Month: August 2023

Armor and Ardor

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©. 8/30/2023. All Rights Reserved.

Title: Armor and Ardor

Medium: Acrylic on Canvas

Size: 11” X 14”

Date: 8/29/2023

No Longer Looking Forward To You

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©. August 20, 2023. All Rights Reserved.

I was a pillow-kisser,

Presumably lost,

Like the unblushing details

Spotted on the case.

Who crawls in washing machines

When we can be tossed?

This skin could be clothing

If I garner your grace.

When being together,

I dishonored your space.

I cannot redeem the reverence

That you loved.

I’m worn and torn

And sewn while they glower at me.

I’ve adapted and cut the strings

From the rich witch.

The embarrassment of thinking

I could have you.

We are not the same;

Opposites do not attract.

I felt usable even when

It was us two,

Being tossed in the trash

Like your clothes were well packed.

And witch, I’m no longer

Looking forward to you.

Looking forward to you.

I will not be veritably branded

For you.

I’m not a porcelain doll untouched

By no one.

The hypnotized followed your eyes

Like a peer review.

Who were you talking to

If the talking is done?

An aphrodisiac of Spring Break

Has a son.

You were an unlawful

Abiding spellcaster.

A closet had skeletons

Haunting your clothing,

Which is your skin,

But the skeletons retreated.

You cannot see the dilemma

And trilemma

That I overcame

For my unsuppressed feelings.

I’m not your minister

And I’m not your grandpa,

But your Mosaic law is ignored

For hot springs.

And witch, I’m no longer

Looking forward to you.

Looking forward to you.

Like you just now discovered

Urine-free top hats,

I’ve discovered my comfort zone

Around a lass.

Who feels outclassed

When as durable as tire flats?

The grime covers me

And on the inside is brass.

I know you’re embarrassed

That I’m not an hourglass.

I’m like an object that you outgrew,

But still keep.

I’m not a dress,

But you own a sewing machine.

Stitch me against my will;

I’m as good as new.

I was as good as you,

But now, I’m a blanket.

I’m a sofa and a tent,

But I’m not for sale.

I’m like a small-size leatherette

For your georgette.

I’m the Rambouillet

That you want to wear in hell.

And witch, I’m no longer

Looking forward to you.

Looking forward to you.

A Writer on Paper

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©. Aug. 5. 2023

I realized that

I’m not a performer,

But a writer.

Though I’m a writer,

My handwriting

Is not legible

Like rhetorical

Questions rewritten

In leaking ink.

The best that I could do

Was write stories

Somewhat proper.

Like my paper

Harvested honey

From beehives for you,

It’s permissible

Because my writing

Should make you think.

You need to go outside.

Socialize with strangers.

Write about your dangers.

You need to feel alive.

Then I decided

To write about great signs

And wonders,

Gracing your body

With legerdemain,

But you’re a thought.

You’re like

Unconventional honesty

That’s above me.

A useful delusion,

You could be,

Like a soul plunders.

When they unearth

The tesserae,

Would you be reported?

I fell for lonesome

Eventides

And wrote nobody.

You need to go outside.

Socialize with strangers.

Write about your dangers.

You need to feel alive.

I’m not a public speaker,

But I can write

About speech.

I can write about

Caller ID’s

And text properly.

Too bad,

This much of being me

Disrupts the status quo.

I’ve rewritten

During road curves

Like I learned how to teach,

But would you

Prefer cursive

When reading a novella?

Then a novella

Turns into novels

On a plateau.

You need to go outside.

Socialize with strangers.

Write about your dangers.

You need to feel alive.

When I’m writing,

Sometimes, the pages

Turn into drawings.

The distractions

Remind me of writer’s block

In the dark,

Then the neighbor

Plays his music

And I put on earphones.

Rhyme the sound

Of the loudest yell

In the world with playthings.

I learned to use erasers,

Then learned

To use computers.

Autocorrect shows

That I’m error-prone,

Printing milestones.

You need to go outside.

Socialize with strangers.

Write about your dangers.

You need to feel alive.

Accept a love note

On a scroll

With a quill pen aside.

Answer the question

With baguettes attached

To the basket.

Must you ignore

The ornate glassware

If I write to you?

Semantics are calling you

Snookums

Like they can backslide,

So I learned

To keep many words

In my head while thinking.

Writing isn’t the only

Thing that I can

Live up to.

You need to go outside.

Socialize with strangers.

Write about your dangers.

You need to feel alive.