Guerilla Poetess | Erotic Poetry, Romantic Poetry, Original Poems

Random Acts of Artfare

When I dream

Of coming springs

Of tender things

That lovers bring

I do not dream

I do not dream of you.

When I’m alone

And pleasures nigh

I shake and die

With every sigh

But do not think

I will not think of you.

Late at night

When I’m aflame

And passions tame

I speak no name

I do not reach

I will not reach for you.

Naught is broken

But vows unspoken

Perhaps a spell

And just as well

A love that’s hell

You must let pass

Like broken glass

This barefoot Lass

Has bled from heart

Been torn apart

Too many times

For idealist crimes

The world now finds

A wiser soul

Who knows the toll

Of braver love

And blinding faith

A heart so chaste

Can still be faced

With far more pain

Than it deserved.

Unjustly served

By butchers knife

A butchered wife

One small girls life

That won’t be wrong

But can’t belong

To anyone else at all.

O, see her fall

On bended knee

Naught is broken

And naught to see.

My Father

Who Art in Florida

Hollow be thy game.

Thy Pension come

Thy will be done

Always at the expense of others.

Give us this day

Our deep regret

And forgive us our values

As we forgive those

Who operate

Without them.

And lead us not into trepidation

But deliver us from expectation.

Amen.

Daddy Dearest Poetry

Let the angry world

Of  jade and spite

Hasten to its

Long cold night

But not we two

The me and you

Will start anew.

Let the selfish arms

Of single need

Propagate

Destructions seed.

But not we two

The me and you

Will start anew.

Let the quiet road

Walked hand in hand

Lead us to

Our promised land

And yes we two

The me and you

Will Love renew.

Someone taught me something very important this weekend, and this poem came to me on the subway ride into work this morning.   There is no hope for Love where hope has died.  You must believe in the dream of the future you see together.  You have to BELIEVE in each other and without that, there is no positive outcome.  

Thank you for the life lesson baby. 

I believe ~xo~

Broken Heart

Your life’s fucked up
It dumped a truck
Of holy shit, and
What the hell now?
The fattened cow
That was
The Easy Life
Has fled, and strife
Gnaws at your bone
You hide at home
Where you feel safe
Un-judged, unnoticed
But I see you hide
And so I try
To open windows
And let in air
My sunshine’s there
To call you out
You scream and shout
Like I’m Miss Bad!
I know you’ve had
A girl like that
Who ruined you
For Girls like me
And can’t you see
The golden ride
When it’s beside
You smiling, and brushing
Hidden tears
Paradoxical fears
To the left
I guess
You’ll miss me more
When I am gone
Yes, that old song
Sung way too late.

This is a short autobiographical story I wrote. I am uploading it here because I never write short stories, and I don’t want to lose this one somewhere obscure in my little apartment.

The Frog Princess

When I was a kid, I came to realize that people never say what they mean. At dinner, my father would say “that tasted great” and then quickly scrape meatloaf into the dog’s bowl while my mother ran to the bathroom. My mother would say “that look’s great”, and then replant the white daisies I had planted in the garden. My grandparents said it would be “great” to have a little sister, who ended up screaming and yelling and pulling my hair, and throwing up on all my stuffed animals.

When my father kissed my mother, his eyes never left the television. He never looked into her eyes. He looked away instead. And when my mother said “I love you” he always looked at his shoes. I used to glance at his shoes too, curiously trying to figure out what was so neat about them. He seemed to never grow tired of looking down at them.

The first time that my father left my mother, I was just a baby. He may not have liked his wife, or his life, but he liked babies. So he came back. The second time my father made her cry, I think I was about 4.

I remember waking up to the sound of dishes breaking in the kitchen, and since the kitchen was right beside my bedroom, I went and looked.

My dog Smokey came too, although his tail drooped when he heard the yelling.

My tail drooped too, except I didn’t really have one.

My mother was crying, and screaming and throwing things. She was wearing bell bottom blue jeans and an orange turtleneck with brown stripes (kind of like the one Ernie on Sesame Street wore). Her blonde hair was wavy and flipped up at the ends, and black makeup ran down her face, making her look like a raccoon, with crystal blue eyes that were opened wide. A little too wide. And every time my father took a step toward her, she threw another plate on the ground in between them. He didn’t have his special shoes on, but he was still looking down, sometimes.

He had a belt in his hand, like he was going to hit her. She had her back to the sink and was cornered, with only a bunch of broken white glass between him and her. And my sister. She was there too, but not born yet, and every now and then, my mother’s small hand would travel over her tummy, where my sister was waiting. I wondered if my sister could hear this, and if she was scared like I was.

