I am shallow

Beautiful creature, I want to write about you
I like the way you tie your hair
And how your eyes contrast with your skin
But lovely as you are I don't know you
And it would be hypocritical of me
To make up stories involving you
Just because you have this pretty face
So I'll stalk you in corners instead
And when we do talk for the first time
I'll finish this poem...

Leonard Cohen

We didn't always have these scars
Or was I this quick with a smile
I always wrote poetry though
mostly about inconsequential things
nobody seemed to care about
and had at least four versions of 'Hallelujah'
on my playlist at all times
and Leonard Cohen was alive.

There was this guy I knew once
he had a green raincoat, not a blue one
and was nothing like the one described in the song
but he had autumn leaves in his eyes
and to me he seemed like he carried
harsh winds and cold rain around
even mid-august, under the city sun.
He was my friend then
and Leonard Cohen was alive.

She had this rough, deep voice
singing about freedom and beauty and love
beyond the grave
singing to me for the first time
when I was at my loneliest
or screaming, rather,
and she once had stayed at the Chelsea hotel
and Leonard Cohen was alive.

Then there was this wonderful night
As if all the crowds were gone
and it was just the two of us
He was heartbreakingly handsome
My skirts were puffy as the clouds
We were determined to dance to the end of love
and Leonard Cohen was alive.

Heroes die, villains win, stories lie
We all change, then get set in our ways, get old
No, I am not getting tired of poetry
or the beauty and the strength of words
like hot tea with lemon and honey
soothing sore throats and broken hearts
I am getting tired of writing about lost things though
and just for today I wish that I could write about something nice
and that Leonard Cohen was alive.

Attention to detail

You thought wrong, it's not true.
Nobody is going to look at you and think
                  you're interesting or beautiful
Just because you wear dandelion yellow as often as you can
and keep stuffed animals on your shelf.

Nobody is going to want to talk to you
just because you have these dangly earrings
and carry your scars like badges of honor.

When you're be busy running from place to place
people will be preoccupied with their own little errands
So nobody is going to stop you mid-run
just to ask your name
ask how you are doing
or what your favorite ice cream flavor is.

No one will see you on the bus and think
                                  'we could be friends'
just because you are smiling at your own reflection
or tapping one foot to the rhythm of the song
                           that is playing in your head.

Just as well.

Because the guy who noticed that your eyeshadow matched your socks
                       and that you had a different coffee mug for every season
broke your heart when he left
and the place he carved in your life for himself
is still an open wound
a crack in your outermost wall
where rainwater is seeping in.

The next time you spot a stranger for his tattoo
                               of a girl with coral in her hair
you'll pretend not noticing that his shoelaces are slightly mismatched
and that he doodles dragon tails on post-it notes while he is talking.

So that you won't get upset when you wear your favorite shirt
and nobody, especially not him, comments on it.

Too much fun

This is the sun

This is the sun going down

This is a childhood dream

           of never being alone.

This is also too much water

           not to quench your thirst

           but to let you drown.

This is the sun

           burning everything to the ground.

Not nice

I don't want to talk to you
and try to make you smile,
I only want to steal your bones
and bury them in my backyard.

I don't want to feign interest
or pretend that we're alike,
I want to turn you into a wax statue instead
and put a lampshade on your head.

I don't want your superficial friendship
or your mask of 'always nice'.
I want to extract the sky from your eyes,
put it in a small jar, tie it around my neck,
or make tiaras out of your fingers
and paint my eyelashes with your blood.

I want the parts of you that no one else would want
Even though you no longer want anything of mine.

Industrial

A poet is like a machine
transforming heartbreak into verse
and sadness
and excitement
and hope
In go all the feelings
out come words
on paper, on screen
like beads on a string
more like life-lines
preventing the whole knitted fabric
of our reality
from unraveling.

A poet is not a machine
you may feed it the same raw materials
still the outcome may not be the same
a sidelong, furtive glance
would inspire sonnets one evening
and a full blown passionate kiss
won't even be worth a mention
in passing
another morning.

A poet is like a machine
It won't produce anything
if you don't feed anything to it
and will break if you overload it.
It won't get bored doing the same thing
over and over again
even though it chafes and grinds
and wears out it's bearings.

A poet is not a machine
Eventually it will get sick of
writing about the same thing...

