With a Pen

Dripping words onto paper through accidental ink.

Starts of lines are hooked and combined to form letters, words, sentences,

poetry.

Scratches and scribbles cross out the no longer important.

It's the rise of dignity, it's the forgetting of sorrow and sin.

The entry on a new start, it's how the story begins.

With a pen.

To the one I use to call father,

Dear dad,
You remember those days when we would go for walks alone?
The times when you would say don't worry and it will all be over soon?
I would never have to shed another tear. You promised me. You looked me in the eye and promised me.
"Every little thing is going to be alright."
You were the Marely in disguise convincing me
"Don't worry about a thing"
But after the years of your absence my conscience decided to let you go.
You were the stringless kite that I couldn't keep in my hands.
And our relationship was headed off the cliff, to the end.

But
Dear dad,
Are you still listening?
See, that wasn't the end.
You came back after you got out jail.
It was like Christmas, Hanukkah, Eid, Yule, Kwanzaa, and Umoja all in one.
You came back, I was so happy,
You came back... But with eyes of greed.
You  tried to buy my love.
You told me "let's go shopping, pick any 3 things you want"
Legos, stickers, and a soda, total, 15 bucks. 
And the next day you were put back into jail for drugs.

Dear dad,
I cannot recall when the damage firstly happened, but these eggshells have broke.
See, I use to step lightly, like the first flake of snow landing upon the front porch of heaven.
And I use to stand at the front door, for hours, patiently waiting for my role model.
But, my tender feet have been standing too long waiting for your arrival.

So Dear dad,
all I have left to say is,
I have given up.
But it is not my business nor my duty to point out like a kindergarten teacher what is good and what is bad.
I do no NOT ask for your forgiveness or your tears.
I ask for space. Because this spaceless black hole you leave me in hurts.
Maybe one day you will understand what it means to be a father.

Dear Mike,
Goodbye
 

My inspiration

I have always wanted to be a poet.

I have always wanted to use the poetic syllables

like a girl I once knew use to spew through her perfectly placed lips.

And shit, I guess God decided to pull out the ruler for this one person out of the countless others.

He entitled the word "perfectionism" to this character while trusting her with the poetry power.

See, she showed her sympathetic soul through her sophisticated rhythmic solo and strives for flawlessness.    

She is smoothly serious when she snaps your synapses in your brain to be the controller of your attention.

She is simply complicated.

As if complication was her motivation for perfection.

As if she could see everything without opening an eye.

And no matter how short she was, she stood massively over anything she believed in. 

I consider her my inspiration.

Katya Manges

Perfect Chemistry

The days have jumped roped over barbed wire, from weeks to months
Then hopped scotch over morphed boxes of perfectly blazed fire, from the months to a year.
And I thought I learned how to be rid of you.
Burning every mental picture of your crystal blue eyes
and broke the mirror of you and I when we leaped down the rabbit's hole, holding hands. Running from life.
And see, falling is not what I do best, but in love?
That was not what I was trying to do.
Redirecting my whole life again. You pry open my chest and compress my heart close to your breasts.
Showing me who really cared.
And all I can say about the stitches you left before is,
It wasn't your fault. But mine. And I'm sorry I left.
Because I was running to find myself again, unknowingly knowing you were showing me the door of loving.
Shortly after I left I crashed.
And yes, I remember the last day I saw you, and the glance we gave each other.
But passing the thought of forgetting is in past.
And I guess what I'm trying to say is... I miss you. Come back?

Unalienable writes

This story would work better if you would stay calm.
Be quiet and your hands,
 together palm in palm
Let your thoughts drift as I softly shove your brain through the outer limits.
You secretively squeal for help, yet there is no response.
your thoughts exceed past the infinity digits of math, far beyond the formula of science, and up past the religious clouds, where you fall on uncertain earth.
you speak through humming, clicks, and groans.
Yet, write perfectly.
Skin, not of the average color, but you blend in.
The F. B. I. appear, and in a cell you are thrown to be later dissected and spectated.
You are a poet,
and without knowing it, you are an alien.

In my mind

First version-

In my mind, my shoulders are broad, my muscles are buff, and I'm not just skin and bones.

In my mind, I do not skip stones. I skip boulders.

And I do not skip them them upon rivers, but I skip them across full oceans.

In my mind, you are weak... Your a little rascal weasel who's brain is as puzzled as a Rubic's cube 

And in my mind, your as scared as an abandoned  innocent 16 year old pregnant girl who is trying to decide about abortion with her pitiful excuse for a boyfriend.

For in my mind... I'm better than you in every single way.

I'm better than anyone can understand, discuss, or say.

In my mind, I'm better than Superman

I do not need to be bulletproof, I will take a bullet in the knee cap and with no pain, walk it off.

I'd love to blindly admit this is all real...

but, non of this stuff is true...

For this is all just in my mind.

second version-

In my mind
my shoulders are broad, muscles defined
I'm not just a skin covered skeleton.

I do not skip stones, but boulders.
Not over rivers, but across full oceans.

In my mind you are weak. (add more about the weak comment. How is he weak?)
Puzzled as a Rubic's cube

And in my mind
You are Scared.
Like a girl trying to decide between adoption or abortion.
The Boyfriend that doesn't want the responsibility.

In my mind...
I'm better than you in everyway.
better than anyone can see, discuss, or say.
I do not need to be bulletproof
I will take a bullet in the knee cap-
and with no pain, walk it off.

But
Only in My Mind
Is any of this true.
Though, I still believe I'm better than you.

I am I am

I am, I am.

A poet.

willingly,

spontaneously,

addict of words,

As if words were easily washed rules of worlds

from gods hands of creation

to the devil's mention of destruction.

Or the easily sexual seduction from the woman.

Or also known as a personified beating with a bat of

a heart.

A "do not push" button launched off into a lustful start only shows, I am sorry,

and though we made mistakes as if we kids at the candy store with money,

I do wish you were easier to understand,

like poetry.

I am,

fluent in rhyme, and top of the class at any kind of writing.

because

I am a poet