UNFINISHED

Potential lyrics. Unsure where to go from here.

Oh, someday, somebody's gunna say
'I love the taste of your chapstick,
the smell of your hair,
the sounds you make when you're sleeping,
those jeans that you wear.
Baby, don't you know that you're the answer to my prayer?
And, oh, how it rains, when you're not there.'

Head First

I want you to fight for me, baby.
Throw me, head first, into love.
Take my hand, and lead me.
Make this something I'm sure of.

Too many have left me wounded.
Too many have let me down.
I can't walk down that road again,
so, forgive me, if I don't stick around.

If I leave, you'll have dodged a bullet.
If I leave, you will be free-
free of pain, free of fear, free or everything-
everything that comes with me.

But, I want you to fight for me, baby.
Throw me, head first, into love.
Take my hand, and lead me.
Make this something I'm sure of.

Say you'll catch me, when I'm falling.
You'll find me, when I lose my way.
You'll wake me from the nightmares,
and you'll chase the ghosts away.

I want you to fight for me, baby.
Throw me, head first, into love.
Take my hand, and lead me.
Make this something I'm sure of.

Fading Memory

 At a standstill, with this one. Not getting what I wanted, out of it. Aesthetically pleasing, but not in the way I wanted. Meaning is weaker than intended.

breathe in
feel me all around you
ache for me. hurt for the warmth
of my breath in your ear, the thrill of my hair
tickling your neck, the pounding
of my heart against
your chest
breathe

hold me there
hold me as long as you can
keep me when the worn and weathered
hands of time have woven their weary fingers into
the stitchings sewn between us and unraveled
the threads that have held us
together for so long
breathe

remember me
when i no longer
see the gentle curves of your
menacingly sweet smile, reaching up
to your cheeks and ears, coloring them with glowing warmth
and deepening the lines of regret that have settled
into your brow. remember me, even after
we have become nothing but
familiar strangers
breathe me in.

He Loves Me

I snuggle my head into his shoulder,

Feeling his muscles flex

As he pulls me closer to him.

He smells of aftershave and cooking grease

Familiarity

I breathe it in deeply

Memorizing.

I’m warm and sleepy

With him wrapped around me

And the rhythm of his breathing

Next to my ear begins to sound

Like a lullaby, soothing me to sleep,

But I know that I can only fight sleep for so long.

The bed creaks, as the pressure

Of my weight is released,

But he begs me

Not to leave tonight.

I stand, but feel his arms

Around my waist,

Pulling me back down to him.

He presses his palms into my thighs,

Pushing them up into my hips

Digging them into my waist

Cupping them around my breasts,

Pressing his weight

Onto my chest, and

I gasp for air, but try

To camouflage my innocence

Because he knows

Where to go 
And how to get there,

And naivety will get me left behind

So I follow.

He loosens his grip and moves delicately

To the back of my neck,

Lifting my face towards his.

Eyes closed

Lips open

Distracting me, while he inches

His way back down

To my hips, maneuvering through

The obstacle course of

Belt, button, and zipper

Like the expert that he is.

His fingers snake their way

Into the waist of my jeans.

I think that I’m supposed to say something

Alluring or do something

Sexy but I don’t know

And I’m afraid

I grab his wrist to stop him

To tell him ‘no’ but

 I need time to think and

I don’t know

I don’t know

I don’t know

He doesn’t give 
me time to think before

I feel him in me

And I close my eyes

And I turn my head

And I wait

And listen as he says

That it’s okay

Because he loves me.

Entertainer

College assignment.... Writing about a character who loves a job that you would hate to have.
Something I might want to revisit.

Most people don’t know what it’s like to feel wanted.

Really wanted.

To have every crease and dimple highlighted by blinding fluorescent lights

and gleaming beads of sweat, with almost nothing to hide yourself behind.

To be exposed for everything that you are and still be craved.

There is nothing to help you pretend- no forced conversations

no scripted pleasantries.

Just you.

They watch your every movement like hungry dogs, salivating,

but all you see is, how much they love you
no matter what you may have done
or who you are.

They need you

There’s something exhilarating about them
wanting to touch you and have you
but knowing that they cant.

You lean so close to let them, teasing
Giving them a taste of the unattainable
You are the one who gets away, every time.

They will come back for you,

And you will be remembered.

No Walls

my brother used to sit

outside on the roof at night

to live freely

with no walls

confining him

breaking

loose of authority and rules

his escape

he used to wait
until we were asleep

and creep

onto the ledge 

outside of his window
climbing up
the red brick walls
onto the steep ledge

of the roof

I would hear him drop

rocks down

onto the driveway

watching them crack 
open and I would

listen to his 
footsteps slipping

into sleep.