The Aftermath

At this point thinking about him is dissecting a corpse.
I wish I could just move on but I feel trapped.
He was, in a way, my escape
every time the world closed in on me.
Now he's just another dangerous swamp.
A kind word, here and there
lets me breathe
for a little bit
but then I sink deeper yet again.

I finally took some pictures of him
and noticed some details that I didn't know before
like he had freckles on his arms
and looked a little sad behind every smile.

This is me projecting, finding entry wounds
with no exit ones and no bullets inside.
This is me wishing it was as painful for him
as it was for me
and I know it was
he said as much
but he was not talking about the getting over part.

I wish he looked the same 
but had a more open mind.
I wish he looked almost the same
but maybe without the ugly shorts.
I wish he were a different person 
but still had the same hands and the same eyes.
I never really liked him that much the way he was
probably that's what he knew all along...

There is no closure in an autopsy,
I'm writing just to get things out of my head.
You learn what you learn,
but the dead don't just get up and walk again.
All I can do for now is wait
for another distraction
or better yet,
a proper reason
to get out of this morgue for good.

Picking herbs

I am growing parsley in the windowsills
and basil and rosemary and dill.

I am exhausted, restless, despairing
trying to think my way out of this mess.

Maybe if I learn how to pick herbs
without killing the plants,
I can learn how to cut away
pieces of myself
and still survive.

Reality check

You're alone.

You have this whole universe inside your head,
twisting and turning. Even there, you're on your own.

These aren't the kind of stories you like.
These are the kind of stories you stay away from.

When you're stressed, you calm down by imagining
    touching the freckles on his arms.
When you're upset, you get better by making up stories
    about kissing him, about making out.
It's always the physical that soothes you.
Because in your head you know
    you'll always going to be on your own.
Even in your most daring dreams,
    you never expect a friend,
    keeping everyone at arms length.

You can only get better, if you accept this as fact and move on.

typing to yet another rhythm

Imagination is a white horse made out of clouds.
You think you're going far but all you do is fall back on your ass,
waking up into a world, again and again, that is too dull,
too real for you to find any purchase, any solace, any kinship, any other way.
Escapism is not cowardice, not a drug, not a fault,
it is how you can breathe when even the air coalesces into bars to hold you in.
Daydreams are the crouch that helps you walk, one more step, one more mile, one more day.
It is not how you thrive maybe, but it is how you survive for the lack of anything else.

Knowing what is good for you prevents you from discovering what might be great for you
because the chasm is too deep and if you stray too far in your adventures
you may find yourself at the bottom with broken wings.
Beauty is a drug that numbs the pain, the ointment soothing the wounds
you keep sustaining without ever knowing why.

No matter what life you live there is always something you're going to miss.
There is always a choice you'll be too aware that you made, make,
over and over with every breathe and every kiss that does not happen
and every night you sleep on your own bed,
with every curse that you don't utter and every scream you hold in,
every punch you do not throw and smile, sympathize and nod,
every time you hide behind your own fears because
they are there for a reason and it's the survival instinct.
With every sleepless hour that you feel the poison of stress
and nerves and anxiety dripping down your throat,
you know it is another choice and there is only one right way to handle things
but you never are sure if too many right choices get together to form one big wrong.
You lose yourself chasing one ideal after another, like chasing a butterfly
that was supposed to make you happy but in the end
it's another insect that will fade when captured and dead.
So you knowingly make wrong choices just to break the chain.
Then others get involved and things get complicated and you get hurt.
You can't wear a diving suit and go through life without getting wet.
It's messy, it cuts, you bleed, you get better and forget how bad it was
until something comes up that is worse,
but you act brave and carry on because there's not much else to do.

You watch that white horse and at a moment's weakness
you find yourself again jumping on his back.
Then you stay all day in bed imagining a memory that never happened
as if it was the only truth.
You imagine so hard, seeing every detail, every taste, every word and sound
and how it almost makes you feel,
but in the end it leaves you sweaty and dissatisfied with a horrible sense of loss.
How many times can you please yourself imagining a stranger's hand
until you lose all self esteem and self respect?
How many times you feel guilty for not being grateful enough for all that you do have?

We tell ourselves we have the power to change the world
but we don't really want it changed,
we only want another one on the side just in case we screw this one up.

