I missed (poetry)

I missed this
and that
of you.

I missed the obvious
like your eyes and your
smell.

Your smile.

I missed your breathing.
The ways you inhaled
and exhaled
when you were excited.

Or falling asleep with your arms around me.

Or turned on. 

All of them different
only slightly
but all of them yours
and wonderful.

It was music to my ears
the in and out
of you.

I missed the stubble on your
face after a day of no shaving.

I missed
you pulling away my hair
to kiss the nape of my neck
with the scratch and the
soft
of lips. 

I missed you smelling my hair.

I missed your hands
so much bigger than mine
the comfort of your
arms.

The definition of muscle
under skin
in you.

I missed your early
morning sleepy eyes.

The sound of you in the shower
lulling me back into dreams.

It wasn't until
I was able to let you go,
that you
came back.

Two Trees (old poetry)

Two Trees
She was a sun kissed child of the 80’s
I was her best friend; we swore ‘til the end.

We were two girls, she and I
She was the only person who made me feel
Good about myself, made me feel alive.

We nailed up two hammocks, one right on top
Of the other, swinging between two trees.

The forth of July we threw fireworks
Into her hollow tree in the front lawn;
Watched it smoke until the fire inside, died.

I drove by her house the other evening
Those two trees were just piles of cut up wood.

We used to lay and sip our lemonade
While scrawny legs hug off itchy hammocks.

Strong (old poetry)

 

I like to believe I am strong
sometimes
not as weak as the exterior
wills me to be.
in my fantasy world,
I hold my own,
know where I am going,
where I have been.

the key is simplicity
and in my dream
everything
is simple.
I don't hide behind
the pen.

The very same pen
that has brought me such joy,
as well as the continuous burden of sorrows.

no,
not in the world where I am strong.
In this world,
there are no feelings to be
hurt,
and I am no longer
the shape
I once was
hiding behind the letters.

I stand tall,
and proud. For once
I have all the answers,
for once I know
what it feels like to be
the true
me. And not
the one behind the ink.

No one knows this self I have become.

But did I
become,
or have I always
been?

So deep inside
I realize, no one knows
me,
as I am
and how I push myself to be.
Not even me.

Once again
the dream is over
and I am behind the pen.

I am not strong,
but,
I like to be pretend to be.