an argument's decay

Cold is safe right?
reserved, preserved
to the back
save it for later
contain it
shelf it
all the ingredients
waiting
but not right now
and warm is
fleeting & teeming
out in the open
spoiling to the eyes
a natural death
the flies i can see
the mold right in front of me
id rather put it out
than find it
some absurd time later
when its long forgotten
and you cant help but say
"Oh my god, that's disgusting. How long has that been back there?"

it was a year ago or maybe two,
im getting older if im mixing up years,
but i said to you:
"I wanna take care of you"
and i meant it in the way that
i wanted you to take care of me
to look at me when i cant see
and tell me where i am
to smooth the lines under my tired eyes
rub my back as my hangover spills out of me
to sleep on the grass with me
in the sun,
in the rain, in a box, if we're homeless
to look up at the sky with me
and wish on burning balls of gas
that this will truly last
i need your thoughtful & mindless time to share
i want new miles and music
i want your deepest darkest, your surfaced, lightest
i want your poetic, dramatic, & your cheesy & spastic
i want your everything a day at a time
to really know you, but still get puzzled
for you to really know me, and the shapes i fit to be
to look at me with all my holes and split seams
and think that i could only be found in dreams
to be stubborn right back to me
take none of my nonsense and i won't take yours
but give me your thoughts, your speech
show me levels that haven't been reached
deep inside of you, deep inside of me
and when i can't always speak,
i need the language of affection
i need legs and arms tangled around me
in webs of blankets and squeezing
i need to be me
i need you to be you
and in order for that
"I wanna take care of you" (each other)
but you took it the wrong way
and maybe you felt vulnerable without a car or room to call your own
but i never saw you as that
the man i want to be with, without these things
i just saw you
and now i see you
getting upset about me saying that
and i see some short time later,
at the end of your mother's birthday dinner
me giving her a hug,
thanks for being born so i could be with your son,
i was always hesitant to hug her, but i did this time
it felt right,
and it was arms full of appreciation
and in this shared moment,
she whispered to me,
just to me,
"Thank you for taking care of him."

the last few poems, writings, whatever you wanna call em,
have sucked.
no appropriate adjective really, just the verb of suctioning
because all i can offer is a vacuous pull at the moment.
my apologies.
sorry.
dont really know who im apologizing to either
uh, myself?

i dont like how you creep back in
how i wonder if youre okay
i dont like that this mightve been how you felt
about a girl you couldnt give up
i dont like that the sweetness can become sticky
sometimes love spikes the punch of pain
because im falling in love
while shedding you off
like the old skin i used to wear
like the old fears i used to carry
and there you are peeled off on the floor
a part of me i cant put back on
i love you with all the past in my heart

but how do you feel?

to feel:
1. to have perception by touch or by any nerves of sensation other than those of sight, hearing, taste, and smell.
2. to have a sensation of (something), other than by sight, hearing, taste, or smell
3. to perceive a state of mind or a condition of body: to feel happy, to feel well
4. to find or pursue (one's way) by touching, groping, or cautious moves ("feeling it out")
5. to be or become conscious of.
6. to be emotionally affected by
7. to have a sensation of being




"I feel way too good touching your hand,"
she said, the words tumbled out of her lips
and oops just like passion to spill it all out there
in this moment of skin brushing skin
after feeling affection first inside
she wanted to give her feelings on high
the gravity of her fingertips
gravitated toward his
and he felt this pulse under his skin too
reaching out for the feelings he felt too
feelings confirmed by an accidental very purposeful touch.
an accidental very purposeful movement
a very clear picture of a blur
a primal fire evolved with lust and love
the need to be regarded and touched;
our hearts pump
physically
so that we are conscious mentally.

what a random moment
to be sitting on the toilet
and have the sudden urge
to open my room mate's drawer
under the sink.
it was jutting out
ever so slightly
and thats how i opened it,
and cast to the back,
the very end
of the drawer's limits
i see the distinctly lovely
just as she was,
the slender and elegant,
just as she was,
watch, that belonged to my grandmother
and now belonged to me
but now belonged to the back of my room mate's drawer
in the bathroom
under the sink
jutting out
in this moment to see the watch winking back there at me
and even though my grandmother would consider this swearing
and wouldn't approve
you bet your ass i took it back

I heard poets are often alcoholics

the hand of my mishaps
has smeared the colors of my memory
into a mix of black
all my happenings
pooled into a dark mess
a puddle of questions
a puddle with no concrete end
i remember certain shades
but i cant sift through the black
retrace what has mixed with what
i cant see how they came to be
and i dont believe in seeing the world
as black and white
but sometimes that's all youve got

text messages

well sometimes theyre just awful and rude
and they have no respect for your movie viewing experience,
class lecture, grandma's birthday dinner,
stop signs, or awkward dates.
they can lie with ease, they can pretend to be somewhere else
with someone else, they could be "lost"
in a clusterfuck of satellite signals
your "lol's" & various abbreviated choppings of the language
could be floating in the stars
never arriving at your screen
or maybe youve lost them
in the constellations of your regrets
because phones are allusive you know
sometimes they fall into toilets
they drop in to where youve blacked out
they get wedged into swallowing seats
they decide to stay long after the party, concert, event with bleachers, and/or
that was fun but there's no fucking way were driving all the way back to get your damn phone trip is over.
during your absence all those words are lost
undelivered packages of what have you missed?
since history evolved from spoken word
into written word
we are taking our words and making them history
we can look through the chronicles of the spring of 2010
through the text window of you and your ex significant other
and perhaps like history, you can analyze the different signs & signals
of the signs & signals you are reading
you could write essays about what your texts mean
you could make yourself seem more important
cuz you have moments polished into fast moving words
that are sent by a mental & physical push of button

i should be so tired....and i am? but my mind is racing, i have too many thoughts. the summer is slipping away. a year ago from today seems so strange now. looking back on myself the way i perceive myself now, looking back at the moments and memories my brain has chosen to save. looking back as a means to see what is now. it's almost like i want to spoil the future, which would really be the present, for my past self. like i wanna wink and give past me a reassuring smile. "It's okay 2010 Laura, youre doing just fine." what am i doing a year ago? where could i have seen foreshadowing definitive moments? all questions i will look back on again in another year. and so on...etc...infinity...until my brain produces no questions or pictures of time

i see too many people
giving their love
to people who give them pain
but if that's all you know
it might be all you look for
but look first toward your own pain
digest its thorns

there's just so many forms of communication now. it's harder to avoid people. and easier.

speak louder than

Tortured thoughts can be unbound
by shaping them as sounds
or the fingers of letters
may slowly unravel
restrictions against travel
on your mind's growth.
Everyone says that its polar
has more effect and volume
but what is shut inside
reflects motions outside.
To speak does not mean defeat,
words may lay flat
or evaporate in the air,
words may not do
but they may share
so that doing
is undone before it ever was a did
so that love is not capped off with a mental lid
so that if we feel the need to spill
we will put feelings into the pitches of our tones
and not the movements wrought by our bones
we will curl in the y of angry and cross our t's
we will unfold emotions as a play of thoughts
where our lips are the curtains that separate
and the mind will craft the figures of speech
to dance up and out of our throats
and stretch to ideas flesh could never reach.