And then you wash your face, you brush your hair,
you put your game face on and you are out the door
because horses and clouds and dreams and eyes like the sky before a rainstorm
and legs that go for a mile and books and all the fairy tales written and spoken
and the possibilities and the stories that nobody has come up with yet
will be there when you stop to breathe next time you have the time.
You just need to keep going until then.
Keep going until then.
Just keep going.

Typing to a rhythm

inspired by Amanda Palmer

You were like dangerous words I'd scribble on the corners of my life
Like beauty, change, desire at first, later, passion, anger and despair
And I was the shallow stream lost in the woods,
     trickling away without a sound.
See, I'm not the persistent type nor a confrontational one
I couldn't scream at passers by, not even stop and glare at the world
It would still all be well if I could just stop missing you instead
Or stop thinking about all the what-if's
What has passed has passed, we are what we are
And we'd be happier with people more like us.

But the same song keeps popping into my head
And I often have these dreams where we would talk
    and touch and be generally nice
Then I wake up tired and upset and everything is wrong with the world
Even though it's just another morning and it's all in my head
I know that because when I see you, you have these ugly socks
    or the wrong type of glasses and a shirt that doesn't fit
And I'm suddenly glad that we never had anything but a passing acquaintance
    not even a fling
Beauty wasted is such a terrible crime you should be ashamed
And you could be so beautiful indeed
    maybe it's all for the best
    maybe whatever happens happens for a reason like my mom always said
And whatever this reason I'm so very over it.

And just if you're wondering, the song is called' The Killing Type'
    and you don't even remind me of it...

Alone, not alone

A huge hammock, lazily swinging in the sun
One leg with toenails painted seafoam green,
hanging out of it, adorned with a silver anklet
that the light that keeps bouncing and flaring on...

A drink on the small table on the side
moisture condensing on cold glass
A colorful straw dipping into
a colorless liquid, half-filled with ice...

Smell of jasmine and a hint of aftershave
A light breeze to carry all away
sounds of the city, low, muffled
and a faint buzz of an adventurous bumblebee...

It's summer on the rooftop terrace
A moment frozen in time
I'm sleeping, day-dreaming, escaping,
To a reality that is only slightly different
                                               from my own...

Confession

The poetry I like the most
Is the poetry of my own

This too shall pass

Your heart can be broken once
You realize when you have to cut people off
mid-conversations
to go and find a place to hide
so you can cry in peace,
and seem to have forgotten how to
go back to sleep
when you wake up at 3am
with a taste of falling leaves
and earthworms in your mouth.

And didn't his mama teach him
Not to play rough in the house?
All that running around
Now off he went to play
somewhere else
and you're left with pieces
shattered, that once were whole.

Your heart can be broken twice
Yes, people wrote about this, you know.
What you didn't know was how flowers
would shrivel and turn to ash
when you'd walk past them,
and the pain would be a stagnant pool
waiting for you to fall back in
at the bottom of every staircase
you'd walk down.

Yet he was such a pretty little thing
You just tiptoed around
To be handled with care and
only wearing kid gloves
Never thinking not him but
you'd be the one
in need of protecting.

Your heart can be broken thrice
The fingers tightening around your lungs
made it clear for you, no doubt,
while you hyperventilated
trying to exhale the bitter smoke
of love now lost.
Cough and cough and out it goes
Leaving you brittle, weak,
this pathetic mess of a thing,
that you are too ashamed to talk about.

Your heart can be broken many times
Even when you're too old for this crap
that just makes you more brittle 
Break and mend, that's how these things work.
You always eventually heal,
will be skipping through life once again.
Whatever will remain are
maybe a handful of poems
that you'll think are a bit too dramatic
when you find yourself smiling
under the freshly minted sun.

When I'm happy

You'd go for a walk in the woods
where the trees are tall
and covered with moss.
The tangle of leaves would block the sun,
light reflecting in shadowy patches
on your face, on the trees and on the path
that would curve, steeply, into the darker depths.
A cool mist of yesterday's rain
and a smell of dirt and must
would hang, heavy, in the air.

