I am a ghost.
But I don’t haunt anyone.
I don’t want to be a burden,
Or be bothersome.
I wander unseen,
I quietly observe.
And I wonder,
If I could get my life back,
If I would.
Numbly going from a motion to a motion, like flat stones skimming a still ocean.
I show up at his door.
I’m wearing something that
Makes me feel a little
It was snowing, ok.
I wore a puffy coat
And tight jeans.
I’m feeling it.
Making me look like
A rich bitch
It’s more than enough
To get his attention
As I take another drink
Of the wine
In my sippy
Not a cup
A water bottle
They call it
I ring the doorbell again
The lights come on
I hope he wasn’t asleep
It’s the holidays
And I shouldn’t be doing this.
State of mind
You can never spread yourself too thin. You just diversify.
Poetry is magic.
I love how in poetry
I can share those secret parts of me
With words that reveal the heart of me
But yet disguised
Like a magic trick.
You saw them
But yet you didn’t see
A sleight of hand.
A unique kind of mystery.
I can also say many big things
And hide them among lesser ones
Giving attention to whichever pleases
And all the while
I don’t matter anymore.
And I like it there,
Tigers and lions, and where were you?
Last night I had a dream. In my dream, you were away from me. I was alone, at home. I looked out the window.
I saw a giant tiger in the backyard. I couldn’t believe my eyes. As I watched, I saw baby tigers approach. What a beautiful family, I thought to myself.
I looked away, to call you, to see. I looked back again and I saw a small lion. He grabbed the throat of the tiger with his jaws. He held on. The tiger struggled awhile, then gave up.
He was dead. And the baby tigers were gone.
And that was all.
And nobody else saw.
I was trying on a sexy dress in the women’s dressing room when he slid under the door.
“What are you doing?!,” I hissed, under my breath.
He proceeded to grace me with his drumstick, erect.
Thinking I might like some gravy?
“Are you crazy?”
One track mind.
At least wait ’til we get home to have your pie!
Rebellion for a bipolar type 1
Is unpredictable, but inevitable.
When it comes, it takes you over.
It may be wicked.
It is rarely wise.
And it definitely involves a lot of lies.
He delights in my devilish lies.
I’m wearing something daring.
Umber g-string, thigh highs.
The frost on the windowpane watches.
Fire dances, spitting embers.
And I’m with him again.
The rose blooms quietly, shyly, on the vine.
There are so many lovely flowers in this lush, beautiful garden.
But this rose, somehow, she catches his eye more than the others.
Maybe it is the depth of the red that attracts.
Like fire, or passion, a message is in this red.
And the petal is so soft, it feels like velvet.
He cant resist to plunge his nose into the center, and inhale.
“Mmmmm”, so intoxicating.
He can’t stand to leave it there.
He touched it, he inhaled it, and he must have it.
He grabs the stem.
“Ouch!”, he cries.
“Dammit! Stupid bitch.”
He plucks the petals off, forcefully in one fist and tosses them to the ground.
Steps in them, and smears them, until the crushed petals resemble blood spatter.
“There you go, sweetie,” he says, and walks casually away.