Flowers

I hate the smell of hospitals.
The cleaning agents get to all of my senses.
The constant washing of hands,
And using hand sanitizer that never dries.
The way I can’t help but look into each room as I pass.
The overworked nurses.
The flowers in most rooms.
Flowers that will die
in a few days,
Doesn’t make for a positive outlook.
The tears.
And the way everyone feels the way you do…

I grew up in a family of thieves and liars. Looking for anyway to “get a deal”, “save a buck”, do something underhanded. It never puts them ahead, only me behind.

Direction

It’s so hard to know what you’re feeling when you only call at this time… Most nights.
Some nights, you place your hand so gently on my hip, in a way that gives me peace. Other nights, you turn away as if I’m not even there.
You share things with me that shouldn’t be shared with normal people, giving me a glimpse into your life… Like peering through a keyhole.
I know you’ve been hurt before, and done some hurting yourself. So have I, that’s life. I want to see what else is behind that door because I’m tired of being out in the cold.
I need to be out of this limbo. I need some direction. Just give me a place my heart can go.

Far away

I see all my friends going to amazing places, having the time of their lives… I wonder how they do it… Just pick up and go for a while. How do they afford it, and know where to go?
I want to go. Far away places… Or even places not so far away. I want a change of scenery, but I’m too broke and scared to go.
Maybe one day I’ll make it.

Alas, my heart aches for adventure.

I hate sleeping alone after sleeping in his arms. Knowing he won’t be laying next to me when I open my eyes come morning makes me not want to fall asleep. His quiet breaths on my neck, his hand lazily draped over my waist, help me sleep without any fear. I find all my comfort in his arms.

I feel that my writing suffers because I am a woman. I could write about love and things all day, but there is just something so powerful and provoking about a man writing about the same things. I’ve always love men poets more than women poets. Come to think of it, the only woman poet I enjoy is Maya Angelou.
Maybe it’s because when reading a man’s poetry, especially about love, the desire I have for the piece to be about me is so overwhelming, it fills me with that passion.
I could write from the perspective of a man, and I would probably like it more than what I write now (be it very little).
Maybe I’ll give it a shot.

Friends?

It makes me upset
that you text her
more than you text me.
That you confide in her
instead
I guess that’s just
some jealousy
I’ve left lying around
because I’ve tried my hardest
to show I’m worth it.
I wish you’d be there for me
like I try to be for you,
but I don’t even get the chance

Nothing

I wanted to write something,
but nothing good is on my mind.
Sleep escapes me
but there is nothing else
to do.
So I’ll just lay here,
thinking of things that won’t help
me sleep
Until hopefully nothingness
creeps back in my mind
to let me rest

Drops

The smell of rain

teases my senses. 

The sky darkens over head.

Lightning in the distance.

Electricity fills the air. 

Hairs stand on end.

Goosebumps rise.

Single drops fall

one

by

one.

It ends as quickly as it began.