deepundergroundpoetry.com

i'm a creep, i'm a winner

i.                  
                     
amazing!                    
                 
...the way she makes sense of it all.                    
                 
she knows so well                    
the secret language                    
of loot and hoots and                    
refrigerator magnets;                    
                     
                     
and i am but a moth for this flame.                 
                                     
   
ii.                    
                     
wilting, sage-smothered                    
dahlias shivering                    
in her irises once more,                    
                     
in silence she weeps                    
as the moon rises in tune                    
with a graveyard song.                    
                     
she says it's been                    
a rough few days,                                     
and the chorus of my soul                    
sings a myriad of dirges.                    
                     
                                     
for weeks i plan                    
the sculpting of lands                    
she's never seen                    
or even dreamed of.                    
                     
for months i've know                    
that billion dollar                    
smile's bound to bring                    
my sweet demise.                    
                     
                     
iii.                    
                     
cleanly pressed,                    
                     
this woman scented                    
of momma bear                    
and top-shelf, vintage vinyls,                    
                     
intricately folded,                    
perfectly condensed,                    
                     
thick as her banana bread -                    
                     
and her breath                    
is like magic,                    
                     
and her eyes                    
are like magic;                    
                     
                     
and so i've discovered water.                    
                     
                     
iv.                    
                     
the world may know                    
of your elder noons                    
and infant dawns,                    
your weary limbs                    
and wisened stare -                    
worn from chasing autumn,                    
maintaining balance,                    
digesting grief -                    
your business pitches                    
and onyx blazer,                    
your fancy feasts                    
and                    
polished frame...                    
                     
but all they know is the frame.                    
                     
i've spent countless                    
hours in-between,                    
tenderly opening                    
the back and reading                    
behind-the-scenes ink                    
so riveting it could              
drive a man bonkers with love.                    
                     
                     
v.                    
                     
funny how                    
your magic eight ball                    
always                    
sides with my ribs,                    
                     
and how                      
even fortune tellers                    
have                      
conspired with me.                    
                     
        constellations,                    
    tarot cards,                    
coinkydinks -                    
                     
at this point,                    
even a fool could pick up                    
what the universe is throwing down.                    
                                     
vi.                    
                     
something like birds                    
and sunlit clouds,                    
or the smell of freshly cut grass,                    
like hundred year old wine                    
and classic concertos,                    
like an angel at the opera,                    
or snow-capped hills                    
weaving up and down,                    
and butterflies falling in reverse...                    
                     
she's a beautiful storm -                    
                     
unadulterated, velvet thunder,                    
                     
the sort of individual that                    
always leaves her mark,                    
that owns the room                    
and commands armies                    
with a mere glance.                    
                     
she could rule the world            
but would rather be at home            
                    
eating chocolate cheesecake,              
             
laughing with her progeny,              
             
whupping ass on Overwatch.                    
                     
*                    
                     
she is the whimsical                    
message of a license                    
plate cruising through                    
rinky dink towns that                    
would surely flourish                    
if they knew her name,                    
                     
and the quiet thrum                    
of galaxies colliding                    
lightyears away,                    
                     
and the cool taste of          
ice cream during some              
ridiculous heat wave.                                  
                     
she could set the world                    
on fire with applause,                    
                     
or freeze the oceans                    
with a gasp for air.                    
                     
*                    
                     
sacrosanct, this queen                    
with not a mean bone                    
in her body--lest you                    
threaten one of her                    
babies, or the kingdom                    
she's built from the ground up,        
         
through mud and toil,          
with finesse and    
swagger - effortless.           
     
                               
vii.                    
                     
and last night i dreamt of you,                    
                     
i dreamt myself on a roof                    
at night,                    
                     
just me,                    
a bottle of crown,                    
and a telescope,                    
                     
                     
and i looked through this vessel                    
to see you waltzing with the stars.
                   
                                  
viii.                    
                     
o', wise dweller of the woods,                    
daughter of the fiery warrior,                    
influencer of nobles and princes...                    
                     
smile!                    
                     
for the cosmos stand                    
by your side                    
with arms wide open,                    
waiting to bring you home.                    
                     
 
ruedabeyga
Written by ruedabeyga
Published | Edited 8th Apr 2019
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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