I don't like you

It's ok to get caught

It's not ok to drown

I don't like you
with your eyes of cloudy skies
and hair of hay just snowed on.

I don't like you
with your voice, laced with acid
and your words, casually sharpened knives.

I don't like you
even for the sake of times past
even for the sake of all the hugs.

I don't like you
and yet, I liked liking you
I think that is what hurts the most.

High fidelity

Let me make my list of top fives
Just like in that movie:

First, the boy with autumn leaves in his eyes
All our discussions about life
Walking along the seaside
Sharing a cigarette
Me, always wanting
something more than he can offer
lending a sympathetic ear as ransom
to keep his lips prisoner.
He thought I wanted to change him
I only wanted to be loved.

Second, another boy, ivory skin, long fingers
Following me like a stray cat
While I was battling my own demons
and planning my big escape.
I expected to find him there
Upon my return, unchanged
Instead he just broke my heart
Like I broke his
Without any malice, without even noticing.

Third, the man who found me
when I was lost, afraid, insecure
first talking about life, universe and everything
then exploring all the secret corners of passion
like kids playing in the sand
I poured all my surplus affection into him
all my unwritten, forbidden, shunned words
all my admiration, all the overflowing sensual energy
and he never took advantage of it
he never broke my heart, yet he has pieces of it
I still send kisses his way with every passing sparrow.

Fourth, the boy I first reluctantly shared my time with
then willingly and enthusiastically my body, inch by inch
finally, after a world of suffering
my heart, which I did not even know existed.
The boy I first painted my nails for
the one for whom I straightened my long curly hair
wore high heeled shoes, white stockings,
and finally, a ring.
the man I built my life around
who let me breathe for the first time
his smell, my oxygen
his skin, my home
trapped in the cage of his eyelashes, forever, my soul.

Yes, here's where the list ends,
there were others, for sure, pretty faces and all.
But not every heartache deserves a place in the top
Even when they make me stay up late at night
Trying to heal myself using just words...

Secret lives of strays

Secret lives of stray beasts
tiger cubs who made it out of the zoo
hiding in the bushes, hoping to blend in

My ribcage is a reinforced cell
designed to hold wild animals in
the only exit is through my stomach
that's where I store all the excess pain

I have a long beautiful scar there
sometimes I want to rip it wide open
and let all the anger out
all the hurt, and the frustration, too
all the words I keep swallowing
all burning holes in their places.

Secret lives of stray poets
scribbling on the backs of used notebooks
and on forgotten blogs nobody reads.

Never befriend a child if you can help it
They are fickle things, cruel and remorseless
They either grow up too soon
Or find a new toy and disappear

Never expect life to be simple
After years of lull it can twist and turn
You can't turn tiger cubs into alley cats
You can't take emotions out of poets
Even if your force them into hiding.

Chocolate truffle

If you stop to think about it

(You will realize that)

You were just overthinking it

Here I am
tired, about to collapse
from lack of sleep
and accumulated stress
you'd think my mind would be foggy
and I'd be the most confused
instead, a detached clarity blossoms.

These are trifle matters
all it takes is for me to get busy
doing something that matters
doing something challenging
to see what was in front of me
All this time while I was playing games
the games were also playing me.

All the headache, tears, embarrassment
For trying to create another reality
What for, though, was it really necessary?
I am what I am, nothing will change that
I am who I want to be
I am also with who I want to be with
all else, in the end,
trifle matters indeed.

While I knit

The needles rise and sink
like little boats in the storm
yarn flows in between
back and forth, the fabric grows,
my thoughts, diligent travelers
scatter around
following the rhythm of my knitting.

there is so much happiness to be felt
i can have fried okra for dinner, for example
and knit a turquoise sweater all night
wake up without the sound of seagulls
and see this beautiful man sleeping by my side.

click click go the needles

between my fingers i hold

promises of warmth, promises of color

rows and rows, first knit then purl
while the past folds onto its own, layer after layer,
the future keeps its secrets safe.

Words are birds

Write it down to forget about it
Write it down to deal with it
Write it down, clear your mind
Write the right things down.

Write down, for example,
that your life has become
this pretty little cage
that you can't escape from.

Or that in his eyes you found
a piece of the sky
that you missed so much
even though it's probably painted on.

It's OK to write down
that you know the outside is cold
there's strong winds and no food
and the cage is not a cage
but just a pretty little house
but you're too tired to see
that it does have windows
and also a door.

Write it down to understand
Write it down so you can be
honest with yourself
that you rather climb halfway
out of the window
and enjoy the sky that way
than actually going out.

Write down, calm down
it's all going to be fine
you may even have found
other birds with colors
matching your own.

Write about him, too
if you really want to
write to him as well
Him, him and the other him
but the only one that matters
will understand you
even if you were never ever
would write anything down again.

Maybe because he smells nice?

He makes me feel like a kitten
If I could just bury my nose into his neck
And stay there, breathing his scent in
I'd be contentedly purring forever.

No, I don't want to talk
Nothing interesting to say or hear
And no, don't come any closer
This is as far as I want to go.