You'd come across a stream,
suddenly and unexpectedly.
It would be narrow and mostly shallow
looking not all that impressive,
fast and chaotic though, very energetic.
You would see the pebbles within
    and larger rocks too
and the water would pool and jump
flowing, laughing, over and in between.
Sunlight would fall and bounce on every sprinkle
breaking into rainbows and sparkle.
You'd hear the water sing in splashes
burbling in casual invitation.
You'd watch it shuffle away fallen leaves,
branches, and eventually, to your surprise
the sadness from your heart.
You'd find yourself breathing easily again.
And with every tiny lizard you see
on the banks, on the rocks, sunbathing
you won't be able to help your spirits lifting.

If you leave right then, 
all will be well, gone and forgotten.
But if you instead linger
Trying to hold on to that feeling again
You will find out for sure
How a spring is just like fire
No second chances.

Poem to spring

Today is a happy day
I think I'm finally healed.

I thought of many things today
I thought of you, too
And smiled to myself.

Now that spring is here
signalling new beginnings
and days filled with light
I had a change of heart.

No need to hold a grudge,
no need to dwell in the past,
I just felt like forgiving,
and reached out to take
that branch you've been holding.

Extortion

I only want one letter from your name
as a keepsake, surely you understand.
Why won't you just give me half of your smile?
I'd even take one that was meant for someone else.
How about a lock of your hair then
that has not been touched by anyone yet?
It is only fair that you let me take
the color of your eyes, when we say goodbye.
I am not greedy you see
I'll leave you alone for just one collarbone.
Who will appreciate anyway
how it almost breaks your skin
when you turn your head around
once I'm gone?
What about you let me take the lines
drawn by the veins on your arm?
I can build a whole cage from them
and hide in it, so you wouldn't see me again.
I'd happily disappear into the abyss
Hell, I'd even take with me all the memories
wouldn't that be worth just one last kiss?

Inconvenient

A fragile heart is a very inconvenient thing to have
It doesn't matter how, once it's broken
People are clumsy or careless all the time
A word here, a gesture there, and whops it goes
So make sure to encase it well, always build up strong walls.

'Cause a broken heart is a very inconvenient thing to have
You have to walk carefully, not to spread the shards
You can't breathe deeply, the cracks expand
You can't even laugh properly, for fear of shattering the whole thing.

All you can do is to slap a band-aid on it for a bit

And look for something else to distract you, while it heals.

Here's the thing, a broken heart is indeed a very inconvenient thing

But there are worse things to have, for sure

You could have a wart on your nose for example 

Or blisters under your heel, wouldn't that be bad?

A broken heart eventually mends itself and you're the wiser for it

And believe you me, scars start way more interesting conversations

Then first editions in pristine condition...

Of love and pebbles

Waves crashing on sand
and pebbles, big and small
of many different colors, but mainly grey
it's ok, pebbles don't need any colors to be interesting
to be unique
lovely.
There are many reasons why I love pebbles
a handful of them
better than a handful of butterflies
they can't be hurt
also, they can't be expected to give out any warmth
to be kind
to kiss you back
pebbles are the reflection of what remains
when all transient and finicky is gone
capricious waves play amongst the pebbles
then join back to the sea
only droplets left behind
until sun makes them disappear
pebbles, they stay.

indifference is the opposite of love
so we all appear indifferent
to the world around, to each other
hiding not just our wounds and tears
but our joy and excitement as well
all fading to grey
all because we know
one never heals from love that once was
when it is taken away...

I hold this one pebble in my hands
then throw it to the sea
letting it skip a few times over the water
when it finally finds a resting place
and sinks beneath the surface
I make a wish to the god of small favors
and small pebbles
that this should be the last time I let myself write
so many words about someone
who's not even worth his weight
in pebbles...

Nature morte

Snow on sand
    you asked if you could touch it
    it felt soft, warm, nice
    and not stiff and cold like you expected
    you never dared to do it again.
Rainclouds gathering
    you found them hard to look at
    yet you forced yourself to look
    even though it made your heart

                             skip a beat

    and you had to remind yourself

                             to keep breathing.

Tangled roots of a birch tree

    they were impossibly close to surface

    tight fabric making them the more visible

    countless times you traced them

                              with imaginary fingers.

Like the shore, like the sky, like the woods,

    you were going by sight and smell

    and you weren't really listening

    to be fair, there were no spoken words

    only subtle signs you couldn't read in time

                              and then it was too late.

Don't blame yourself too much, though

Even if it could have lasted a bit longer

Every journey has to end sometime

And you would always come back home...