Tuesday, April 5, 2011

Day 2

Sometimes I wish I wasn’t a poet.                                       
 Wish I had attractive words to say to you                          
 Wish I didn’t have to hide behind malnourished metaphors and my shifting ego.                                                 
 Wish I could give you long awaited love letters signed....Good Morning.                                                                     
She has never seen your eyes.
She gives all she has with no more
Purpose that just to know your name.
A name your uncle gave you unwillingly.
They cracked him open like an all to memorized paperback.
You were too young to read your purpose in stones.
Your mother still dreams of you knowing that Southern California is not the only place where it never rains.
 It is not the only land that claims you.
There are fried plantains finding shelter in your core.
Maybe that is why your words are so sweet.
I wish I could take sounds out your mouth
 like always and never.
you are full of them.
Our God would like you to stop picking up strays
He has never comfortable with the distance you keep
 from your hands to your heart.
Maybe that’s why the performer in you
 is never happy for too long.
There are glow boxes inside that need to know you are safe.
I wish I could call you safe.
You are what my mother never told me about.
You feed it to me on a plate of your smiles.
And I am selfish with the time I steal from others to be around you.  
I wish I could break things like you can.
You are so good at not seeing what was already there.
Maybe your heart is encased with the
 same stones that forgot to tell you your name.
Maybe it crumbles at my voice.
I wish you crumbled at my voice.
Saw how I tried to suck your ex-girlfriends name out
But you kept the worst parts of her in your teeth.           
But you say you like to stay dirty.
Can’t strip too much of them away
 what else would you possibly have to tell us.
You say your scars are a reminder of
when gravity met you face first.
Did you know that scars have a funny way of never staying in their place.
They seem to find a home where they are not welcome.
She was not there picking up ,left over parts you decided not to hate.
You keep looking for the wrong ribs to save you.
You are comfortable in goodbyes.
So I tell you hellos as loud and as often as possible
Because this hello is really I love you
This hello is wishing that I wasn’t a poet
Wishing I could say what I really mean
But I will hide behind pretty teeth and lies
Cause its safe.
And you’ll just be another poet I say hello to. 

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