The Color Of Hunger

Archive for the ‘My Poetry/Creative Writing’ Category

Indulgence, that look in your eye. A tone spoken with a guilty iris. Here’s to that contagious little half-smile making it’s way between your lips.

You stand up, try to. I’m here to help you, shaky legs. Balance. Steady. Outside is not far from us. Take me with you please, I cannot bear me alone with me. Combining fingerprints, we are the children of euphoric stimulation.  Tenderness of molecules, each blossom of skin alive. Witness to mini-rainbows forming in the sprinkler mist of neighboring lawns. Making me giddy. I begin to dance across foreign grass. Soft, wet, green kissing my toes. I feel good, as do you. You tell me this and I laugh at you because you’re laughing at yourself. Squeezing me tighter via palms, I am wearing nothing but you.

You look at me with brand new eyes and I don’t know whether to run or stand rigidly in the light of vulnerability. I have spent months ignoring your gaze in fear that I will never know what it means. Don’t look at me. My face tells nothing of the world inside my head. Our pupils meet and I try to cross the ocean between our two bodies, but I drown long before I reach the shore. These words are tired and as my mouth forms the syllables, they taste stale on my tongue.

I want my legs draped over your shoulders. My voice breath-filled and coy. My hands pulling you in closer. My body writhing with joy. Your face buried deep between my thighs. Holding you in place. Your nose filled with my sweet scent. Your tongue dancing with my taste.

Your hair. Your smile. Your voice. Your words. Your kisses. Your hands. Your heart. Your laugh. Your body. Your clothes. Your scent. Your jokes. Your hugs. You.


Maybe these feelings are too strong to capture in words. Maybe a blank page would convey them better than an inked one. Maybe I should stop trying and just let you do you and me do me. Maybe that would lead to a simpler, easier life for the both of us. Maybe it wouldn’t. Maybe these tears bleed through my writing for a reason. Maybe if I were patient enough to let them dry, this paper in front of me wouldn’t be ugly, soaked, and full of holes in half-hearted attempts to rub them out. Maybe if I didn’t let them fall from my cheeks to begin with, they wouldn’t be there and this problem wouldn’t exist.

Maybe if I stared out this open window long enough, my mind would magically go blank and shit would make sense again. Maybe these thoughts consume me because I allow them to. Maybe that’s what I want. Maybe I fear an empty conscience. Maybe that makes more sense to you, than me. Maybe I’m secretly hoping it does.

Maybe I won’t think about you today. Maybe I can make it through my mornings, my afternoons, my evenings, my nights, without letting my curiosity destroy my innocence. Maybe if I threw my head back and closed my eyes tight enough it would fade this obsession. Maybe this wishful thinking is what’s preventing me from accepting the reality of it all.

Maybe in the future, you will teach me lots of cool things, and I will learn them, get good at them, and re-teach you with a smile on my face. Maybe I’ll apologize for not ending this little attachment of ours before feelings took over, but between me and you, I have very few regrets.

Maybe love is that condition in which the happiness of another person is essential to your own. Maybe love is a natural hallucinogen and I am a fucking addict. Maybe we all are. Maybe love means that you accept a person with all their failures, stupidities, ugly points, and nonetheless, you see perfection in imperfection itself. Maybe when you truly love someone, age, distance, height, weight, and salary are just numbers. Maybe I am just crazy. Maybe I am o-fucking-kay with that.

Maybe I will never ever, in a million years, figure out why pain penetrates deeper internally than ex. Maybe this mystery was never ever, in a million years, meant to be figured out.

Maybe this music will numb me. Maybe if I turn the volume knob far enough to the right, it will drown out my bad intentions and leave my soul somewhat pure again. Maybe fuck pure. Maybe pure is the antagonist here; the backbone to false being, closed minds, and a society watered down with status and statistic. Maybe sometimes in this boring, scheduled life, this waiting-for-Friday-night life that we all lead, we just need the world to remind us that not everything is perfect. Maybe flaws are pretty, too. Maybe there’s some beauty in the breakdown. Maybe there are more people than I think who feel the same way as I do. Maybe you are one of them. Maybe I’m just losing my fucking mind.

Maybe Mister Anxiety won’t get the best of me today. Maybe if I cut the bad fruit off the tree, there would be no reason for me to be anxious. Maybe this fruit is sweet as a motherfucker though and I love the way it leaves my tongue longing for more. Maybe I feel more alive when my heart beats as fast as it does because of this. Maybe there is too much brain in my head. Maybe I like playing my cards wrong. Maybe I enjoy the chaos.

Maybe the best way to appreciate something is to be without it for awhile. Maybe this would allow for my past to make me a better person in my current state instead of a bitter one. Maybe nothing ever becomes real until it is experienced. Maybe I haven’t grasped this concept to the best of my abilities yet. Maybe soon, I might.

