Brainchildren :)

Hello Many of the poems I have here are a little bit rough around the edges, but I think some of them are good starts. Any constructive criticism or comments of any sort would be great to hear!

To Reggie

When did you get
so far away?
Just weeks ago,
the miles were seconds
and the hours were inches
and you felt so close.

Now Virginia feels
as far as the moon.
For all we'll ever know,
I may never see you again.
So what happens if we never go back?

Do we speak less often
and with less familiarity?
Do we even speak?

Do we fade away
to distant memories?
Do we even remember?

You could sing me
entire broadway sountracks.
I could sing you
full books of arias.
You couldn't name everyone
who's ever loved you.
I couldn't name everyone
I've ever loved.

We were the same
in our dissimilarity.
Now we're so different
in our perfect likeness.
Our closeness paradoxically
augments the space between us.

Which begs the question:
who is the thread
that sews us together,
and who is the knife
that tears us apart?

Starving Ourselves

I'm afraid we've been
just a little lost.
I'm afraid we've run away
from those who tried to save us.
I'm afraid we've run away
from each other.

I think we've been
drowning in the fountain of youth.
I think we've been living
only off our own mortality.
I think we've been
running absolutely nowhere,
and standing still
in too many different places.

I'm afraid we've been
too furtive, too secret
even for our own eyes.
I'm afraid we've starved ourselves
by eating from the tree of knowledge.

We have worked too hard
to know each other,
and yet we have learned nothing.
I could be a part of you
if only you would let me in.

Telling the Truth

I'll be the first one of us
to tell the truth:
This is not what I want.
This is not what I agreed to.
This is not where I should be.

We are surrounded
with pitchforks and torches
in a corner we've backed ourselves into,
in a grave we've dug
with falsehoods and secrets.
Every lie you tell pushes us back,
away from the angry mob,
but down a dead-end hall.

The solution is not
to break to the walls,
to jump through this last open window;
no, it's to make allies
from our greatest enemies,
to lay down the swords and make peace.

I'll be the first one of us
to tell the turth:
that I know better than you.
That I would not handle this
the way that you do,
if only it were up to me.

A personal favorite

Belonging

I have belonged to so many
that I can't belong to anyone.
I have belonged to so many
that it doesn't matter what I want,
but what comes naturally.
I have belonged to so many
that I've forgotten what not belonging tastes like.

But I know belonging tastes
both bitter and salty: makes you
gag, like a teaspoon of medicine.
I know belonging has no image
'cause I've always closed my eyes.
Belonging sounds like an animal,
starved in his pen for weeks
and finally allowed its cut of meat.
Belonging smells like skin,
glossed over with sweat. It smells
almost familiar; variations of
that same first boy.

But the best is how belonging feels:
it feels like fulfillment.
It feels like exploding. It starts inside
and pushes out each time.
It is both pressure, and the lack thereof.
It feels like all ten fingers,
all ten fingernails.
It feels like both lips, one tongue,
every single tooth.
It feels like muscle sliding over fat,
sliding over skins upon skins.
It feels like achieving solitude
by letting everybody in.

I've belonged to so many
that they are all uniform; unimportant.
I've belonged to so many
but I'll be owned by nobody.

Winter

It is winter when the numbness
starts to set in.
When drinking your tar in the morning
doesn't feel rejuvenating
and doesn't feel unpleasant,
but a voice tells you
you can't do it anymore.

It is winter when I do not
even feel you in me.
When pain comes with the letdowns,
but it is too easy to stifle.
When I could do it with my eyes closed,
thoughtlessly, unfeelingly
and you'd never even know
I don't care.

It is winter when walking home in the rain
does not feel unnatural.
It doesn't feel like anything.
When finding warmth
is of the utmost importance,
but there is not a warm body in sight.

It is winter when the snow builds up
and traps you in your house
with people you cannot even face
without some sort of speech,
a presentation on your wrongs
and their high hopes, already broken
though they never have to know.

It is winter when the bus in the morning
is dark and gloomy
and packed with people
just going through the motions.
People just like me,
but different in every way.
When it sometimes feels
like spring will never come again.