Wandering Bar Lovers

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Photo by Jan Phoenix on Unsplash

 

I don’t know where you’re going
and I have no idea where I’m heading
might as well try to find a path together
While I spill the last drop of whiskey
I’m half way drunk but still sober enough
These rocky starts and winding roads
are hard for someone who can’t walk straight
my vision is kinda hazy for me to see the way
My words are slurred but my thoughts are coherent
With my common sense still on the tracks
even without a bottle I don’t trust my instincts
you’re probably lost and asking for directions
While I’m trapped in empty glasses and conversations
Waiting for morning to shake me
You’re patient and attached
And I cling unto you
Hoping you won’t walk into a fantasy

ironic inspiration

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Thank you for the love
Unconditional
I am blessed
But you have damned my poetry
With every touch
I hear angels
With every written line
The devil would detest
Hell bent on ruins
Of my pathetic verses
Interrupting my flow
It’s love, for all they know
Passion and angst
Replaced with a metaphor
Stripping my enthusiasm
In between the sheets
My voice lost in a room
Papers scattered on the floor
You turned my writing
Into a garden
My words as seeds
My lyrics do not nurture
But with you
Here’s a flower

God Forbid, I am Bi

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She laughed, it wasn’t sweet
Nor was she being funny
her next words stung
“You’re only confused”
“You’re a lesbian, trust me”
She said I should trust her instinct
But who is she
To define my sexuality?
God forbid I like
Both men and women
I cannot choose which I prefer
And no, there’s no schedule
No interchanging dates
pertaining to which gender I’d love
During a certain day, week or month
God forbid I can love both
Some people ask me just choose
They say my sexuality is confusing
Am I straight or am I gay?
Apparently, I can only choose one way
Even those who fought for love
disregard my sexuality
God forbid the love I’ve chosen
Why are they so perplexed
by my sexuality?
It’s not that hard to comprehend
It’s plain simple
I am speaking English
But still they can’t wrap
the idea around their heads
That I like both men and women
Instead of letting me be
they pin their confusion onto me
God forbid I like a man
they accuse me of walking back into the closet
God forbid I like a woman
then they say I am only experimenting
treating my sexuality as a guinea pig
Whom I love is an entry
for the science fair
Whom I love is to be dissected
My sexuality is a hypothesis
God forbid love wins
Because they ask me to compare
They ask me which I prefer
But in fact all they are asking
Whose skills in bed are better
As if I keep a scoresheet
Listing the names of every man
and woman I have ever been with
God forbid I am not straight
God forbid I am neither gay
Trying so hard to convince
Or push me out of a metaphorical closet
Telling me to come out
My sexuality is not an announcement
I do not need to explain my attraction
Because God forbid I like both right?

damaged goods of sweet nothings

 

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i havent written about love since i was nineteen
since i was nineteen, I was foolish
thinking love could be salvaged through Facebook
thinking love could be found in a few swipes
and as i scroll though sweet status updates
i have a bottle in my other hand
to cleanse my thoughts of love
rid the emotion completely
turn me into bitterness, make me numb

i was nineteen
too young to know how it feels
because love doesn’t knock on the door
or send me a message
so why bother with its existence?
they did say bliss comes from ignorance
until i met you all love was, was just a myth
a nice bed time story to tell children
to scare the monsters away
now i can’t believe
i’m comparing you to stupid love songs

you are that love poem i said I will never write
you are that cheesy love song i promised i’ll stop listening to
because love is an unfathomable emotion
good only for a midnight conversation
fingers interlock like a silent prayer of rejection
we turn to salty saps craving validation and affection
tove seemed to be a drunken thought and an unwilling muse
it’s uninspired and lazy writing
that’s what I thought love was
until I’ve kissed you

i thought to myself
scavenged through my memories
i’ve never been kissed like that before
i’ve never smiled in the middle of a kiss
i’ve never smiled like this
you are the poem I’ve set aside
thinking I’d never write it
inspired and tired, my wrist cramps
because this is all unexpected
scribbles of love filled lines
verses of dedication
you are worth every single amount of my emotion
this is more than mere words
this is my heart, metaphorical, so cliché

This was supposed to be an Americano

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I forgot what I was supposed to order. I know that it’s their job to smile but dammit his smile was charmingly distracting. So I ordered the first thing I saw on the menu, regretting it once it was served.

