Sweet Dreams

He crawls upon me,
like a hungry savage,
searching for a soul to feed on.

Our vocals are repressed,
by voices of enticement,
as we clutch the sheets,
that cradle our bodies,
as we move further and further,
away from consciousness.

He is my poetry.
I am his poet.

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Under The Bridge

You said you don’t walk a straight line,
I kinda knew that,
I smiled.

I said I don’t walk a straight line either,
You kinda knew that,
You smiled.

Our yellow brick roads are not completely different,
and not completely yellow.

I don’t know what colors lay ahead,
and that’s okay,
as long as we keep walking.

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Dunkin Do-Nots

Sitting in Dunkin,
with coffee and a book,
when a 30-something guy approaches,
says, “He likes how I look”.

I smile,
say thank you,
attempt to return to my page,
but am ambushed with questions,
from a guy who should know better by his age.

“Married?
Have kids?
What do you do?
Have a boyfriend (or girlfriend)?
Is your cell phone new?”

Totally uncomfortable,
now providing amusement for the next table,
getting hit on is less flattering,
when the guy is socially unstable.

Not about to chug my coffee,
or surrender my seat,
I reply rather bluntly,
not missing a beat.

“Kids and marriage,
yet to be known.
My cell is crap,
I need a new phone.
I’ve had boyfriends, no girlfriends,
I don’t swing both ways.
You asked what I do,
here’s how I spend my days…

I’m a writer,
a blogger,
and during the next hour or two,
the subject of my next post,
will undoubtedly be about you!

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Smells Like Teen Spirit

He wanted to be Kurt Cobain,
except Cobain was already gone,
and he was still here,
though he didn’t want to be.

He made me his muse,
I didn’t want to be,
but I was.

So I played my piano,
and he played his guitar,
and we played Nirvana covers,
until midnight,
because we were 17,
and I had a curfew.

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Shake It Off

I’d like to pay homage,
to the following men,
those I wish,
to never see again.

The one who flirted with the waitress,
the one who may have been racist,
the one in love with his ex,
the one who only wanted sex,
the one who was intimidating,
the one who wasn’t a fan of bathing,
the one with the “platonic” roommate,
and the one who was definitely not straight.

I thank you all,
for each dating disaster,
because it brings me closer,
to the right answer.

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In Your Eyes

I told you I liked you,
that was probably my first mistake,
but to be fair,
your hazel eyes are paralyzing,
and I shouldn’t be held responsible,
for what comes out of my mouth,
when i’m staring into them.

Then,
I almost told you I have a blog,
but realized,
that having “you”,
read about “you”,
is really going to screw up,
any last attempt I have,
at playing hard to get,
which at this point,
is becoming,
impossible.

That said,
I have a blog,
and this poem,
is,
about,
you.

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You Give Me Fever

Let me take you back,
about a month or two,
I had a horrendous cold,
though felt more like the flu.

I could barely leave the bathroom,
let alone comb my hair,
and needed to go to the pharmacy,
the situation was not at all fair.

Not cause of my fever,
or rising body heat,
but because I had dated someone,
who lives right down the street.

I had to risk it,
needed to get in my car,
knowing I could run into him,
while grossly pale and sans bra.

Fortunately dear friends,
it turned out okay,
I bartered with the gods of dating,
and they let me get away.

The moral of my story,
be careful where you do who you do,
cause a cold could be more than just a fever,
it could be social suicide too!

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