I don’t write poetry, but when it gets cold, I can.
I don’t write poetry, but sometimes I feel like I have some innate ability to place interesting words on a page. I am inspired by Claudia Rankine’s writing style, specifically in the way she dismantles and reconstructs sentences. I think poetry is like my deep thoughts, forced so deep down that there is no way to let them out, unless through broken and deconstructed words.
Walking
Wild women don’t get the blues but when they do they go walking walking in the type of weather that makes their legs burn like the stabbing of pins and needles walking with their headphones on to drown out the loud noise of everything else when everything else seems to burst with an overwhelming sense of crowdedness because everything else doesnt matter when they go on a walk for the only else that matters is the one foot in front of the other on and on and on.
Not usually
Not usually this way, but I still and will blame you
Not I, the influence so bad
A bad influence I am. I am told how I twist and manipulate and distort your actions your feelings your beliefs. You place a hand on my shoulder, a comforting warmth radiates as you reproach me with your disgust. You tell me how I drag drag you down down with my repulsive yearn to feel something. How shameful and mournful. I am a bad influence—the way I lie and leave and lust, for I am one whom you cannot trust. Our eyes meet when our fingers clasp, intertwined, interweaved, interlocked, I lead you down with me. A path so dark so deep that I am forced to apologize for my influence so bad.
Yellow
I like your eyes, those soft but wide brown eyes So wondrous I like your hair, not brown not blonde, but Different So different, nothing I’ve ever quite seen before I like your hips, how wide and inviting They let me in when i stare I like your body, your sinusoidal curves Up down up down… sway left sway right But oh how I love the way you smile and mask darkness with day Your so bright—not a star But the sun You're so very yellow, A lamp post at the end of a street cursed with no glow. I say— as I traverse the realm between the reflection and Me.
Why do I wear Uggs in the winter?
I like the ease, the slip, the fit. I glide my foot in with no struggle, no mmph
To run out out that door so very damn quick I don’t need to look back Make haste! For your time does not permit!
My soles slide from one end to the other In shoes too broken in Too flimsy.. Just stuff her!
I wear my Uggs in the winter
Slosh splosh slush slish
My bleeding brown skin sops My white innards melt
I wear my Uggs in the winter that poor outer shell The weather does not allow it Why not? What else?
Why can't I wear my Uggs in the winter? For when i do, They wane they waste they wither
