the front door
with a gun
locked and loaded
safety
still on.

I love you to
where my pride gets
stuffed down an old
Christmas stocking,
not with trinkets
and sweets
but with
coal.
I want more
of you
less of
myself.
So I can be
satisfied with your stillness.
Your own starfish
deep down in the depths
of a forgotten sea
that has
no name.

Let it all take me
into your arms
in your teddy bear embrace
with doe eyes
and a silent song that sings
only for me.

and as I struggle to end
this so-called poetry.
I'll put out this cigar
sink into my quicksand bed
kiss your sleeping lips
and hang my crown
on the tombstone.