Manic Musings of A Maniacuntold

Not Another Love Poem

I don’t want to write
of the ocean
swaying back and forth.
i don’t want to mention stars
shining fears away.
I don’t want to color
strawberry fields,
under the capricious sky,
or steal kisses from the wind,
in an attempt to kill the night.
while I sing your hymns
from church pews
and raise roses from the dead,
i want to resuscitate the living
and damn the rest.

Pretty Little Doll

Her pallid features
shadowed creatures
of a pretty little doll,
dancing on the wall.
the audience cheered
her on, to the same
haunting song, but when
the crimson curtain call
revealed the pretty little doll
unable to escape the fall,
everyone gasped, stood on their feet—-
and waited for the final blow
to the pretty little doll,
before returning to their seat.

If you choose to fall in love,
fall in love with a writer.
but know you will live in the pages
of a poem, linger in the words
of a song, be engraved
in the ink of a plot,
twisting your fate and heart
into a tempestuous knot.
if you choose to fall in love,
fall in love with a writer.
one who will hand you
the world, drawn and painted
in the metaphors of a troubled mind,
where nothing is simple, not even a line.
If you choose to fall in love,
fall in love with a writer-
your life will never be the same.
they’ll weave stories of yesterday,
in the webs of your hair,
breathe the sky of the morning,
lure you to their lair.
so if you choose to fall in love,
fall in love with a writer.
one who truer will never be;
fall in love with a writer…
with a writer like me.

Without You

There is a silence without you,
lonely and reminiscent of the past.
there is a fear without you,
terrifying and pacing fast.
there is a skin without you,
longing and yearning your touch.
there is nothing without you…
with you, there is an endless, rhythmic
beat, beat, beating in my heart.

You asked me once
To write about us
and at the time,
i couldn’t find the words.
perhaps, I am able
to do so now…
you know,
find the right words…

the other night

I looked into your eyes
and saw what I could become:
a feeble woman,
out of control,
giving it all,
in nights of champagne
and delicious cupcakes
with way too many calories.
(but who is counting, really?)
and music videos playing
in the background;
with legs entwined
and jealous dogs,
seeking our attention.
I wanted to make
the night last forever,
to hold you closer
and show you I
am not who you fear I may be.
but now it seems you’re
far away, distant.
waving goodbye,
while I turn away
in resignation.

Your Attendance is Required

She lives the night awake in crayon enlargements of a dream. Rustling sheets of silk brush sweetly across her wonton legs; winds creep inside the crevice of her thighs, awakening desires reserved for the lonely, the insomniacs lurking in the shadows. Being awake is the harsh reality of the dream she wants no part of. The dormant legions of nightly visitors spray skies with amber waves of light and leave her psyche tired, weary, and breathless. Through silver linings, she stares at God and wishes he would save her from the beastly creatures slithering in conscious blades of grass. Bottles of sanity occupy the space between her thoughts, promising a brighter afternoon in the blistering sun of a February night. Hearts cutout the shape of what remains enveloped in her core and subtleties consume the Earthly woman, as she survives the ebb and flow of the mundane; the façade of politics and roles played on boards of glass and tapered with grins of hypocrisy. Her gypsy soul shrinks at the sight of who she has become: living a lie, breathing their orders and commands, walking the plank of judgment. Still, she smiles and waves with flowers in her hair; tousled strands of angry black fighting with the storms of time. Her onyx eyes carry secrets of yesterdays trapped in irises of sadness and fear. Rushing past the flight of stairs, with nervous legs and trembling hands, she is awakened. Losing touch of what ensues and bleeding blue on concrete sands of ancient lovers trapped in letters of a troubling alphabet. Jumbled sighs of punishment seep through her open pores, lingering with stench and shrieks of chaos. But she must go on, learning to cope with the inevitability of instability-of the unknown. Devising ways to stay around long enough to see innocence grow old and marry lovely dames in golden altars built for three. Oh, how she weeps and stains her rosy cheeks with rolling rivers of darkness. Leaving cheap mascara looming in the afflicted air.

The Other Woman

I never meant to be the other woman. It just happened…unexpectedly. It was the lowest emotional time of my life; I was vulnerable. My boyfriend had recently abandoned me, and I was forced to move on my own. Starting over-with a seriously brokenheart- and a small child, is no easy task. I clearly remember dropping to my knees one day and screaming at God, to please help me or I would not make it. And I was an atheist.

I don’t regret my decision to be with Robert for he made me feel things I had never quite felt before. He was your quintessential bad-boy: kicked some Iraqi ass, had a multitude of bad-ass war stories, I must confess, really turned me on. And he was simply unapologetic about his crude demeanor. He was raw, rawer than any other man I had been with.

If a man even looked at me the wrong way, he was ready to shred him to pieces. I like that. Don’t know why, I just do. It makes me feel wanted, protected, and safe. He would also not take any of my shit, called me out on all my elitist, pretentious bullshit.

Sex was out of this world-he was the first man to ever slap me hard enough to leave my cheek swollen for days; and he was also the first man, and only man till this day, to ever spit in my mouth as he got me from behind.

I never warmed up to the idea of being “the other woman.” So, I decided to let him go…or was it the other way around.