Lemon Drops
In late 2012, I was writing a story on a local open mic night. There, I was introduced to some amazing spoken word artists, and after I attended a few nights, I decided to give it a try. I hadn’t written poetry since high school, but it really proved itself to be a valuable outlet for me. Below is a collection of some of my favorites that I’ve written.
How to secure your spot in the friend zone
Crown Royalty
Hoosier Girl
I am a collection of nail polish
Sometimes I mix & match
I am a leopard trench coat
The only pair of perfect shoes left in your size
I am a fresh mojito under the western sky
The final shot of whiskey in a cowboy’s cantine
I am my father’s footsteps
My mother’s ease
I am a signant ring
A rusted set of spurs
A jar of black ink
I am a country singer
My lungs loaded with romantic stories
Of the days behind me
I am a typewriter
Leaving lines you can’t quite see
Emphasizing
each
Letter
I am the one that got away
A pocket watch
I am a mouth full of curse words
At the white linen table
I am a fire pit
The melody on the radio
I am an old friend
A noisy screen door
That slams in the middle of the night
I am a cornfield
Nestled under an Indiana sunset
Waiting to rise.
Things you should’ve said
You should’ve said
It was someone else
That it wasn’t me you were looking for
You should’ve said
You loved her
And not me
You could’ve said
You bought a ring
Shared a hotel room
Took a picture
That would prove my point
You could’ve said
You’re getting married
You’re letting her walk down the aisle
Stepping over
Years of lies you fed her
Getting closer
To the lifetime of nights
You’ll have to
Lay beside her
The one you betrayed
And live with the
Moment you told her
Father you’d take care of his girl
In my dreams
You would’ve said
Her name
That it wasn’t me
You would’ve said
You did me wrong
You could’ve said
I’m sorry.
Things you should’ve said (Part 2)
I’ve already written you this letter
Searched my heart for the words
To make you understand
What it feels like to be had by you
But when I shared my letter
The consensus was as such
Not enough “Mother Fuckers”
Needed more “Piece of Shit”
Where did my anger hide?
Perhaps it built itself strong
Growing from glass to brick
Adding stilts around my heart to
Ready for the hurricane
Prepping for the blow
The “Mother Fuckers” drowned
Themselves in my sorrow
The “Pieces of Shit”
Turned into fragments of sorrow
Knowing I am not the only one you
Attempted to shatter
Mother Fucker,
I can’t let you build
A house of hate inside of me
I’ve spent hours
Rifling through the
Pieces of shit
You piece of shit
I need peace
Of mind
Why can’t you give it to me
Mother fucker,
Admit your wrongs
Stop hiding
Quit pretending
Mother fucker,
Take my original advice
Pretend I’m dead
And oh,
Mother fucker,
Nice seersucker suit.
PTSD
I was recently diagnosed with PTSD
A collection of letters I’ve heard
On CNN
Paired with numbers
9-11
An abridged version of the alphabet
That takes me back to a hotel room
In Austin, Texas
When he jumped out of bed
Reached for an invisible rifle
At the knock on our door
And the faint, “Housekeeping.”
I have PTSD
My dog tags were sold on eBay
My boots brandish high heels
I’ve never been overseas
But I’m tired of swimming
My ankles are still sore from the chains I wore
I couldn’t tell you the exact moment
I earned my set of letters
What bomb went off
The IED exploding beside my chest
When you said
I’m leaving today
Like it was an MRE waiting to fall at my feet
Your rucksack already packed
No time for a salute
I was in the trenches
Your covert operation
Kicked sand in my face
I reached for my letters and numbers
AK-47
But you, armed with the grenade
Threw it and ran
Camouflage
To my feelings
Don’t ask, don’t tell
Ignore my purple heart
Covered with a patch
That says it all
DC-squared
My boyfriend keeps a pair of black shoes
on the floor beside
his side
of my bed
They are lined up
just right
The toes are turned up
just a bit
He has a signature walk
The insoles are worn
A 12-hour day is what he calls “short”
My boyfriend likes to sip wine
sometimes from styrofoam cups
He likes the way his tongue feels when
he drinks a cab sav
At the bottom of a bottle
or two
he’ll start asking questions
“How is it that YOU are with ME?”
He mentions money problems
But while I’m clueless about the numbers
on his bank account
I know his fists won’t clench
If I start to cry
His voice won’t raise
when we disagree
His eyes won’t drift
When she walks by
“How is it that YOU are with ME?”
He says he’s not hot
But I can count on him to warm
the cool nights
Bank on a tingle
When we touch
He’s
all I see
I’m no j-lo, but my love don’t cost a thing
I’m not a pit boss but i’d bet against the house
on you and me
‘Cause when I’m with you
It’s like I’m in the money
Whether we have it or not
I could use a Tylenol to break
the fever you give me
I’m not worried about
the man you think I need
I worry that I’m not the
woman you deserve
so how is it,
that you are with ME?
DDM
I was the proud owner of a dashboard decision maker
At least that’s what we called it
I found it at the bottom
Of a Lucky Charms box
It was made of clear plastic
A bubble revealing a die inside
Six sides that held our fate
Yes, no, maybe so
I shoved it in my pocket
And We hit the streets,
The way we always did
No plans
Just us
3 blocks from my house
I revealed the plastic toy
A stick of gum later
And it was on the jeep dashboard
Like a cheap Garmin
Hey, DDM, we’re at a red light
Should we turn left
Pop
Yes! And left we went
Our guide drove us through
The city
A city we had memorized
After years of riding in backseats
Carpooling through the suburbs
Gazing beyond the trees wondering
What was outside of our bubble?