And I really was.

I put my back against the wall and began to sneak over to the sink and my mother. Little steps so that neither one of them would notice me. She had a bleeding nose, and it was dripping down and she didn’t care. I watched the drops fall on the white dishes that were broken, like bits of red paint falling from a brush onto my coloring book, making jagged red flower patterns on the floor and on the glass plates. I picked up the tissue box from the floor, and stepped into the space between them.

“Go to your bed baby” said my Mother, but she didn’t turn her head to look at me. Her eyes were staring straight ahead at my father.

“Your nose is broken” I remember saying, stretching out on tippy toes to pass her the tissue box.

“It’s all broken baby” she said, in a voice I barely recognized.

And then it happened. Because any time I need to be balanced or graceful, this always happens to me. I slipped and fell. Straight down, and backward.

My foot skated forward on a large piece of plate and I landed flat on my back, on a bed of broken glass.

“Jesus f- Christ!” shouted my father angrily, but his voice was almost muted in my head. I was frozen on the ground, slowly lifting my arms to reveal pieces of glass stuck in my elbows, and my arms. My back hurt, my head hurt, my bum hurt, and when I realized that there was glass sticking into me all over (I began to feel wet spots on my nightgown) I started to cry.

My father ran toward me.

So did my dog Smokey, who now stood over me with his bum in my face. He was growling, and he almost never did that. He didn’t like my father too much, especially when these things happened. And they happened a lot.

All I could see was a very big furry gray tail, and it wasn’t wagging.

My mother rushed forward and picked me up into her arms. I felt my leg hit her big belly and felt bad and wondered if I had kicked my sister in the head and if she would be mad, because I sure didn’t mean to.

We headed straight down the hall to the bathroom, and my mother stood me up in the tub and lifted my white nightgown over my head, and it was covered in red dots, some big, some small. I felt like I had needles all over me.

My father put the dog outside. Smokey was still growling at him, but he went, and then started to bark from the backyard.

I heard the fridge door open and close.

I heard my Mother crying, as she “ouch!” removed one, then “ouch!” removed the next big and small shards of glass from my body, throwing the pieces into the Star War’s waste basket.

My Father emerged from the hall with a fudge-o Popsicle. He gave half to me, and put the other stick in his mouth. I put the Popsicle in my mouth the same way, and turned my bum to him. They both gasped.

“Mmwhat?” I asked, sniffling and slightly muffled by a giant Popsicle.

“Nothing baby” replied my Mother.

“She’s cut all over” said my father angrily, as my mother sighed.

“I am?!” I asked, alarmed.

“No you aren’t” she replied

“Don’t lie to her” said my father.

“No you lie to her Domenic, you are better at it”

After plucking me like a chicken, my Mother drew a warm bubble bath for me, and washed me. Occasionally she would find a sliver here and there, but I had Barbie to keep me busy, so I didn’t mind so much. When the bath was over, she wrapped me in a towel and cuddled me, rocking me a little and singing quietly to me. She then put a new pair of jammies on me, and let the dog in. Smokey ran straight to me and covered me in kisses. I kissed my mothers tummy and said goodnight to my baby sister. Then, I fell asleep.

Later my father came in my room. He sat on my bed, and I remember the dog growling again, as my father touched my hair.

“He doesn’t like me does he honey?” said my father softly.

“I don’t like you either” I replied, and turned my back to him.

My father stood up and walked out of my room.

I had a frog named George. He was a good frog, the green kind, and I had caught him near the cherry tree three days before the plates all got broken in our house. I had made a castle for him in the backyard out of shoe boxes and wooden grape crates.

George was good at keeping secrets, and I liked him a lot.

That morning when I woke up, I peeked out of my window, and George was gone. The castle was gone.

It was all gone, like it had never been there.

I learned it’s better to be a Frog Princess if nobody knows.

My love, I lay
Three blankets deep
In numbness keep
For we are done.
Ah yes, the fun
Was worth this pain?
I’m here again
Knee deep in grief.
My great belief
That I can love
And be loved back.
I’ve not the knack
To make it so
And though I throw
Another quilt
And too much guilt
Upon my chest
I cannot rest
Though I am dead
For in my head
A sorrow song
A missing limb
What’s done is gone
What’s gone is him.

This heart tastes
Like Grand Marnier
And Sunny Day
When it’s in Love.

This heart tastes
Like chocolate pie
And cloudless sky
When it’s in Love.

And this heart tastes
Like peach, no pit
Like Banana split
When it’s in Love.

Today it tastes
Like stormy sea
And bleeding knee
Yes, now I see …

It wasn’t Love.