Poetry

Stereo” (December 11,  2019)

Two songs echo through my chest.

“What’s wrong with that?” you may object.

But pay some respect to your favorite musician:

You neglect their slick precision,

I expect a quick rescission,

Music doesn’t harmonize by its own inhibition.

 

So imagine my condition

With these clashing compositions

Competing with their own renditions

Of who I am in spirit.

At first, only one played for me to hear it.

The other lay low in silent fear of

What siren may appear if

I were to ever let myself be queer.

 

My revelations let the dissonant duet grow clear.

 

Which brings us back to here, and now

Where I peer at the counter

Awaiting this fated encounter

Inflated by the countering score

Who tells me move no more.

But the other compels me to open the door

And take L’Oréal out of the drawer.

 

Two songs discord behind my heart,

But what if I ignored the part

Who warns me not to try this out?

So I try it on

––blush in particular.

It tickles my ventricular tissue

And soothes my sonic issue

If just for a clock’s tick.

So I next try lipstick

And eyeliner, eyeshadow,

I’m out of air;

I don’t care

For this one moment

Which of the songs is there.

It’s euphoric, but it’s not euphorever.

 

Like a bird may pluck out its feathers

From its shifting emotional weather,

So do I wipe my face

To erase this new look for disgrace.

The mirror consoles me

But it holds me in empty space:

I’m naked in either case.

 

It’s both or neither: I can’t verge in between,

But the road’s a cipher to merge the boy and queen.

For now as before, for me and for them, I’ll cage my soul with age-old lies.

Why can’t the songs just harmonize?


November 10, 2019

How strange of a flower to sprout

With cool moon’s solstice having just fallen.

The cold tickles my nose with pollen.


My Prince” (August 27, 2019)

You know how girls, when they’re younger,

Pretend to descend into slumber,

Because they know they’ll wake up under a handsome prince

And place their face upon his lips;

I’d take a kiss.

Is it my mistake or was I missed?

 

Now they’re confined a mile high

With no stairs or elevator.

But then a guy climbs up the tower with her hair to save her.

Well, I’ve been waiting here for hours;

Where’s my savior?

 

Does this pattern imply that there’s no royal guy like me?

None who would flatter a guy, like me?

Or is that just a lie I see?

Are the princes resisting their innocent wishes

For the sake of tradition and poise?

Do princes like boys?

 

This thought gives me rest.

I’m relieved to believe I’m not caught in this rest,

So I’m not stressed.

I’ll wait for the hate to subside

When my date can ride on his quest

And test his kiss on my lips having gone numb.

Someday, my prince will come.


The Water Cycle” (December 5, 2018)

A cloud in my brain looms,

Resting upon my eyes,

Abstracted from old flumes,

Fallen from heavy skies.

 

To cry is a damn mess:

Drizzle within instead.

The heart will absorb stress,

Less for the weary head.


In Your Eyes” (November 7, 2018)

In your eyes I see heaven and hell,

Those portals to sea and sand,

For your irises curve like a shell

To hermit crabs bare on land.

 

But the sun, it evaporates life;

Its rays are a blazing knife,

Yet extreme hot and cold feel the same

On skin not yet touched by flame.


Stained Glass” (March 27, 2018)

He walks through the halls with you,

Hangs out at the mall with you,

But he’s bangin’ ‘gainst the walls; it’s true,

On those stained glass closet doors.

 

Days blur by

While minutes stand still.

Why?

Maybe because of the things that he hides,

And he’s losing his will,

And all that he can do is sit and stare at the sky,

About to cry,

Intending to die,

 

But then he sees that guy,

And his heart a-flutters,

But the others

Say that it’s the love of another type.

So what, he’s not a flippin’ cookie cutter, right?

But he gotta keep his secret tight

Lest his classmates come and ask him who he likes out of spite.

Alright,

He gets it;

You don’t gotta make a show.

He’s different and can’t fix it;

He was born that way,

But for today,

Maybe no one has to know.

 

He just wants to be him,

But when you come out to your friends,

You become a flippin’ synonym

Of yourself.

So he puts that fact on a shelf,

In his piggy bank of secrets;

Time to make a new deposit,

Which isn’t too far of a walk because he’s already in the closet.

 

But someday,

Someday he’ll lift up a hammer and SMASH.

The piggy bank explodes, but not with CASH.

How’s THAT for fitting in?

But now he’s splintering,

And the closet doors are open,

For the stained glass cracks,

And he’s hoping it’ll heal.

How’s it feel?

He don’t know, he’s still reeling

From the stress and the mess,

Probably some lack of rest

From the ordeal,

His biggest secret revealed.

 

Or at least it will be,

Someday.

Someday, I’ll finally find the bravery.

Someday, he won’t keep himself in slavery

Where lies are chores,

And those lies lie behind stained glass closet doors.

 

I hope that someday,

He’ll find a way

To come out and say

That he is…