Our version of Google maps
Lead us to our favorite place
Where rules didn’t apply
We ditched our shoes
Letting our toes feel the earth
Countless nights welcomed us
There
To the marina
A lake serving
As the backyard
To mansions we would never know
We sipped alcohol
From our parents homes
Smoked flavored cigars
And swam to the floating dock
With a single fear of
creatures
in the water
It was a place to see the stars
A place
Only found beyond the maze of
Paved country roads
But Somewhere along the route
I lost the guide we had that night
Since then, the tires of
The jeep have covered
Enough miles for the Guinness book
The marina sands
Have turned themselves
Bearing witness to
Rites of passage
Adventure-seeking souls
Looking for answers
In the night skies
Worthy of a Tom Petty song
I can’t help but wonder
Where that dashboard decision maker
Might’ve taken me
If I hadn’t lost it
If I hadn’t lost
You
#30
Birthday #25
2am visit to your house
High heels
Trench coat
Confetti cake
November cold
Kitchen table sex
Front yard cigarettes
A late night connection
Or confused confections
I fell for you
Fast
Mistook
Lust for love
Empty
Shot glasses
Cashed
Mansion in
College park
Stability
In
Secrets
A paved
Path I
Wish I
Could
Turn back
Birthday #26
Took her for
drinks
Took her
home
Took her
clothes
In front of me
Lied
In front of me
You
Were
Caught
Afternoon apologies
Morning toast
Midnight bottles
Back porch fortunes
I
Was
Lost
Birthday #27
A plus sign translates
To a negative
Jelly
Wax paper
Pills
Holding me up
Silence
From you
Carefree
In your
Cubicle world
Wood floor
Apartment
Miles
Away
From us
The lies
Stacked
Themselves
Cementing
Like bricks between us
Building
Cities
To keep us
Apart
Roads closed
Time gone
Decision done
Birthday #28
4am
She calls
You lie
I cry
Hate you
Love me
Vodka soda
Whiskey coke
Cigarette kiss
Neon lies
Everything
Is fake
Can’t see
Through
Your smoke
Your stories
Your life
Without
Me
Birthday #29
Call it quits
I’m at my wits
End
Leave
Give me the key
Convenient
End
On a Friday
Give her a call
Tell her you dropped the ball
And chain
One year away
From #30
Didn’t want
Vows
Didn’t want
Kids
Didn’t want
Me
To be
Forever
#30 meant
No more
Flings
No more
bar tabs
No more
lies
For fun
I was just
cake
on a birthday
Just bricks
In the city
Just a notch
on his bedpost
Just cash
At the clinic
Just 4 years
in a lifetime
So this year
Birthday #30
Wake up
Perfect bed
Sheets
Tangled
In lies
Hungover
From the
Hearts
you break
Paved driveway
Company car
Ironed shirt
Joining
A row
Of cubicles
Sitting
Ducks
Men
Who do the
Same
Men
Who are the
Same
So
When
A nameless
Face
Takes the bait
High heels
Trench coat
Confetti cake
November cold
Blow out
The candles
Make a wish
That karma
isn’t real
That fate
Will answer
Pray
For the lost ones
Hope that
#40
Is the new
#30
What it’s like to be a journalist
(for those who don’t know)
It’s feeling like a traitor
When you read the Sunday Times on an iPad
It’s a churning stomach
When it’s time to make a pitch
It’s knowing that a pitch
Doesn’t involve a ball
It’s looking at your coffee pot
As a fine investment
It’s watching the morning news
To see what you can squeeze out of it
Localize and bank from
It’s admiring a collection of typewriters
Recalling on the days when that was the only way
Now chuckling about it
And writing it off as
Just an experience
It’s moving past the inverted pyramid
Which has nothing to do with Egyptians
Remembering the letterpress
And knowing that a slug
Used to be about melted metal covered in black ink
And not just a catchy headline
It’s watching interviews
Because you love the person asking questions
It’s reading 30 books a year
Because if you don’t have time to read
You don’t have the tools to write
It’s pen and paper
A voice recorder, if you’re fancy
It’s taking pages of shorthand notes
during conversations that will be printed later
It’s a collection of legal pads
It’s waking up on publish day
Wondering who’s going to see it
Hoping the person you quoted
Feels proud
It’s thinking you’re the best
And knowing everyone in this business
Thinks the same of themselves
It’s tucking a bic ballpoint behind your ear
With a backup in your pocket
Because there’s really no place else to put it
The ink is low and deadline is at 5
It’s living by everyone else’s watch
It’s getting paid only when published
It’s speaking in word count and inches,
Not dollars and cents
It’s working on weekends,
Holidays, birthdays
The news never stops
It’s either oh you’re a writer!
Or oh, you’re a writer?
It’s comparing words per minute,
The time you went to bed,
Or the amount of days you’ve gone without sleep
It’s knowing that writers block
Can only be cured with a Slinky, 10 percent of the time
It’s pretending not to have a political stand
When you bleed blue
It’s being an advocate of the 1st Amendment
Even when there’s words you don’t want to hear
It’s standing up for your own
When we are blamed for
Handing out fame
Electing the president
Killing the innocent
It’s people thinking your life is a movie
All the presidents men
Or a tv show
Sex and the city
It’s sometimes wishing your life was a movie
Or a tv show
It’s knowing that the deadline isn’t real
But the drop deadline is
And putting the paper to bed
Has nothing to do with pillows
It’s meeting people with real stories
Hard workers
Underdogs
The looked over
Its knowing not much of their stories will be heard
Unless you sell it like its your own
Its composing the best collection of words you’ve got
Just in case you decide to read it
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