Call me odd, call me whatever you want
I just feel like curling up next to him
Putting a cutesy movie on
and making funny faces at the screen.

Notes that don't belong anywhere else

I don't enjoy writing about my insecurities
I much rather write about pretty faces
But all the beauty in the world does me no good
When I'm in one of these moods...

I always thought airports were fun places
Changing planes, on the way to new experiences
Now I'm in one, sitting alone, desperate to get home
And my perspective shifts...

I'm worried about the future
I'm worried about the now
I'm worried about having to be social
When I would rather be on my own.

( Yet again Jenny Lawson says:

)

He told me I must've a big heart
I never thought about myself that way
What a weird thing to say to someone you've just met
He must've been drunk or high
No, sweetie, I don't have a big heart
What does it all have to do with heart anyways
I was just trying to make small talk
I didn't really meant half of the things I said.
He told me he felt exhausted, brain-dead
He had a nice smile, though, I give him that
So I wrote this whole verse about our brief encounter
And made sure it somewhat rhymes with his name.

Seeing ghosts

Stranger with the memorable face
Are you a ghost?
Or am I imagining you
Whenever I'm in one of these places
Where we remain anonymous
Hiding behind our name tags...

I think about the future and despair
These are not my people
All these polished masses
All social, sociable, secure in their steps
And I try to blend in, hiding in plain sight.

I saw you having lunch alone
Sitting at a table, all on your own
Seems impossible when I think about it
I must've imagined it
I must be imagining you
Looking for an excuse to distract myself.

Ghost with a pretty face
I've yet to see you smile
Must look magnificent on you
Will I ever learn your name?
Or will I forget all about you once more
Until I see you in such a place again?

It's the last day, I'm tired
My head is hurting
I miss my home, I miss my routine
Yet I know you're sitting two rows behind
I followed you there, then acted casual
Suddenly I turn my head and you've disappeared
The world closes up around me.

Maybe I should consider a career change
If I need ghosts to anchor me to these places...

Message received

The waves had sympathy for me
or maybe I picked the right ocean
or maybe it was all just a coincidence.
I don't know, I don't care
I'm so overwhelmed by joy now
I can't think, I can't even breathe.

I know this deserves proper poetry
But right now I lack the calm patience
to slow-brew pretty words in.
Instead I'll keep smiling like an idiot
and just be unabashedly happy.

Message in a bottle

Where are you, my friend
Just when I need you this bad
I'm confused, heartbroken, upset
When I have no right to be
any of that...

How does one cry on the shoulder of one
While the trouble is on another
Why am I this emotional all of a sudden
Just when I thought I purged
All that remained of my former self?

I wish I could talk to you now
I wish you still cared
No, you probably do, I'm being unfair
It's not nice of me to expect
To have you still where I've left
Especially since I'm the one who left.

Or maybe we both drifted away
Life always gets in the way like that
Our closeness, like a prehistoric fossil
Encased in amber
So beautiful to look at, remember, cherish
But inaccessible now, dead.

I have no right to even call you a friend
But you saw me through such hard times
You'd be the only one who'd understand
So I'll keep writing these letters
And keep putting them into bottles
and release them into the ocean
In the hopes that one day
You feel like reaching out for me again...

Riptide

It's bad form to bond over other people's misery
And just sad to bond over ours...

You were wearing fitted jeans
And I already had a couple of drinks
I managed to maintain some eye-contact
And listened to a few of your words
But my heart just wasn't in it
While my thought were dangerously straying.

You were wearing fitted jeans
And an open-collar shirt to boot
I vaguely remember you were also upset about something
You wanted me to understand
So I smiled and nodded
All the way concentrating hard not to stare
or drool, rather.

Yes, what with the jeans, and the shirt
and your hair that was just so
and your hands, distractingly close
always moving
I may have somewhat missed
whatever you were saying.
May that be why
we never have any deep conversations anymore?

How to tame and care for strays

You make me think of puppies
so much so that I get this urge to ruffle your hair
and it's kind of unexpected
since I'm not one for casual touching
unlike you.

You do that all the time, the casual touching thing
You give me hugs, you even massaged my shoulders once
It's a bit weird, and I don't know how to react to it.
My personal space normally spans a mile
And I get nervous when people breach it.
That's why I stiffen up and bristle
Like a cornered stray cat
I might've even hissed at you
If you didn't have that puppy thing going.

Well, talking on the phone is not my thing, either
So much so that the first time you called me
you had to try again and again and got the voice mail
Until I finally felt bad and picked it up
Now  I even smile and greet you by name.

I think I may be getting used to your brand of attention
Although I still don't know what to make of it.
Keep it up and I may start craving it.

What I'm trying to say
is that it's unfair of you to be going away
when you have me (almost) tamed like that...

It's all about the coffee

Oh honey, it's not about you
It was such a beautiful day outside
And I switched to iced coffee.

I would hold the mug in my hands,
it's warmth seeping through my fingers
And dream about a thousand things
Smiling about the now
Not remembering the then.
But it was sunny outside
So no mug, just plastic
And the ice has no warmth to give
No excuses.

Aren't you cute with your puppy eyes?
And we don't have anything to talk about
Waiting in line for our coffee.

