number five now
to cry in the pitch tar
room, the words
to a melody
and my throttling thoughts
x xx x x
X x x x
Copyright 2014 Golden Star Poetry
I do not own these photographs
Lila hated the mornings.
fleeting, once, she dreamed
wanting the wind to kiss the peonies
she knew her lover stood there
and he boomed commands like a vast mountain
“who dares to find the treasure inside me?
I alone can grant the misery or the pain or the pleasure”
and it was true:
he knew to cast the pain or the joy
when just the moment came
and when she would realize that he was not there
she would scream into her comforter
while her mascara painted
onto her ruddy cheeks
as she half shuddered the words to a poem that’s first line was:
“I just wanted to talk to someone beautiful”.
she could feel the nausea,
and she still hated mornings.
the mornings hated her,
but the dreams wanted to love her silently
giving her the same dream with the same lover.
yet she still she wakes up,
lying on her stomach
from tossing around in her bedridden storms.
Copyright 2013 Golden Star Poetry