I’ll arrive on rainInto Saturday Night
I awakened him with a soft exhale
One that was on purpose
Long
The timing of which had nothing to do with anything
Except fate and skin and the sixth-sense that is subconsciousness
And though this was his Sunday
That blessed day of rest
Seemed unnecessary, he said
As we sank back
Into Saturday night
Feverish
Poetry Not Worth Your Time
Confounded by this imagery
Exponentially excellent
Poignant to the third power
Sunny, yellow, song-filled years
Their brilliance blinded you
Splashed across the cover
Much, much more than metaphors
Words you no had time for
This that you never wanted
And couldn’t be bothered to invest in
Yet might’ve someday deserved
Will always want you
To read with
To rhyme with
Dog-eared, these glorious pages
This book of Days
Your Balls
It has been raining irreverently for 36 hours and it has no plans to end soon
It’ll be morning again before it thinks to knock it off but at least during this time realization poured too from the sky unto me long enough to stop or at least slow down my use of expletives
For how long we’ll see
I stand drenched in the new-found understanding that you never had the balls to tell me that I didn’t understand you yet you could tell me that she understands you and this confuses me
Let’s not talk about that I haven’t been able to breathe since August and I have fallen in love with the thought of bridges with knives with scrubbing my kitchen floor using my tears with metaphors to protect me and others from the truth that I don’t see the fucking point anymore
Whoops
Changing the subject clearly she’s empowered you
A thought that makes me happy for you
And for your new-found balls
Sunday Arrival
I left my lover girl, that busty girl, in Some Grand Place
Got on a plane and just left her there
Smiling, she, chasing me
A happy fool, out of breath, certain she’d succeed eventually
Waiting came, then
Watching
Her eyes half covered, like we were playing hide and seek and it was getting dark
Peeking
She didn’t want to lose me in the misty twilight
She didn’t lose me in the misty twilight
She didn’t lose me
She didn’t
Hunter
I am amazing
In hunter green sheath
I’d planned last summer
For New Year’s Eve
Silk against skin
Cut to the thigh
Your demure firework
Heels on high
Champagne celebration
It was to have been
We’d teach eachother
We’d dance again
Inky ring-fingers
Hilltop house near a glen
Belonging to each other
Forever by then
Linear Track
You should turn on your headlights and come drive ’round here
Get here fast, then cruise real slow
For this pavement may not be ready yet for such a soulful soul
Such intention and growl, bold and sweet, has long been absent from this street
May spinning wheels find linear track
Have a song playing loud in your heart, so the whole neighborhood knows
Your intentions
Whatever they may be
I’ve no wants or words of wisdom there, and you’ll do what you want, anyway
As you should, but I will say
You should turn on your headlights and come drive ’round here
Best You: A Haiku
Best you come harder
The Western Storm just don’t know
Say hello to This
Summon the angels
The usefulness of tears
LisaRosier.com 