2019 Spoken Word Poems
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Reminded of forgotten desires. Dark, with television to lighten the rich, brown, mahogany, that is my skin. So soft. Addicted to touch. My hips seared by your fingertips. Shadows danced on the walls as you gave the phantom kisses that reside on my thighs. The music background noise to your name, as if it was the
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It’s hard to define a boy like you. So lovely and hard to resist. Enchanted by your smile and how soft you kissed. Like a secret two kids would whisper at night you said my name. When you held my hand, I forgot the world with a boy like you. You said beautiful words that washed
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My mind is miles before me and I feel so out of body. Repetitive in my actions obsessing over a routine that does not seem to fit. Chasing myself weighed down by my breath, the words that live on my lips refuse to be a part of written truth. Anxiety whispers to me, to believe
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I don’t have to say much to feel. You understand my silence as music, and when you speak, I do not miss a beat. I contemplate my desire for you, suppressing it beneath my desperate need for simplicity. I don’t need you to make me happy, or to fix a part of me. I am
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For some, the lips only speak what the tongue allows. The eyes say more— but I trust only the walk. How deliberate are your steps, that when you move, I believe you’ve left? We paint with frivolous words. But our actions— they’re the only things we ever commit to, no matter the condition. And our
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Will you still make me seem foolish amid your lack of interest? I gain nothing with uncertainty, maybe that’s why I have grown bored with games. Regardless of the time, I still respect you. I still see you in a light of your own. I still think you’re intriguing or whatever word that fits. I’ve reprimanded myself for treating
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If you hear me grant me peace for a minute. I can not live with this chaos. I am a dim flame that dances to keep others warm. Do you understand? Do you even care? Is my voice like the morning birds singing their tune; do you listen for your amusement? If we are to believe; we
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The sound of the ivories being played lifts attention to my beating heart. The melody so sweet and without charm pierces my senses. I sing out into an open space, finding myself in a clearing where my wilted flowers lie. A once beautiful meadow built for color and life. I blame the sun, the moon,
Wishful Thinking 