PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

always feeling like I have to say

I am this way because.

the squiggly line between existing and explaining.

I am expected to write a story for every skin cell,

ten novels for every lie,

but I keep throwing the words into the water

dragging myself back into the deep til my lungs are fuller than the sky.

the only way I can understand it is smudging,

bring to the bank the to-do list of self

written in nearly perfect cursive,

maybe we’re owed something back for a survival so pristine

it’s nearly another holy book.

I am expected to

Have Ideas.

not soak up theirs like a sponge,

repeat them intertwined,

a loosening,

a thieving,

a woman on her way to becoming a crowd.

I can only be human in pieces,

scars carved out of memories

and not the skin that holds them

everything pretty but not how I want it

my gluttony is wanting your permission to be seen

or all your attention at once.

look, catch me.

I am flying through the air and you will not see it coming.

expecting some sort of monster

when I am only droplets of your lemonade,

yesterday’s exhaled breath.

I always wonder what they want from me.

a legacy, an embrace, a cliffhang, my body.

the work we inherit to cover up the being.

the days we spend forgetting the life.