PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

In answer to the question “What have you been up to lately?”

Lately…

I’ve been eating warm lettuce and tomato

stuck to the bread of last night’s chicken sandwich,

heating up things like eggs and French fries in the microwave

because I struggle with portioning correctly for just one.

My neighbor even bought me this contraption that measures

the proper amount of noodles to cook per serving,

like some sick joke mocking my loneliness.

If she asks, I misplaced it.

My excuse:  I’m careless.  But really I’m careless in a careful manner.

I always write my poetry in pencil or erasable ink,

not because it is desirable but because it is necessary

due to the unpredictability of my life.

And although this sense of spontaneity

has its fair share of excitement now and then,

I’d honestly rather have some sort of warning

when my decisions are leading me down a dangerous path.

You see, I sometimes have this itch that something pleasantly impossible might happen to my life,

and yet its location is about as reachable as lying in the snow in December anticipating tanned skin;

somewhere between midnight and noon,

somewhere between my left and right shoulder blades,

and, conveniently enough, I’ve also misplaced my back-scratcher (not purposefully) and the Cortisone isn’t doing its job.

I’ve been told on numerous occasions that my eyes are bluer and,

although rarer, more beautiful than a Tennessee summer sky,

and yet I am far from limitless,

confined to ambition with little sense of creativity.

But it is fairly true, although for a different reason,

as my cheeks have kissed more tears than lawns and concrete

have seen rain in June, July, and August combined.

Because I’ve loved with every millimeter of my being

and have lost it so quickly that I always wake up dizzy,

from a relationship so fiery with passion that, when he left,

my hopeless heart was cremated,

and though I foolishly trusted him to handle this love

with the utmost caution and admiration,

he let it slip through the cracks of his fingers,

scattered the ashes all across my bedroom carpet;

and me, too heartbroken and lazy to pick up the pieces all by myself.

However, though alone, I am happy--or perhaps “content” better describes it-–

and I’ve convinced myself that if I repeat it loudly and frequently enough,

standing in front of my toothpaste-stained bathroom mirror:

How am I?  I am great!  I am good, I am fine, I am okay…

I might one day believe it.

And I definitely couldn’t call it false hope but instead maybe foolish optimism,

because no matter how many times you bake a cake,

it will never come out perfectly,

and every now and then you might mistake the whipped topping for sour cream.

But with each carton of orange juice, I get smarter,

and with each gallon of milk, I get stronger,

and my steering wheel, it can vouch for that

because driving with a busted radio is a time when my mind refuses to shut up!,

and with each and every memory that invades my brain,

my eyes get heavier as my grip gets tighter,

clenching onto this steering wheel for dear life because it seems to be the only thing I can hold onto sometimes,

staring at a seemingly invisible, destination-less road through

these clouded eyes, your cloud-like lies.

Maybe I should put a little more effort into this reflection I see every morning;

I mean, I do brush my teeth and I do shower daily,

I just refuse to change my habits to conform to others’ expectations,

because if you have a problem with a slightly scruffy chin and bitten fingernails, then you are wasting your time,

and, quite honestly, I’m perfectly fine with my life being as lonely as searching for fingernail clippers in my parents’ “do-not-disturb” drawer sometimes.

See, lately, I’m the type of person who will cook enough dinner for two,

just in case,

indulge in my overly sweetened spaghetti beside candlelight with myself,

room temperature red wine, and a romance novel-–

perhaps the best company I have had since the creation of unsliced bread-–

and, the next day, I will go grocery shopping or, more rarely,

to a bar wearing a white t-shirt stained with marinara sauce,

because, quite honestly, who am I trying to impress here?

The mirror already disapproves and I’m just not ready for further disappointment.

I had a dream last night that I was kissing the heartbreaker I fell in love with,

and then I awoke to someone completely different,

someone whose name I cannot even recall,

someone with eyes, hair, and skin as unfamiliar as

laughter kissing my wrinkled cheeks,

and then I awoke again, this time to reality,

a lonely bed clenching pillows drenched in sorrow and saliva,

(perhaps that’s why he left… my drooling and my toss-and-turn sleep style)

immediately believing that either dream would be a suitable replacement,

provided, of course, that he could handle my little nuances.

They never stick around long enough, though, do they?

And, quite honestly, how tired do you have to be to dream within a dream?

Because I’m getting better at not staying up so late,

staring at my quite phone as lonely as a cricket with its legs cut off…

I can’t even remember the last time I saw three in the morning.

So though I constantly dream of you,

you know, back when things were bearable,

I still always awake with a smile plastered on my face,

happy (or content) with my life full of spaghetti stains, lonely meals, and leftovers,

and anyone who intends to put a damper on this relationship I have developed with that man in the mirror will have to find me a fountain of youth

(or something as equally magical)

so that I can possibly catch a break,

and then maybe, just maybe, I’ll put in the effort to change my stained shirt.