Filed under: As Seen On Stage
I really do hate love poems.
Seems like every time I bring myself to write some “generalized” line
about some feeling I find to be monumentally divine
I end up telling on myself…
For the past 4 months, I’ve been telling my diary pages “next time” stories to soothe them to sleep..
My fountain pen has been creeping
amidst the smudges and crumpled up company it used to keep,
eaves dropping on the tales it yearns to weep permanent…
Ink blot blood drops mix with salted h20 liquid spots
“Next time, next time”, I lied to their water-marked cheeks.
I remember being 8 years old,
and prematurely obsessed with the version of perfection conformity sold.
Terrified to see a trace of a former thought or idea
in the space reserved above those hashed lines.
I’d find every reason to rip up and start over,
tear up, tear up, shred to bits and buy a new folder
if any blemish had tarnished the varnished pages
I’d work so hard to keep pristine and unfinished,
that is, until I got older and met you.
And you drew a fat red line through everything I’d written thus far,
and asked me to write something meaningful.
Something that would wipe the foundation off these aged cheeks
& reveal the laugh lines of a face thats no longer naive and new
He told me to write something meaningful.
Something like “drowning in the depths of my melodramatic soul” ..
You know - that kind of meaningful.
Write a piece, bring it to life from the paper, give it legs and lungs to breathe for the word’s favor,
Maybe its scarred with remeberance, sticky with adolecense,
& Dripping with sugar coated remnants of your ear candy spittings: meaningful
Sweeter than the exhale after you touch me, your fingerprint trails drizzle hershey kiss drips drops that fall straight to my flip flops and leave intertwined trails back to our candyland of a fantasy: …meaningful
And my vivid dreams of forevers were forever occupied by we
Harvested by my toils with relationship titles and love boils… So intoxicated I toiled with boundary lines and
Against my instinct defined this very distinct something as: Meaningful.
So obviously, I was compelled to write about you.
Compelled to create something that might sting when I spoke it to you.
Might resonate with that part you’ve hidden from anyone who you attempted to get close to…
You, after hearing it, might feel compelled to drop the prefix “I love” and complete the two… Thoughts.
I mean, speaking generally but me plus you equals: Meaningful
And so in the spirit of being true with myself, I feel compelled to admit that…
It all started with you.
This unveiling of unanswered questions… Unraveled and understood by your uncanny ability to see right through me.
You’ve proven to be, meaningful.
You. Unmasked and uninhibited,
Connected the dots, filled all my missing spots between L and O, & At night I’d en-V your thoughts for being the closest things to your mind – and try to find why my life before you felt so empt-E.
You.
Soon became we, and my ink pens and paper had never been so happy.
Super amped, my poetic muse was re-vamped
with these meaningful lyrical stylings
I felt compelled to sing something meaningful to… you.
Make melodies out of these somethings I used to chronically write down, fiedning for the proper staff to place my jumbled notes in.
I just want to be something meaningful… To you.
Something you say you’re proud to come home to, and
mean-it-fully. Mean it fully.
You asked me to write something meaningful…
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