The Garden

So here is rough draft of my newest poem, a spoken word piece, The Garden. It's still filled with plenty of mistakes; however the basic idea is there. The beginning isn't very solid, and the poem itself is not complete, so I'm just sharing a simple excerpt at the moment. I haven't had as much time for writing lately, but hopefully I will finish and edit soon. I'll be posting the final copy on my web page: Unrefined Poetic

I hope you all enjoy! Any suggestions/critiquing is welcomed :) keep an eye our for new posts on my final piece, as well as additions to my web page!



...for the first time I realized I was naked, and so were you. With different names written across your new body--I couldn't look at you anymore, and please take your eyes off of me

lights back off
clothes back on
layer upon layer

there I was, trying to cover up every inch of me that's ever been reached by you. If I could, I swear I'd start with my eyes. You always said they were your favorite part of my body, your happy place. But now that's only found deeper within the opening of a stranger’s thighs.

Is this my punishment? God named me Eve, and I caressed every aspect of the forbidden tree, it's just that you tasted so sweet for a little while..so I allowed myself to drink the lust from your skin, and I carved my name so deep into your back as if I'd then have some kind of possession over all your feelings.

I'm sorry God, I guess I got lust confused with another four letter word that seemed to roll beautifully off his lips to mine, that first time he kissed me like a secret that could only be told beneath his sheets.

I close my eyes to escape you; the delicate blues that sculpt my soul now drown to the salty abyss.

You've left me here, alone in this unknown garden, my thoughts grow through vines across my most outer layer of skin, the only thing to clothe me yet still leaving me completely exposed.

I bite my lip so hard to bleed a glue that contracts the surfacing words of sadness filling my tongue, leaving little room for breath itself.

My petite fingers that once kissed you so delicately now run to the form of angry fists, an action of self defense in case your body language decides to hit me harder with the carelessness in your lifeless hands.

I notice a pulsating pain coming from my left palm; I look to find the blood soaking remains of my heart, still beating, slowly.

You drank me dry, every last drop of my love, and returned my heart only once your thirst was quenched. Too tired to place it among my chest?

You left my heart in one hand and my eternal life in the other, leaving nothing but my fingers to shelter them from the outside world.

This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

A Nightly Theif

She returns to morning
leaving his eyes once again full
but pocket broke.

And it’s all over so fast—
but just until the next blanket of night
comes to suffocate all reality.

Sending fingers dialing
to bodies swimming
in a pool of new lust.

The two held too tight to their convictions
fighting the realization their souls
are now locked.

Pretending it’s still nothing
but a nightly feed.
It’s far too complicated
for them to just, be.

This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

Trapped

He is a broken record of his father’s disapproval,
a single phrase strung from the ache of refusal.
His father holds the paint brush of his self-esteem
creating a masterpiece of hesitation on his back,
just to watch him fall when the painting
gets too heavy to carry.

He exercises his spirit's strength,
trying to get a stronger grip
on any aspect of truth—
something never been given to him.

So he searches for the word ‘beautiful’
at the bottom of a nightly appetite,
feeding easy money to a broken woman.

He waits for happiness to fall
in the acidic rain drops dancing on his tongue,
caressing his breath with the controversy of

fear
and
freedom. 

He thirsts for nothing more than peace
indulging himself within his mind,
hoping to fill his cup
with the drippings of a trip
he may never return from.

He carries a hippie mentality upon his shoulders;
his motions stirring to love everyone
but mind closed off to recieve.
Keeps love at arm’s reach
as if he’s allergic to the feeling.

He numbs himself of all human emotions,
only ever opens his mouth
when substance can speak for him.

He's too afraid to stand under the Son of God
because no one ever treated him right.
So, he walks under his own sky.
he has yet to realize that the sun he lives for
burns out every night.

This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.