What do you see in me?
I'm fun, bubbly, excitable, exciting?
Interesting, yes.
But you know there's more to it
I don't nurse the darkness inside any more
It may have fled even, maybe
While I was too busy living.
But you give me ideas
Behind the steam of freshly made coffee
they thrive.

Or they would have
But no steam, just sobering ice
So we walk our separate ways.

Wake up

Dream about the rain
About cloudy skies
About the exact shade of
the grey-blue of his eyes.

Dream about the rain
Find the pattern, the turning point
Rusty gears turning in the rain
On grass new and old, the rain.

Dream about the rain
Drops of water, sliding down his face
Filtering through eyelashes,
Flowing faster along the nose
lingering on the lips.
Follow the path with your eyes, with fingertips?
No, don't do it, you wouldn't, never.
Just dream about it.

Dream about the rain
Until it comes and goes
Then, the sun
Reflecting upon a smile
Wonder which one brightens up the room more
Life's easier under the rain
Wake up.

Of secrets and frogs

I can't talk about what I want to talk about
So I will talk about the frogs instead.
I bought them at the art fair the other day
They are both made of wood, delicate and light
They have spikes on their backs and sticks in their mouths
If you take the stick out and run it through the spikes
They make real frog sounds.

I can't talk about what I want to talk about
But I will tell you about the frogs
Yes, I have two of them, one bigger and smoother
That one stays at home, and has a louder voice
It's shiny too, seems like a lot of work went into it.
The other, I brought to work, sounds very chipper
It's tiny and cute and pretty simple.

-I can tell you more about the frogs
And go on and on until I exhaust all metaphors
But you already know how the story goes.
Yet I'm no princess and don't really know
What to do with not one but two frogs.-

I can tell you all the things that make me happy
And they are aplenty, no doubt
Since I'm a girl of simple tastes
And it takes little to cheer me up
But some of the things that make me happy
Should not be making me happy at all
And then I have this sudden urge
To talk about nothing but frogs...

Too high to fall, too low to fly

Turned up to eleven

That's how I feel these days

Unbound energy, happiness bursting out of my seams

And down it goes, I'm a jumpy ball of stress and anxiety

Then a profound tiredness, deep in my bones, overwhelming me.

Turned up to eleven

My charm level is trough the roof, everyone is affected

But this restlessness won't leave me alone, nothing is enough

I'm constantly on, desperate, needy, 

I can no longer find any peace and quiet on my own.

Turned up to eleven

I need to go for a long walk

Take a cold shower, maybe ten

Stay in bed with company till the neighbors complain

Something, anything, to calm me down again.

Turned up to eleven

Something is not right in my head

Like a bomb ready to go off, 

Lightning ready to strike

Am I really going to burn a hole in this life of mine?

The subtlety of spring

Waiting for a sign, waiting for a smile
waiting for the bus to arrive.
I hope that he is not
waiting for me to make up my mind.

His whole face lights up when he smiles
It's hard to not to take it personally
As the once frozen river gets antsy
Under the warmth of the sun
My imagination starts running free.

Waiting for a sign, waiting for an opening
waiting long enough
not to look like a fool again.

I don't know the shape of his lips,
His eyes are always distracting me.
His eyes are always distracting me
from listening to what he is really saying.

Waiting for a sign, waiting for something to happen.
Waiting for a smile directed only to me.
Waiting and feeling both bright pink excited
and deeply blue at the same time.

The ebb and flow of the daily life
This is one way to not to get bored at work
Another one is writing a poem instead...

Inner monologue

I have lost my audience, it seems
With no one to talk to, the inside of my head became a bit weird a place
I created a universe in there, borrowing a bit from books I like,
Making up the rest, so I have somewhere to go when daydreaming
-Too bad it's no help when I'm actually asleep
No use of having a vivid imagination
if your subconscious is pretty boring.-
So here I was, comfortably thinking that nothing from the real life
would inspire me any more
A pretty face came along and changed everything.

Everybody will judge you, at some point or another
For things you did or did not do
Isn't it better to not tell anyone anything?
But then you end up like me
Trying to disguise confessions as stories
And stories as memories.

A pretty face, yes, there we were
I have one of those, too, if you're wondering
And I find my own kind of pretty quite enticing
I have this awesome new haircut, you should see
Can't stop looking at it.
He does have this pretty face
And a narrow waist and long legs, too
I think my haircut must've conjured him into being.

I've taken to reading stories with strong female leads
Not that I identify more with them
All those badass chicks with their endless stamina and brass balls
Where do they get all that energy from?
But I'm doing my part to uphold the female pride, I guess
And usually there is a plethora of pretty men in there, too
Fuel for my imagination.

Sometimes I wonder who reads what I write
Except for the google crawler bots of course,
Little spiders going all over the place, cataloging everything in sight
I could code a spider for myself
And become a more efficient stalker than I already am
Learning all about what he likes and what he is like
What charming conversations would we have after that.

...

I've had this blog for about ten years now
A lot of things changed since when I first started
But looking back I can see
the one thing that is pretty much constant
Is the sources I get my inspiration from.