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11 Poems (standard:poetry, 0 words)
Author: AJAdded: May 31 2001Views/Reads: 1935/1140Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
11 short poems
 



My Favorite Metaphor 

You are my favorite necklace That has a broken clasp. I wore you Every
day for two years. Until something snapped And beads clattered to the 
floor. And every time I tried to fix you More beads slipped off. So I 
put you away. 

But now and then I remember how much I used to need The feel of you
around my neck. Even though you were sometimes heavy And wearing you 
made me ache. Sometimes I take you out And try to see what made you 
break. When I thought you were so enduring And I wish you could be 
whole. 

I'm the one 

Ceetee fell down But I'm the one pained She is bruised But I'm the one
maimed She is ashamed But I'm the one blushing She is cut But I'm the 
one gushing She is hurt But I'm the one dying She is sad But I'm the 
one crying 

I can run wild While she's the one creeping She's scared to step While
I'm the one leaping She's so numb While I'm the one feeling She's 
scared of the sun While I'm the one peeling 

She needs me But I need something I'm the one who's never had 

Open Your Hand 

But you've closed your book already You've made your beliefs a quarter
That you clench tight in your fist Afraid you might drop it. 

But Kevin, open your hand up You won't lose your precious quarter I can
fill your palm with money If you can take the risk. 

Daddy Don't You Know? 

Doesn't he know? He has the right To call his father up And show him a
picture of those haunted grey eyes And say, "Look Daddy, You gave me 
these grey eyes And you soaked them with tears With your balled-up fist 
That should have been an outstretched hand. Daddy, don't you know? I 
should have been your son Who sat at your right hand Instead your son 
Who sat under your right hand." 

And while he's at it He should show his daddy a picture Of my hunted
brown eyes And say, "Look Daddy, How you made me hurt Another." 

My Days Are Colored 

My past is colored With a thick waxy crayon coating Each red thing that
happened Looks like a fire engine aflame And each black thing Looks 
like ink running down the inside of a wet black silk blindfold. 

My present is colored With a thin watercolor wash Each shade is evened
out to grey Each breath I inhale Tastes the same as the one I just 
exhaled. 

Liar 

Jason is the pilot flame People think Oh such a cool Blue little
insignificant Light that never Hurt anyone. 

But the click of a switch And he erupts Into red orange bristling hot
fire 

Only I See him alight When there is no sign Of that calm serene blue in
his being Because he has yielded it to me A beautiful blue That 
spreads. 

Poem In An Envelope 

You get an envelope from me You rip it open And the tears spurt out To
splatter on your clean shirt Like blood When you cut yourself with my 
brother's razor How do you feel When you take out the soggy pages 
Spritzed with my pain perfume? 



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