Crush(ed)

You want to say it started tonight
Standing in a brightly-lit gallery
surrounded on all sides by flower-covered animal bones.
You want to claim that your passion for the art
this shared enthusiasm is what began it all...
(It's a lie.)

Still, even if you know it has been going on longer
(Quite a bit longer)--
you know that this is that critical turning point.
The moment when your flight of fancy solidifies,
when it becomes real in your mind and you must face it.

So.
It may not have started tonight.
But it certainly took you until tonight to catch on.
It took a mutual love for wine and paintings,
dinner and religion in a tiny cramped diner,
and round after round of karaoke.

(It also took shot after shot of tequila,
warm shoulders, and wide grins,
but don't get carried away.)

Alcohol is funny that way.
Turns everything golden around the edges,
and smooths away sharp corners.
By the time you've realized the danger
you're too far gone to panic.

would that I could be
deep below the water's surface
or far above the spinning earth
because if I were dancing on the sandy ocean floor
or skipping through the stars
nothing could touch me

Musings of an Angry Wannabe

You want to write poetry
but your poetry is shit.
Feeling this emotion for days
but lacking the words to express it.

Frowning and brooding fits,
that smile you put on's just a facsimile.
But you don't want everyone to know;
you are your own worst enemy.

Frustration builds with each terrible stanza;
haven't you done this well before?
Maybe it's reflective of what you've become:
A lazy moron, escapist, bore.

God, it's worse than you imagined;
trite comparisons and awful rhymes,
but how can you express this cacophony
in four simple, rhyming lines?

Not So Much A Sonnet

Barrett Browning counted the ways,
Dickinson longed for wild nights
And Shakespearian sonnet proved
          You don't need beauty to be beloved.

 Myself, I haven't the silver tongue
To spin such sparkling words.
Nor does my pen maintain the grace,
          To even try would be a waste.

The best that I can offer
Compares you to simple things
Like warm clothes from the dryer
          Not an angel, exhalted higher.

 Driving with windows down
Or the last slice of pie in a diner
Cannot compare to a summer's day
          Or fairy tale lovers, far, far away.

What I mean to explain is
Everything reminds me of you.
And while "She Walks in Beauty" is nice,
          It's not enough, it won't suffice.

Japanese novels and the King of Rock and Roll,
Starry nights on a Hot Tin Roof.
How can I fit all the things I love about you
          In a poem's rhyming line or two?

I hope you understand, and don't mock too long
The words are weak and silly, but the meaning clear and strong.
I had to try and list some of the ways you are my light.
Perhaps, after all, Elizabeth Barrett Browning was right.

Stasis

Still, though?
After all this time?
Some might call it romantic. Others, pathetic. I just call it bothersome.
Twelve months and seven-hundred miles didn't do the job
How can I possibly be expected to?
I just want to know
How many weeks, how many miles is it going to take me
To stop feeling this way?

Sometimes my mouth is so stuffed with words that I'm afraid to open it.
Like,
if I do, I'm adjectives and nouns will
pour out all over the nearest unsuspecting person's shoes.
So I go running and tripping for a bucket.
Something that I can free the words into without mess or fuss.

But by the time I've found a container.
All
the
words
are
gone.

Tout le Monde

It starts with an itching on the back of your hands, a thrumming under your skin.
The world is quiet, sleeping, but you don't join in, every groan of the house amplified by silence.
It sets your teeth on edge, and you wince in time to the ticking of the clock.
Up, up, time to go your muscles scream, and it takes a concerted effort not to leap from your seat.

Outside, you know, the cold black sky is waiting, wider than anything you could ever reach.
An awareness of the never-ending roads pounds relentlessly through the back of your mind.
A shudder rippling through your frame; a visceral reaction to the wanderlust infecting you, body and soul.
Visions of the future flash by, clear as memory, promising adventures and new people and freedom.

Freedom that tastes like ice-cold spring water, a welcome reprieve from the constriction in the back of your throat.
You can't seem to conjure a reason not to go; you've forgotten that all ideas are good ideas in the middle of the night.
How could such a decision possibly seem poor under the luminescent moon's calm gaze?
So with a haphazardly loaded duffle, you set out into the Great Unknown, fearless in the throes of your fevered desires.

No one can say a word, not for good, nor for ill, either.
We're only side characters in each others' stories anyway.
Only the protagonist can steer this destiny, and leave the rest to Fate, or particularly good writing.
Dawn is breaking on the horizon and the next chapter is yours to complete.
No one else can ride off into the sun for you, you've got to do it yourself.