you’ve been talking in your sleep,
singing stories from your dreams
last night you called for the shore
and begged for the winds to carry you from sea
to sea to seaside.
and tonight you are leaning
closer to me,
“is this what it felt like when
so i lean closer to you
and hold your hand and
sing to you about dreams
“you’re not drowning,
it’s not the sea, it’s the sky
that is holding us up.”
Kyle & I wrote this. The first is by me, the second is by him in response.
Where are you hiding
I’ve been looking
Underneath the sky, amidst the moonlight,
shining so graciously into the darkness.
I’ve been looking for your
hands and your fingers that bend like trees in the shadows
And your shoulders which curve
like the sea
And still I can’t see you.
You’re everywhere. Still.
Your eyes match
The silver on my spread
As I race around
In the darkness.
Until all I have
Left is a pulse,
I cut a line,
Race towards your soul,
Damaged and cracked,
And carry you.
I transcend the beats and crescendos.
Off into my shoulders,
Surfs and clefts,
As tested as the sea.
<3C + K
i love you
very deeply and more completely
and it is killing me to have it tucked away
inside of my heart,
a secret kept from yours.
it is the heaviest weight pushing down onto my chest,
tying itself to my bones
restless with hope
and with fear,
gripping to my skin
too honest to want to hold on,
and too afraid to let go.
my eyes are wondering, worried
for the future cupped in your hands
and my heart is scared for all the things
my eyes cannot
but i love you deeply
and more completely
that will be
in the rushing deep cold, something is
stirring beneath your hands
as the black moon rises over the
silvered mountain falls,
your veiled eyes collect the secrets of all
the starry nights in all of their grandeur
the whispers linger over your skin
the animals howl
as the last green song fades in the evening.
this is what you have always known
echoed in your bones, beneath your hands
stirring in the Earth,
stirring in your heart.
sometimes in the morning i laugh at the way
the light of the sun grips so violently to the buildings
so eager to spread its light and dispense of all the
and i laugh when night comes slowly and quietly
like a whisper spread across the sky.
it devours the city into its inky, opened mouth,
but is still filled with light,
of the sky, and of the streets.
so i’ll be the night, if you are the morning
and i’ll let your light linger
Am I supposed to be able to read a poem aloud
to an audience
is that what makes me a good poet?
Am I supposed to let the words fill my voice
with all the feeling they hold?
Am I supposed to do that to myself?
Am I supposed to let my throat explode from the sheer
from the emotion
from the feeling
and the memories
and the metaphors
and the secret
buried meaning in every single fucking line?
Am I supposed to
perform when I all I want to do
Because I can’t.
My voice will always be
one tip-toe step above a whisper
and these words will always be secrets
that were never meant to be shared
but were too violent to contain.
So I will be
a bad poet.
I’ll lend you my voice through ink
and you can decide
how loud it will be.
fuck you, 5am.
Lately I’ve been feeling a little bit peculiarly inadequate because of all the movies, shows, events, etc I’ve seen that showcased a poet who read their own work vigorously and absolutely filled with all of this amazing energy and emotion.
And, sincerely, I don’t think I’d be capable of that.
So here is a performance poem I wrote in ten minutes while trying to sleep about performing poems and my stupid little concerns with being a writer.
hitRECord-ed * * here * *