Drive By

Here’s the story,
of the Summer 2020 hit and run,
when the ex from 7 years ago,
ambushed my gig,
to tell me,
“I was the one”.

He said he was in therapy,
and shouldn’t have let me go,
kids were no longer part of his plan,
and he needed to let me know.

His manic declaration,
in the middle of my set,
left my friends stunned,
and me visibly upset.

I wanted to say “go to hell”,
and tell him he was wrong,
instead I sat back down,
and began my next song.

So that’s the story,
of the hit and run,
by the ex I can now say with absolute certainty,
is definitely not the one.

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Karma Police

this is a mess,
not quite wax poetic,
don’t know if i’m coming or going,
and pretty sure I don’t get it.

Been Facetiming with friends,
and running for miles,
taking an absurd amount of selfies,
with an absurd amount of smiles.

Don’t know what’s ahead,
or if i’m riding solo for life,
been writing crappy songs on the piano,
to accompany my strife.

This poem has to end,
cause there’s profanity on the way,
but thought I should mention,
that whole “taking the high road” thing,
that ends today.

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Ain’t No Sunshine

We’ve been apart for a while now.
I’d lie and say I don’t remember how long it’s been,
to prevent myself from appearing desperate,
but I remember.
The last time my hands were on you,
was March 9, 2020,
at approximately 10PM.

The distance is killing me,
depression has set in,
there’s nothing I can do,
but wait.
My only solace,
is knowing,
that you are waiting for me too.

I have to confess,
I went to see you last night.
I drove over,
parked the car,
and peered into the window.
There you were,
looking like you were sleeping.
The “Do Not Touch” sign was sitting on your closed lid,
and ropes were around you,
to keep you safe.
I didn’t know if I should smile or cry,
so I did both,
and walked away,
that when it’s time,
I will show up in a black tank top,
like I always did,
and we will pick up right where we left off,
you are my Baby Grand.

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I called him “Bukowski”,
because he wrote with the same disdain as the poet,
and succumbed to all the same vices.

He loved to drink,
He loved to smoke,
and he loved women,
one in particular,

He wrote often.
He would lay on the couch,
cigarette lit,
and write,
while I played sloppy chord progressions on the piano,
because I was drunk,
not on alcohol,
but on love.

And although he possessed Bukowski’s vices,
he did not possess his face.
There were no boils,
or scars,
just the bluest eyes I had ever seen.

I called him “Bukowski”,
but I eventually had to stop calling,
he was too Bukowski.
Continue reading

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Bittersweet Symphony

Last night,
I was the girl in glasses,
alone at a bar,
with a book,
which basically made me,
a sitting duck.

I knew this,
but I had gone to hear my friend play his guitar,
and I was going solo,
so if I was going to be a sitting duck,
I was going to be one with a book.

this sitting duck thing,
made me subject,
to one drink offer,
and two inappropriate questions,
from a total of three strangers.

I was about to close my book and leave,
when my friend with the guitar,
asked me to accompany him on piano,
and I suddenly became,
the happiest sitting duck in town!


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Fast Love

I should probably put the pen down,
because I might make a mess,
but there’s a few things here,
I want to confess.

I just dyed my hair,
because I thought I saw a random grey,
I bought new jeans with holes in them,
because I thought they’d make me feel okay.

I’ve been playing the piano,
in a semi-full on rage,
and I unfriended someone on Facebook,
simply because she just got engaged.

I’m eating oatmeal for dinner,
because I’m too lazy to cook,
I’m writing this poem in my underwear,
and no,
you can’t take a look.

I know it’s not much,
the degree to what I’ve confessed,
but stay tuned,
and I promise,
to let you know the rest.

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More Than Words

I tried to make the piano scream last night.
I struck the keys so hard,
that I could feel my fingers bruising more and more,
with each passing measure.
In that moment,
I don’t think I cared if they broke,
I needed my song to be heard.

Ironic thing was,
it wasn’t even “my song”.
It was a cover of  “Paint it Black” by The Rolling Stones,
at this particular open mic,
I had decided,
last minute,
that Mick Jagger’s lyrics needed to be heard,
I needed to hear them.

there I am,
pounding the keys,
stirring up a symphony of sound,
when I realized,
the piano didn’t need to scream,
I did.

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Pictures of You

And it’s Friday night,
And i’m driving around,
And “that song” came on,
And suddenly it’s 2004 again,
And he was going to be a rock star,
And he played bass until his fingers bled,
And his band became family,
And we stayed out all night,
And this went on for years,
And we knew it couldn’t last,
And it didn’t.

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Just Like Heaven

You fell asleep,
and I could feel the poem forming in my brain,
the words trying to find their place,
but I didn’t grab my notebook,
I didn’t want to wake you,
so I tried to stay awake,
because I was afraid I would forget the words,
but around 3am,
I fell asleep,
and in the morning,
when we woke,
the words were gone,
until you kissed me,
and said “I love you”,
then the words came back,
all of them,
“I love you too”.

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Cold Play

Last Christmas,
I gave him a Ninja Turtle ornament,
because he invited me over,
and I felt I should show up with something,
besides my musical ability,
and manic state.

We had been impromptu jamming,
on and off,
for months,
because I was alone,
and he was lonely.

He wrote songs,
they were really good,
and though his lyrics were simple,
he definitely was not.

He had a synthesizer,
there were only 61 keys,
27 fewer,
than the 88 I’m used to,
but it didn’t matter,
none of this did,
and inevitably,
that’s what mattered.

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