Artificialed Beauty

I remember the day that I wanted to go see you but only went to go clip you like broken fingernails that ended with painful hang nails; I somehow ended up fixing me while you or the memory of you began to die off being further disconnected from me than you were before. I guess you were like a press on nail to me, something cute and artificial that I can use to cover up what I already had. But now what I had is what I'm left with. Fungus ridden fingernails, clipped from me biting them in distress. 

Looking One Way Forward, No Way Back and All the Way at Now

When you are looking forward,

you are star strucken, 

you are looking to your future.

When you are looking at the feet of those waking towards, you are looking at your future good and bad come into fruition and come to you.

When you look at the ground before you, 

you are looking at the now. 

The way things are and how you're feeling.

When you look behind you, 

you are dead,

cause you didn't see what was coming your way 

Weak

 He makes me falter with

just the bite of his lip. I don't

know what to do with that; to

do with that action alone

not to mention the acts

that I want to commit.

I'mma a poet aren't I?

How is any of this right;

how is this, me being

speechless okay?

How can I justify

such if words are my

entire objective in life?

He makes me fall

down to my knees weak

just by the look on his

eyes alone make me

question if this what

others might

feel or have 

felt looking into my

eyes trying to figure

me out, but

failing to find any since of

closure.

He makes me

falter with just

the bit of his lip,

my Achilles heels

my weakness

behind vulnerability.

But then again;

I am only woman,

he is male;

is this not alright

for the imbalance to

be there or is that

the old romantic

trope still being the

domain

I come as

a poet?

Boy gets girl

flowers to 

represent buy's

love for the girl,

flowers die,

but boy's love for girl doesn't.

Alexithymia

 Hey sometimes plans change and all I can think about is my own silence and how it is like pushing up against herself to not try something tremblingly new

They call it alexithymia.

I never knew there was a word for all the(s)

I never thought I could say the inability 

came from the pits of my stomach, depths of my heart to

say I love you was to bow down on one knee and bestow upon you every poem I ever wrote you, to express

is something harder than it looks, but it is the look in your

eyes that make my trembling blabbering seduction method less embarrassing, these feeling(s)

Has been nothing but unknown territory for me, but at least I have you.

I Poet

 I Poet

Was I forced not to talk

and convinced that it was

my own choice, or was it a part of some

political agreements and I

signed a contract

with Ursula much like

Ariel did and have no memory of it?

Or do I still speak,

but instead of using the word

that tells what I do outright

I use the word poet?

I Poet 

Let it Come to You

 Shh, you'll hear it.

The story I have to

tell you,

let it come to you.

The lessons behind 

fables only take

you so far,

let it come to you.

You'll know every part,

every line

let it come to you 

by the end of 2023

even if you are not devout

you're a writer,

a meticulous

artist with words

able to paint

the sixteen chapels

in a story

that you have the right to tell,

let it come to you.

Listen,

let the emotions &

the thoughts

bleed through

the barriers &

into the inky words

write them down

so you can go back

read them later.

Read them the next

time you don't feel

strong, cause

what you just wrote

you made it

through that shit,

read it again

let it come to you.

Write it down

on a separate 

sheet of paper

burn that paper

let the embers

blow in the wind &

free you from that.

Let the freedom that brings come to you.

What Does a Red-Flag-Rose Smell Like? She'll Tell You

 She stopped and smelled the roses, all of them. 

You were so good at hiding all the bad into something that looks too good to be harmful. You hide the thorns from her in plain sight. When she looks down at the blood on her hands, you convince her that it is the blessing of the bunch of roses in her hands.

They're not roses ... 

Are they?

No 

they're stop signs, caution signs that you've turned into beauty before she could even question them.

She stopped and smelled the roses, all of them.

They did not smell pretty.

If deceit had a smell it would smell like a graveyard, it would smell like the earth of the earth that has fallen around the people in their resting places that will never grace the earth again and wash the smell of their fate from their body. It would smell like the earth that is trying to tell her a story that she has become nose-blinded to. Red flags were a thing and they swung like flags, warning her that people like her, innocent like her, pour of heart like her those of who are just looking for love are not welcomed in this situationship that will not last, that her heart will not survive, walking out of the war with PTSD; but you knew that was going to happen didn't you? You knew that she was going to fall and get hurt eventually. You know that when she goes to pick her head off of the ground the gravel that she fell on will fall down her shirt and turn into a cobblestone exterior, an exterior that you know she would not maintain, that will deter people from, but will somehow leave you convinced it will always be yours.

She no longer smells roses, none of them. 

They'll remind her of you.