Maybe being strong just isn’t for me. Maybe I should embrace my sad side and let it take me wherever the fuck it chooses to take me. Maybe every bit of sadness in my life only serves to make the good bits sweeter. Maybe the problem contains the solution. Maybe I already know this, but refuse to swallow it.

Maybe I should calm down, take a deep breath, and relax. Maybe if I could, I would. Maybe fuck calm. Maybe I should punch today in the face. Maybe Mister Anxiety is denying me this oxygen as a form of cruel punishment and there’s no way to escape it so I shouldn’t try to. Maybe I don’t know me like I thought I did. Maybe I should put this cigarette out now, seeing as I don’t smoke and I can’t remember how it got between my lips in the first place.

Maybe if I put more mascara on tomorrow morning, the dark circles lingering below my eyes won’t be so noticeable. Maybe this quad stack of Tylenol on the table in front of me would kick in faster accompanied by a good tall glass of whiskey and Coke. Maybe I am stuck in memory lane because I love running into you. Maybe in order to regain traction I have to forget it all. Maybe I can’t bring myself to do that right now. Maybe I have to make myself not want you or else you’re all I think about. Maybe the word ‘maybe’ should be void in that last sentence.

Maybe I love losing myself in you, running my fingers through your hair, down your temple, kissing you everywhere until your smell lingers on me even after you’re gone. Maybe I take pleasure in indulging in you. Maybe locking your fingers, your legs, your lips, between mine when we fuck is worth every minute of the nostalgia of the replay. Maybe sometimes I wonder how different your replays are compared to mine.

Maybe you make me happier than you’ll ever know. Maybe I crave your youth, that spunk you carry yourself with, and maybe I enjoy dwelling in your energy because it brings out the best of mine. Maybe there was meaning behind the words we exchanged. Maybe sometimes the wrong choices bring us to the right places. Maybe I’m just a dreamer who should have more realistic hopes.

Maybe I’m making this worse by writing about it. Maybe this is the only way I know how to extract my emotion and cope with it. Maybe fuck you for loving me. Maybe fuck me for the same damn reason. Maybe you are my question. Maybe you are my answer. Maybe you are neither. Maybe all we need is time to figure out who we are, what this is, and where we want to go with it. Maybe we will never know.

Maybe you understand this more than I ever will.

Maybe not.

As the evenings become cooler and night closer to day, we are reminded of the changes in season. The changes within ourselves. Each spring we smolder, waiting to burn through the summer passion that we accept or want to be waiting at our door. Ideas, lovers, ideals. Year after year – disappointment. The passion escapes us. A snowman made of sand. But not this one.
The ‘it’ is there as we hoped. The ‘it’ burns hot. Suddenly, everything is interesting. The creases in our palms. The blood in our veins. The history of us. We begin to connect mutual urges of curiosity, thinking thoughts on a level that is solely ours. Physically, mentally, emotionally. Reevaluating the noise you feed me over pillows no one else can hear. Entangled in each other; hands venture, exclusive pleasure. When your body and mine lie together under a white sheet. The whole long continent of you. The pale ridgeline of your collarbone and hip and thigh. The comforting filling and refilling of your chest. The warmth I so completely get lost in. There is nothing that needs to be explained. But how did we get here? Do we belong? Why are we always so shy on the answers?
Relaxed and patient, we submit to the flux of our present feeling. Changing the way we think about each other with every new encounter. Bringing you down to things you can’t conceive. Knowing that it is I who has done it. Seeing your wonderful spirit dependent upon the obscenity of your need. Witnessing you as you are, as you face the world with your clean, proud strength. Then to see you, in my bed, surrendering to any infamous whim I may devise. With your guilty little half smile. Watching your dishonor. To which you’ll submit to for the sake of an unspeakable sensation. You are the boy who wonders into hearts without knocking or wiping your feet, my love. I am the girl who says goodbye but never really lets go. We are the aimless, the lost, the constant consumers of endless fascination.
And now, as the evenings become cooler, night closer to day, we are reminded of the changes in season. Crisp autumn air stimulating fresh relations. Inhale. Exhale. We breath each other in and through and down and out. The wants, the needs. Via you. Via me. The faults, the flaws, the imperfections, the personality extractions. I’ve spent hours contemplating the words to say to you, but no combination of twenty six different letters could ever accurately capture even a sliver of what this feeling is. Yet I continue to want it. I need it really. You are both my umbrella and my rain. But I will always be left trying to figure out how that can be.

