How to be a Liar

This poem is to some extent a response to Poet's United Thursday Think Tank prompt from last week: How To.


How to be a Liar

It begins with a pact; a promise

“Don’t tell daddy,” she says

But in all of your childishness

or perhaps rather a premature intelligence

you’re compelled to know why

before entering even a verbal contract such as this

He won’t understand

It’s plain and simple

He’ll misinterpret

and someone will be deeply hurt

And from that point on

there's this suppressed, unacknowledged terror

that lies beneath your diaphragm, as you agree to keep it

a secret

Not for daddy’s sake, no

but but surely for mommy’s.

Because you and mommy

might as well have slashed cuts

at your palms

and touched bloodlines

because, just in case you hadn’t shared the blood bond before,

You now are forever entangled.

And it doesn’t end with daddy, no

(though he is long gone by now)

Pact upon pact

Bond upon bond

they pile up until the stories flow steadily like rivers

and the people

are towns, no, worlds

just settled along the bank

which is merely a pile of your own untruths.

But when she and you are in this together

You are a duo of misunderstood bandits

stealing from one life to the next

Survival of the fittest, it’s called

And the secrecy is your role,

Your duty to the sacred bond

You’re old enough!

The machine can’t function without you

You’re clearly aware of that

And, like that, it’s almost a matter of life or death

And while you did not ask to start over, again,

She reminds you that you probably need it just as she does

And it touches you nonetheless

And it’s all right,

justified even,

and when that’s the case

it almost masks completely

that you’re nothing but a liar.

Just a little author's note: This poem is freshly written, and now that I have it all on paper, I feel pretty confident in saying that this is one of those poems that I never want to read again.

A Reluctant Guest

Ever since I started yet another new journal, precisely one month ago, I am finding myself increasingly happier with my works of prose. Here is one that was just written that I would like to share with you.

A Reluctant Guest

Today is truly the first day in which I feel uncomfortable living in someone else's house. It was only a minuscule occurrence that happened yesterday but it seems to have changed the atmosphere nonetheless. The tea kettle had started whistling, and I couldn't help but think to myself how humorous and almost story-like it was that the whistling got louder just as the argument upstairs had. I was tired, and the thought of tending to the kettle hadn't even crossed my mind in the slightest, and as a result I was reprimanded -- and perhaps appropriately-- as though I was one of the woman's insolent children. While this scenario provides more than enough ammunition to write the story of my dreams, the reality of the incident hits me sore, in such a sensitive spot, that I cannot possible bring myself to put pen to paper and turn it fiction.

Since I had started residing here, a full two months ago, I had often stated that being in a situation such as this is a most meticulous balancing act. One must know when to act as a guest and when to play the part of a significant contributor. One must know when to be invisible and when to remain in plain sight. One must decide when to take action and when to simply butt out. I admit that I took a lousy misstep that threw off my balance and now I must bear the consequences of this disease until the weight of the atmosphere permanently settles.

Skirt Over Jeans

I had been reading poetry all day so naturally, a new poem.

Skirt Over Jeans

Skirt over jeans,

the redhead wooed me first,

with her sharp tongue but gentle touch

I wished her to love me

As she loved the girl with the jet black, short hair

And I cried

And I yearned

And I dreamed and imagined

For a day that I would be that girl confined to a wheelchair

Only to have the spunky redhead tend to me

and love me

In her flowing skirt over jeans.

I must have been a girl of less than fourteen

Not understanding but a single thing

of what I felt when I saw her

light up my eyes as she lit the screen before me.

I watched her, religiously, for 120 hours,

Deliciously, for one year and 8 weeks

and over again

as I went to school,

in both seventh and eighth grades,

with my skirt over jeans.

I ignored stares and murmurs

for I had a stronger force compelling me

to the charming, fictional redhead

who existed, not in my world

but in someone else’s,

smiling and speaking wittingly,

to her young female companion,

who had needed her only slightly less than I did

when I devoted myself

to that redhead who preferred her skirt over jeans.

In the years since,

I must have forgotten her,

lost her in the shuffle of fleeting infatuations

that I had concocted for myself unintentionally,

trying to fill the void she left within me,

that astounding redhead

with her knee-length skirt over a pair of old jeans.

Steam

Two poems in one day, aren't you lucky?! This is an acrostic poem I wrote in response to this week's prompt on Poets United & Poetry Blogroll in hopes that I can get some more writing out of me. I may have used a bit of poetic license with this one, I'll admit, but in my defense, I haven't written an acrostic poem since perhaps the third grade.

S he silently slips her hand around me from behind

T houghts of mine are interrupted as I turn to her timidly

E ager, I take her hand and lead her to the shower

A ching for love, I press her against the cold tile wall

M y hands move up and down her wet figure as I maneuver myself through the steam

My Lady in Green

In attempt to increase my post frequency, which has been rather low lately, I will post this poem that I wrote just this morning, though I am not sure if it has completely earned my approval yet. Here goes...

My Lady in Green

And here I am

subject to this hit once again

favoring the past

over my present shade of reality

Wishing myself years back

to the life of us

“For just one day,” I pray

Because she must have loved me then, right?

Because she must have hugged me, touched me then, right?

Because I must have felt her then, right?

I assume

but I cannot remember

I miss my Lady in Green

though green she is no longer

And I

I am kept oceans away

letting myself be carried up by her wave again

Compare and Conrtrast

Written in mid March 2010

Compare and Contrast

Like an old toy

cast aside

Once special

now mundane and uninteresting

My compliance

No longer refreshing

But taken for granted

as if it is owed

A debt to be paid for this hospitality.

With the passing of moments

My value decreasing

Along with my heart

Sinking lower and lower

The love I crave

A natural resource running out.

Her routine back to normal

Sympathizing becomes difficult,

Feelings conflict

And confusion is common

Spiraling heals over head

I lose focus altogether

A step out of place

Repercussions to come

You walk a thin line

Avoiding the gun

Bliss churns to sorrow

Compare and contrast

Fingers pressed to your temples

You pray this wont last

Just Words of some sort for a very special someone

I'm not exactly sure what this is, but its for a very special person in my life whom I miss dearly and seeing as I haven't posted much this month, I decided that this was worthy of sharing:

I have never belonged to anyone the way that I belong to you. You know nothing of this devotion, I’m afraid, yet it is a devotion so strong that it touches upon every fiber of my being. I am yours, yours in every which way. At times it leads me to question if I could fully hand myself over to another, when you so firmly have hold on every part of me. And I do my best to live life in spite of this fact, however it creeps up onto me as though out of nowhere, with the mere thought of contact with you. You, your name, your face, your acknowledgement, your presence in any form whatsoever forces me down onto my knees, back under this enchantment, a heavy pendant around my neck, weighing me down with this unchallengeable, unquestionable love for you. Your affection, O how I crave nothing but this attention, a sweet burst of ecstasy, infiltrating my senses, impairing me to any form of judgment that is not you.