He called out my name, my heart jumped but sunk when I’ve tasted my mistake. What the fuck was a macchiato? This was supposed to be an Americano.

Well his smile was enough to wake me up; I didn’t need to fill my system with caffeine because I’ll be picturing his smile until I start dreaming. I sound perpetually cheesy and a tad bit creepy (as long as I wasn’t borderline cliché I’m doing fine) but I swear to God I’m not a stalker. But I do wish I knew his name.

Is it weird I’m writing so poetically about a stranger serving coffee? He’s behind the counter while I’m sitting a few feet away scribbling bad poetry.

Would it be too forward to strike a conversation? Maybe I should start with a friendly hello and ask for his name. Because here I am wondering who he is while he’s screaming out coffee order names.

People are now piling in and I’m jealous because he’s sharing his beautiful smile. I wish his smile was reserved for me, dammit this creamy drink was supposed to be an Americano I’d get a better order if it wasn’t for him.

Now I’m stealing glances hoping to catch an accidental smile. But if I did I’d awkwardly look away out of panic because I wouldn’t know my next move. Should I smile back? Or would that be too presumptuous? I could just continue with writing bad poetry on how he must smell like coffee. I cringe at the lines written on my notebook. The deafening murmurs and overplayed Christmas songs are not a great ambiance for writing yet his very presence was worth the inspiration.

How can everyone in this café be so preoccupied with their own business not realizing an angel smiled while handing out their coffee? Did I say angel?

I told myself not to be cliché but I ran out of metaphors and analogies. I blame early Christmas songs on loop in the background and this wrong coffee order for my minute of insanity. Dear Mariah Carey I love you but if I hear “All I Want for Christmas is You” one more time this early on October I will go mad.

And I did, my writing proves it.

I can tell you this though, God must be bragging in the clouds when he created him. Lining up his angels only to praise his creation, high fiving and cussing to show his enthusiasm. Oh for crying out loud I have written something almost blasphemous calling him almost holy.

Ugh, this overpriced drink should’ve been an Americano. Its bitterness matched with my skepticism would reduce this light headed feeling from a stranger’s smile. This is ridiculous.  What is a macchiato anyway? Its sweetness is rubbing off on my paragraphs; these words are meant for a generic pop song that would be this cafe’s everyday soundtrack.

Dear barista with a captivating smile, can I get a refund? This was supposed to be an Americano.

To the Pretty One

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Pretty my heart stops

Pretty my heart hurts

I could stare at you forever

Because I can see a lifetime in your eyes

Your shy smile may say you’re not ready

But I know how to wait

I die a little inside when you look away

With your back turned

I feel the seconds pass

Each minute feeling like an hour

But I can still picture

Every detail of your soft features

Pretty my heart stops

Pretty my heart hurts

Such pure innocence

Rose tinted cheeks

Delicate yet full lips

A masterpiece that cannot be replicated

A museum cannot own you

You are living, breathing art

Pretty see what you’ve done to my heart?

No work of literature

No painting, no flash of a camera

No lyric of a song

Can ever do you justice

Pretty my heart stops

Pretty my heart hurts

Distance doesn’t distort your beauty

Finely shaped blurred edges

Darkness doesn’t cover anything up

The stars shine

Constellations make way

The moon would never hide

Because they need to be with you

Pretty my heart stops

Pretty my heart hurts

You are not a drunken thought

You are not a mirage

You are not an illusion

You are not a two dimensional character

Supporting my need of aesthetic

Pretty my heart stops

Pretty my heart hurts

Pretty? I need a better description

Cynical Hopeful

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It’s easy to mistake the first time as love.
Because no one finds “the one” in the first try,
if so then you are a lucky bitch.
Others have to go through hell and meet
every single asshole in the dating pool
before finally meeting the 1% of people
where there are mutual interests.
Or you can play the waiting game
and see what fate will bring you.
Maybe you said you loved me too soon,
maybe you only think you love me
because I honestly see nothing
you could love about me.
I am broken, jagged pieces
and I’m not a puzzle
you could easily piece together.
How can you love someone damaged?
You have to constantly fix me
or try to at least
and then you’ll get tired.
You will get tired of my mess;
I’m this mess of a person you chose to love.
It’s not even love, I’m sure it’s not.
I’d like to believe it’s not love
because if it was it would be short lived
and depressing.
We have an expiration date trust me,
this won’t last forever.

but I’m an idiotic optimist
believing we’re the exception