Dear No One

One day

we’ll take midnight walks

down the streets

of my neighborhood

barefoot

in too much of a rush

to be alone

to bother

with tying laces

One day

I’ll spray lavender perfume

on my chest

and wrists

to keep you close

but you’re favorite scent

you’ll tell me

is the way the nape

of my neck smells

when you kiss it

One day

you’ll know

how to hold my hand

fingers twisted together

with my thumb over yours

the way I like it

One day

you’ll know

that a kiss

on my forehead

is the cure

for every stress

every headache

every long day

One day

I’ll press

your palm against mine

and think

about how tiny

my hand looks

in yours

and how, despite my

5 foot 8, 150 pound frame

I feel delicate

One day

you’ll count

all my freckles

even remembering the one

on my little toe

determined to memorize

each constellation

mapped out

across my skin

One day

To My Mother, Upon Leaving For College

If I could

I would shrink you 

down to fun-size

and slip

you into the left front pocket

of my jeans

so that

when i stood

as i do

with my thumb hooked

into the opening

i could

wiggle my finger around

and know

that you were there

even when you've lost your phone

again 

or your hands are covered in glue

due to some, new, experimental

home-improvement project

you are determined to carry out

I would pick you up

and place you

behind my ear

so you could

sing to me

a few notes too low

a few notches too loud

a few lines made up

skipping the verses, of course

but, somehow, better than the original

I would set you on the tip of my pen

so you could

shift your weight

this way and that way

steering my hand

where it needs to go

saving me

the red pen cross-outs

and ruthless critiques

that I rely so dependently upon

I would even let you sit

on the dashboard of that

rundown, beat up, hunk of metal

you make me

drive and I wouldn't even complain

during the "slow down!…dear Jesus!… don't hit the biker"s

so that you could tell me

where to go, so that

I wouldn't lose my way

too far from home

as I sometimes tend to do

If I could

I would shrink you 

down to fun-size, so that

as far away as I needed to go

to stretch my wings

and test the waters

I could wiggle my fingers

into the left front pocket

of my jeans

and there you would be.

Loafer

 my first abstract poem, done my sophomore year of high school :)

sole tarnished
textured by skin
worn
to the seams
reeking
of the musky odor
of dried sweat
sides sagging
inwards
too tired
to carry
its own
weight
heaving
an exhausted sigh
a cloud
of sand colored dust
rising
from the lifeless mass
taking
its final
steps
and the empty
body collapses
to the floor

After Viewing Rafael Lopes’ Bobeirasa

“I say, 'let it show'
And continue to write and play my guitar
Out, my hurt does flow
Onto the paper and from the guitar
This is how I let my hurt go
And soon by what people read
They will know
This is how I let it go”

-This is How I Let Go, Amy Parkinson

Shadows rest

in blackened corners

of a darkened room,

masking the vision

of a name unrecognized

a voice unheard

Willing inspiration

to dwell in outstretched fingers

Crawling up and down and stairway of steel

Leaving rhythmic footprints

on the hollow, wooden skeleton, lying below

Anticipating the moment of glory

to be found.

Unsung Man

To the rhythm of the whispered song

he strums out every melody

and sings the story

of every life

but one.

Disregarding his own

reticent song,

to pump his blood into

broken, empty hearts

Neglecting the soul

that lies inside

hiding behind

a misread heart

which pulses out a

muted melody-

humming softly

barely beating

as if it could fade away into

Silence

Having sung the story

of every life

but one.

Who will sing

for the unsung man?

Self Portrait As Richmond

Marked with a star on every map

Chosen to lead in its precision.

History of thousands who flocked into the seven hills

in anticipation of freedom and life.

With motherly arms, she raised her children,

who starved from the barren fruit of oppression.

Strong as the mountains-

true and lasting.

As pliable as rivers-

accepting and adapting.

A piece of me forever,

this city holds.

Luminescence glowing from the heart-

bright and bold and flashing with life.

Supporting bones-

rustic and feral,

tranquil and genuine.

A sturdy heart.

The dazzling face of youth.

The restless spirit of revolution.

Now and Then

I came to the place

where the sun shines down gently

like lazy, luxurious, sleepy mornings

and the waves crash passionately

like the restless nights that have passed

Where were came

so long ago

lost in our own selves

Alone in togetherness.

I came to the place

where the water gently quivers

distorting the image

of a delicate, gentle face

reflected in the glittery, silvery mirror

lying beneath the water

I came to the place

where the last of

summer’s sweet symphony

still sounds clearly

echoing a wordless melody

that only we can know.

I came to the place

where the wind blows

cool and crisp

running its gentle, seductive fingers

through my hair

and against my lips

breathing a name

into my soul.

Television

This tiny puppet theatre rests

on the table in my living room.

Black, still, lifeless.

Who would imagine

that, with the click of a button,

the sleeping city

will come to life?

The puppeteers,

behind the magic,

are never seen,

nor heard from,

as if they don’t exist.

No painted faces

No ghostly, glass eyes

No strings attached

to abandoned bodies

So that the little puppets,

living inside the little box,

seem almost alive.

Perhaps, these

living marionettes

have a secret world,

all their own

and keep to themselves,

living in

the little black box.

Now click the button

one more time, and

their whole world

disappears.