Basic Instinct

He keeps me on the verge of a poem,
he also keeps me on the verge of another thing,
but I rated this blog “PG”,
and the other thing is definitely not “PG”,
though now I kinda want to write about the other thing,
which was not my initial intention,
but to be fair,
I got stuck after the first two lines,
so now this poem might have to be
about the other thing,
which is definitely VERY poetic,
but you don’t want to read about that,
Or do you?

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More Than Words

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,
including,
“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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Sweet Dreams

He crawls upon me,
like a hungry savage,
searching for a soul to feed on.

Our vocals are repressed,
by voices of enticement,
as we clutch the sheets,
that cradle our bodies,
as we move further and further,
away from consciousness.

He is my poetry.
I am his poet.

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Under The Bridge

You said you don’t walk a straight line,
I kinda knew that,
I smiled.

I said I don’t walk a straight line either,
You kinda knew that,
You smiled.

Our yellow brick roads are not completely different,
and not completely yellow.

I don’t know what colors lay ahead,
and that’s okay,
as long as we keep walking.

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Dunkin Do-Nots

Sitting in Dunkin,
with coffee and a book,
when a 30-something guy approaches,
says, “He likes how I look”.

I smile,
say thank you,
attempt to return to my page,
but am ambushed with questions,
from a guy who should know better by his age.

“Married?
Have kids?
What do you do?
Have a boyfriend (or girlfriend)?
Is your cell phone new?”

Totally uncomfortable,
now providing amusement for the next table,
getting hit on is less flattering,
when the guy is socially unstable.

Not about to chug my coffee,
or surrender my seat,
I reply rather bluntly,
not missing a beat.

“Kids and marriage,
yet to be known.
My cell is crap,
I need a new phone.
I’ve had boyfriends, no girlfriends,
I don’t swing both ways.
You asked what I do,
here’s how I spend my days…

I’m a writer,
a blogger,
and during the next hour or two,
the subject of my next post,
will undoubtedly be about you!

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Smells Like Teen Spirit

He wanted to be Kurt Cobain,
except Cobain was already gone,
and he was still here,
though he didn’t want to be.

He made me his muse,
I didn’t want to be,
but I was.

So I played my piano,
and he played his guitar,
and we played Nirvana covers,
until midnight,
because we were 17,
and I had a curfew.

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