At Sea

Some people are anchors
Holding you steady, keeping you grounded
Losing themselves to sink to the sand
Grasp. Clutch. Hold on to them tight.
Staying you from drifting too far from land

Some people are lifeboats
Rowing you from burning barques and bridges
Your head above the surface, seagirt but safe.
Sweep. Steer. Feet on dry land.
Their voices, oars to the tides you’ll face

Some people are sirens
Enticing melodies beneath the deep
Dissolving your resolve with poetry in their eyes
Reel in. Bewitch. Mesmerize.
If music be the food of love, surfeit lyrical smiles

Some people are anchors
Others, lifeboats
Some are sirens
But you
Are all three

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Unbroken Stream of Consciousness

She doesn’t know how to get out of her head
Or tighten the spaces between her words
Or tend to the chronic wounds she’s bled
So she stands by rusty train tracks
Clutching a metro card, fully topped up
With guilt and ingratitude and all things ugly
Fueling her one-way trip to Desolation

She read this poem the other day
It warned her, don’t let life pass you by,
waiting for change or the next big thing
But here she sits, in the winter sun on the marble stairs
That lead into her own personal little purgatory
Being held up by Godot
Shunning those fleeting moments of clarity
Anxious to sink back into the mud again

They say, stay for the ones who care
But she can only sit on these marble stairs
That lead into her private little pity party
Watching people who don’t, pass by
(just an observation, no bitterness intended, she must clarify)
They’re never going to notice the girl on the stairs gone
Maybe hear of her in passing
Say a silent, disconnected prayer
And jump aboard their own train
Hopefully disembarking at a blither place

Each perfect summer is rotting away her insides
Every fresh accomplishment, eating her alive
Each doomed friendship is tearing at her flesh
Every crumbling relationship, a wave of guilt afresh
Squinting at the sallow sun peeking through the high-rise
She stretches out her legs over these yellowing marble steps
Don’t worry about her leaving, she’s already left

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people talk

let me know if you ever want to bunk class i’ll cover for you look at these guitars people broke you look sad today are you okay i like black abayas better I wear this scarf even though it isn’t part of the uniform the uniform scarf doesn’t stay put where did you guys watch the movie can you send me the link i need to finalize the flower arrangements how many seats do we need for the formal dinner i can’t do the psychology homework there are too many questions ma’am where will we get the glass podium from i wouldn’t be alive if i hadn’t been born in america can you give us less questions next time the doctors had to restart my heart when i was born aik second

Continue reading “people talk”

Iara

The stench of death

Clings to this staircase

Seeps into these seats

Lingers by the office door

 

You haunt every bench 

Your blue lips laughing 

At what could’ve been 

If we had maybe done more

Summer is Almost Over

New York was a busker’s poem
Lyrics pieced together by guitar riffs and trumpets
But Cambridge was a creamy journal
Lingering coffee stains and pressed spring flowers

New York was a riveting rollercoaster rush
A missed 2 am train and windblown hair
But Cambridge was a glide beneath arched bridges
Medieval chimes marking every hour under Newtonian trees

New York was a flurry of tap dance sequences
A glorious glittering Broadway show
But Cambridge was sunlit homely community theatre
Posters lining bicycle stands on cobblestone roads

New York was bold graffiti and scaffolds painted green
Sidewalk chalk and Instagram walls
But Cambridge was marble cloisters housing the ghosts on my shelves
A sweeping waltz through candlelit halls

New York was an all-consuming pandemonium
A coruscating kaleidoscope of midnight cacophony
But Cambridge was a delicate daydream
Fine cutlery and deconstructed oddities

New York was intoxicating, frustrating, complicated
An unquenchable thirst for everything that didn’t belong to me
But Cambridge was both everything New York was, and could never be
Cambridge was a watercolor reverie

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grateful

i am grateful for this home
for these scattered meds
these swaying rosaries
and the buzz of the tv

i am grateful
for these slept-in sheets
for these carefree conversations
and cold water in the thermos

i am grateful for
these sandals by the door
this walking stick adorned with truck art
for this brimming laundry basket

i am grateful for the
aroma of yet another lively lunchtime
stray dyed strands in hairbrushes
and ran-out pens that are never thrown away

i am grateful
for all the things that make
this house lived-in

i am grateful
for all the things we almost lost
when we lost you

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