flow of words

I sit.
I spaz.
I tighten my ponytail and return my twitching fingers to the keyboard.
I type.
I delete.

Sigh.

Just then, a burst.
Ideas flow through fingertips.
My hands dash as my brain directs,
painting onto a computer screen.
I sit, I edit.
I smile.

To feel myself breathe.
For my readers.
For people to see,
To sit, to edit, maybe to smile.
To share my thoughts, crazy or deep,
I write.

tempted

I want to hear it
Really, I do
But wait, no, don’t,
I shouldn’t

There’s just no way!
That can’t be true!
No way, she won’t!
He wouldn’t!

I once had this…
Friend. Friend? Well,
I suppose he
Can’t be blamed

Misguided and weak,
Swiftly I fell,
For his hissing
Couldn’t be tamed

He once slithered by
Offering wares:
A red apple,
Shiny and grand

I take a bite, and
Suddenly there’s
Too much, that I
Now understand

Why can’t I accept
Without a doubt
The faces that
I once found dear?

Take it back! I cry
To him, I shout,
My sight blurred
Now that it’s clear

An apple is pure,
Just as the truth
Supposedly
Frees you from fraught

But truth only hurt,
Aching my tooth,
From tasting what
I should have not.

Critical looks
That shoot their way,
I never meant
To depict

Conclusion is,
Secrets should stay,
Because truths always
Tend to restrict.

milk?

Writer’s note: This poem is based on an old Russian proverb, literally meaning “I’d like to drink honey with your lips,” which technically means, “it’s too good to be true.”

Her intentions seem pure.
Look at her:
Her smile so sweet. Almost too sweet.
You debate: cringe or smile back?

You’re blinded, looking at her,
By her bright white summer dress
And her bright white teeth,
White as the milk
On boxes of cereal

Then it hits you:
That’s not milk,
It’s glue.
And that grin plastered on her face?
It might be fake too.

So you cringe,
Whispering, to no one in particular,
“I’d like to drink honey with your lips.”