I once wrote about pancakes on Christmas morning
sickly sweet honey, dripping over white hands
their grandparent's tree, stomachs turning
a marked disgust at observing the land
I think back to pancakes on Christmas morning
I try to wave away the fear in the air
in the mind's eye, broken from years spent yearning
the voices I crave to hear are all there
I once wrote about pancakes on Christmas morning
When my heart was stifled, dimmed and mislead
I unearthed my suffocating heart this morning
and found out what I truly wanted instead
I hate pancakes. They're boring and bitter.
Christmas is the worst holiday of the year.
I learned I'm immortal and I'm no fucking quitter
I found out that I have never felt fear
I don't want pancakes, or Christmas cheer
I want a sunset watched and a caress of the hand
I want the solstice, Lupercalia, every new year
A kiss under the stars, to be something
I want a farm, a mountain, and a sea
I want to wake up with my arm around you.
I want the forests, the birds and the bees
I want it to be you. I want it to be you.
I never know what I want, that is the curse
of being buried alive and brought back from the dead.
But I don't want pancakes or fucking Christmas.
I want you to be mine, not just in my head.
YOU ARE READING
Assorted Poetry
PoesíaI had a vent account on Poetizer, but it went paid, so I had to save the poems here. They're not particularly effortful, just vomited prose, but I had nothing else to do with them. They may be added to, or not. Largely not too graphic, but there is...
