childhood dream place
wings and moss in abundance
light shining through us
Tag: writing
Pretty
A set of haikus
fuck pretty, fuck that
aesthetic jail cell, fuck that
Polaroid Pretty
fuck pretty, fuck that
forced Magazine smile, fuck that
Commercial Pretty
fuck pretty, fuck that
advertised face cream, fuck that
Expensive Pretty
fuck pretty, fuck that
scrutinized body, fuck that
Controlling Pretty
fuck pretty, fuck that
mutilated hair, fuck that
White-Centric Pretty
fuck pretty, fuck that
endless worrying, fuck that
Insecure Pretty
fuck pretty, fuck that
manufactured worth, fuck that
Man’s Choice Pretty
fuck pretty. We’re done
We’re done downplaying our hurt.
We’re done being small.
We need our bodies.
We need our love more than you.
We deserve our strength.
Fuck Pretty. We are
not here for your enjoyment.
We are for our joy.
On the Bedside Table
I have all these books
on my bedside table that
I never read, but…
On Rage
quiet rage
beginning to announce
her speechless marriage
sweeping through, screaming
their Names
dancing then, after
only after
only after
On Crossroads
what’s that thing you said,
nestled beneath the branches?
“I am sure of us.”
Socks
are the only thing keeping
me from falling apart
!
One small barrier
(between me and the world)
:
The one thing
that separates me from the dream.
My
dreams were preferable
to this
.
Much softer and filled with
more desire.
May
there is a time to rest
among the soft flowers
[they exist
whether you are there
or not]
Wednesday
teeth crumble
in her mouth
white night folds
over on itself
cutting gravel
on her tongue
naked before the rain,
birdsong, the March
there is a time
to live
there is a time
to rest
there is
Whitman’s Hands
for Chris
There’s something about you that makes my heart hum
With what Whitman calls “life”
What Cummings calls puddle-wonder
and becoming “who you really are”
Something about your eyes, playing stars in your head
Or maybe your hands, rough and large
But it isn’t any Thing at all, really
My heart hums with you
Even if I try to ignore the hum, push it out
I can’t pass this stranger by, this knowing
This love
That does not burn, but rather builds up
That does not consume, but rather grows slow
Curls into the sun like peas, smells sweet like tomatoes
The poets were right: noticing is love
Anguish is love too, but much less full of hum
I am to see to it that I do not lose you.
Tradition
Egg tree, egg tree, egg
Tree. I need you so badly.
You’re my way back to myself.
Siena Rose 