Gatherings of  modest raindrops make their way across November skies.
Staggering south as the wind blows. Hard.
55 now. Hugging pavement. Between all the lines.
Remains of your reflection loitering in my rear-view.
My eyes begin to leak with curiosity.
A fragile sensation.
Pupils go numb. So stuck on staring at yours. Through yours.
The answers caught beneath the irises. Such pretty irises.
So perfect.
So neat.
Yet who am I to be the judge of that?
I suppose I will never know; I cannot see from the inside-out.
So I remain silent.
Sometimes not being in control is the most beautiful thing in the world.
Mind over matter, fucking with these filthy feelings.
But feeling fucks back.
A witch with a massive, black book of ugly, mean spells.
Cast upon unsuspecting souls.
360’s on the spinal cord.
A spiral staircase of white.
There is no escape.
There is no end.

{I will miss this so very much.}
Smiles glisten in distorted reflections of table silverware.
Wavy faces trapped under reddish diner lights.
Curvy at the base. Spiraled at the ends.
Getting lost in casual till conversations; savoring them as they unfold.
Kissing ass, but keeping pride.
These lips have standards.
Concocting milkshakes, decaf on that coffee, green light – GO.
Lipstick remains on empty Coke glasses.
Pouring water just because.
No rebound this time, better luck next.
Feet cast beneath spells of increasing tempo and movement.
Toes loaded with wave after wave of momentum.
The flow of….energy.
Quick….moving….then quick again.
Looking forward to work.
Grease stains mark accomplishment.
Dirty aprons not to be frowned upon.
Feeding off invisible heat from the fryer.
And the grill.
And….the people.
You get what you give.
So give good.
Good morning, Mr. Sunday, how lovely you are today.
The door now becomes the alarm clock.
Stuck at a constant – in, out, out, in.
The good kind though, the purest form.
The sound of….happy.
The feeling of….alive.
{I am was content here.}

We never change our ways. Living in a water world of fake promise and faded future. Trapped here. And the people who can’t handle it are swimming in it. Searching for dry spots, but this pool has no steps or fancy rails. No shallow end. And no drain. So it fills up. And eventually seeps over the sides. Floods are constant. Damage is inevitable.

But the people are reaching out this time. They don’t want this. Stray water is uncomfortable.


I just get lost in it. With it. Above and below it. I sink and then I float. All the memories get tangled in filters. Spiderwebs of youth form inside them. Only a few remain. And I’m the outsider looking in. I grab for a piece dangling to my left. All I come back with is sticky. Drowning, but not from fear – curiosity is a tricky fellow.

I’m so tired of it now though.

I head for the ladder, right over left. Repeat. Right over left. Repeat. But these rungs are too slippery. And I am far too heavy.

Confused, my feet leave me at the ankles. I fall backwards, plunging below the surface yet again. Cold, wet, numb. I know this water all too well. But why is it so hard to get up? There’s got to be a reason for it all. But why can’t I find it?

Frustration sets in. Tears on fire. Slicing their way across sharp cheekbones, erasing hope as they greet the chin. A plastic surgeon with a butter knife. The flame is always cold once it reaches the lips. I’m left to taste the embers. Darkness falls, the people are crying out. And I’m right there with them.

Creating an attachment, they can’t rush this.
Attachments can’t be rushed.
Links of destruction, sex fueled by Saturday night tendencies.
Too rough, slower please.
Ignorance is a frightening form of inner bliss.
She fights, but he prevails.
Too far gone; trying proves pointless tonight.
Thinking with feet, her strides become clumsy, unbalanced.
He echoes his behind hers, hungry echoes – not to be taken lightly.
The purple sky watches as she stumbles between curiosity and fear,
A valid contestant – this chase a game of lust and rapid heartbeat.
Masking tears in raindrops, she grows impatient.
Where did he go and where am I?
An engine backfires in the distance,
Mechanical noises pierce the evening air.
‘Let’s go!’
A demand, an order, a perpendicular expression of horizontal desire?
Undoing hostility, the poison of persuasion is left pumping through her conscience.
Is he the question or the answer?
Or neither?
Weak at the knees, she forces forward motion despite it all.
He lights his cigarette; dry shaky fingers strike the cold metal wheel.
Challenging her, he penetrates with restless pupils and foaming irises.
The waiting game’s just too easy to cheat,
The rules, too hard to follow.
Bodies move, hands venture,
The most fun she could ever have without laughing.
Foggy windows began to cry as warmth is born.
Reality begins to fade back in,
Awake, senses heightening, introducing Normality The Antagonist.
She’s aware of surroundings now, but before was way better.
Maybe he’ll return, jog backwards, and come get her.

Spokane, WA. 26 years young. Aquarius, of course. I am a very optimistic individual driven by passion and creativity. Music is my inspiration to everything. I dig the nightlife. I enjoy discovering new craft beers and breweries. I like animals more than humans. The ocean is amazing. I have no idea what I wanna do with my life and prolly never will. But I'm going to succeed because I'm crazy enough to think I can.
October 2019
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