They says poets are just plain horny and boys with guitars are just trying to get laid. Well..I am a poet. And I can write in goosebumps scattered across your skin, like Braille for the words-impaired. My language could lie in words all over your body. And making love to…
Your body language speaks your name. I have only my words. I’m a bundle of all things that hide inside “I’m okay.”
Two strangers who once were not. Or were they?
“as if the past is a monster, a trap, not a blanket of known thorns, an old jacket that just fits too tight in the same way a corset does”
Inside my pockets, I keep pieces of courage, to reach for when I need them.
Nila soru.
Food eaten under the moon.
Food shared with the moon.
Nila soru.
All of you homesick for the sickness of love, hating yourself for thinking of an ex, propping yourself on memories of a relationship, wondering if healing will ever be clean. It won’t. It can still be beautiful. Includes a podcast performance.
“Eena, I sang for an hour today”, says Lolita to her imaginary friend.
I hope the whirling never ends. Then I remember, nothing is endless.
A poem written for Earth Day about climate change