Sap and Syrup

I once wrote a poem
about how I wanted to hold hands
with a boy whose hands were colder than mine.

And I once wrote a poem
about being curled up on my bed
with someone who stared into my eyes
like he had never seen the color green before;
whose laugh I can still pick out,
with music blasting and crowds of people.

I wrote several poems
about a boy who let me trace the scar
on his right hand over and over
and sang beautifully to whatever song came on 104.5
and changed the radio when I needed to hear “Clarity”
and made me hate it forever after.

And now I’m left writing sad songs,
and morbid poetry.
Domestic violence
and sexual assault in the work place.
I am left trying to impress people
I fangirl over.

And that is not expression.

I am left with erotica spilling from my lips
and onto keys
and names like soft spoken inkwells
because I’m too shy to do slam poetry,
with a confident voice.

But on days when it’s raining
know this:
That I will fit into the curve of your side
and we can watch whatever (even Friends)
and listen to whatever
(but please not rap)
and if you just run your fingers through my hair
or drape an arm over my side
that’s all I want,
that’s all I’ll write.

And maybe, for once, I’ll know what happiness tastes like
without writing about biting collarbones
and meshing flesh.


Intricacies: 1

Many people want you to fall in love

with the way they smile

or how their eyes crinkle in the corners

or the with the dimple in their left cheek.

But not me.

Ok, maybe me.

I am a bit of a hopeless romantic.


I want you to fall in love with how I make my mashed potatoes

into a volcano, so that when I pour the gravy in,

it spills out like lava.

I want them to know how I take my coffee:

some kind of caramel concoction with two sugars

and whole milk.

And that I like the taste of it

when it turns cold.

I hope you know how I enjoy poetry,

but suck at writing it.

And I fangirl over poets

like Carly and Violet

and when they compliment my work, or

reply to comments,

I squeal like a girl and kick my feet up.

I hope you know I’d rather curl up with a book

than watch some type of sport with you,

though if you were to play it,

then I’d enjoy watching every second of it.

Watching the way your body twists and bends with effort.

And if you were willing to teach me,

the rules,

the fouls,

the strategy of the game

I’d be willing to learn.

And on those lines, I want to learn how to play Assassin’s Creed,

any of the four that are out presently,

I just don’t have the equipment.

These are just a list of a few of the stupid things,

that would make me fall in love with you.

This is just me touching base,

without even mentioning humor, because that deserves its own post.

Falling in love with you,

would not be a burden,

but rather a balloon.

And I will float away,

even if it means becoming caught among the branches.

If only to know that I caught a glimpse of what my world would be like,

with someone like you.

The Poet’s Pardon

You should know words alone don’t touch me,

Unless they are Byron’s




Occasionally I’ll take Tennyson or Poe.
I’ve always liked surprises.

That is, of course, if you actually quote poetry.

I know that’s slightly a stretch.

Falling in love with the height of your tongue in your mouth,

rather than where you are placing your lips against my skin.

Choosing cadence over compliment.

Having ink over blood is in itself a curse.

But maybe, it is a security blanket all on its own.

You say you have a hard time impressing me?
Baby, just write me poetry.

If it is too much to have the tips of your fingers glaze over keys to form the right words, the right syntax

Then write words; write syntax.

And if it is too much to put your pen to paper,

Sink your alliteration into my skin.

Caress me with synonyms.

Kiss me with creativity and consider me yours.

No one ever said it would be easy.

Would you rather me ask for flowers,


clothing even?

Possibly perfume?

Would you rather my love be easily obtained through sound, but not rhythm?

Would you have me fall for your eyes, though you weren’t staring at my soul?

If that is what you want, take it.

If that is all you can think about, lust no more.

My body is in itself no temple, it is only my mind that treats it as such.

But truly my mind is where my heart dwells,

So it is there where my sanctuary resides.

Not in words or thoughts alone
But in poetry.

In books.

In blue and black fingerprints known as typography that form patterns across a page.

In tattoos of ones creativity laid at the feet of the world, relying on its mercy to understand, to take pity.

But the world does not accept those like us, the world does not show us love.

For the world knows not the beauty of words,

Just rather the act of speaking.

The world has taught us to speak with our hearts and silence our minds

But then again, isn’t a mind a terrible thing to waste?

So then think to me
Think of me
Think for me
And enunciate your promises.

I ask not for the world,

But for your view of me:

Or stars?

I’ll take any or all three.

Make me your muse, or does that require empathy?

Without the words of





I am but a shell.

Call me not Tennyson,

Do not mourn me as Poe.

“And (they) loved with a love that was more than love”

Will I be your Annabel Lee?

Will you speak fountains

Or crush words into sentences?

Forget not your poetry.

For it is not with your hands

Or your lips, that I long for your intimacy.

Rather it is with your words that I want you to touch me.

“And this maiden, she lived with no other thought, than to love and be loved by me.”