A Call

“Got me up all night”

— J Cole

"I have a deeply hidden and inarticulate desire for something beyond the daily life." -Virginia Woolf.

-5

“Eye contact is a dangerous, dangerous thing. But lovely. God, so lovely.”

— Hedonist Poet

“Forest dreams, are they not the most wonderful, lover mine, lover sweet.”

—

Some days I need you more than others,

days when I don’t feel like myself and

I have forgotten my name and 

why I keep putting one foot in front of the other. 

These days I wish you could just hold me, 

just hold me in your arms tight, 

center me and be my light. 

Be the warmth that keeps away the infinite cold,

that I feel chills me to the bone.

Hold me in these days when I am not strong,

when I am but a muted shadow of myself 

when I need a reason to hold on.

I don't know if I am being selfish,

but I just tell you what I must, 

what I feel deep inside my heart and

I need you so much every day of my life, 

but these days I need you most,

to remember I am worth loving and fighting for. 

e.v.e.

I listened to Bukowski this morning, and I realized my writing is not raw enough, angry enough, drunk enough; I even drink red wine instead of cheap beer. I detest cigarettes, never served in war, or roamed the streets looking to settle on the bed of some dude’s crude floor. I’m too feminine, too much an inherent believer in the quality of people. My heart is adversely set against his heretical ways. I’ve never been stabbed in the back by love, or if I have, I pulled the prick out years ago, and time and forgiveness have sealed the scar over. I might have even forgotten where the wounds are buried. I never carved mistakes out of people, stole time in self destruction, stared into the holes of another’s deceit. I’m not modern enough to be a true angst-filled American poet. I don’t possess the tongue to squeeze lemon over my open lesions letting them ooze into a glass I pour out as charity for the masses. Come, let me sacrifice hopelessness for the voyeurs. No, I only know to write of the way his lips taste the soft worlds within my seascape, the slant of patchwork light filtering through the hallway window, jewel-toned shells that satiate my harlequin heart. I only know of simple subjects; I’ve somehow been denied the stench or overlooked the cracked places harboring broken bottles and blood-stained lips. Does that make me any less a poet, I wonder.

upon reading Bukowski//

Rhapsodyinblue45

4.8.18