Grieving You Again

 Spitefully repressing sad boy tendencies of a heartbreak

Where'd you go?

Another Love, long lasting after I began to Fall Into You and your poetic currents,

waving me in.

Reluctantly, I followed, allowing myself to get whiplash with 

your Lightspeed changes in vocal fluctuations 

and confidential instrumentals during the Evening in Summer.

"You fucking got to be Kidding Me"

We were just about to Get Down with our backs Against the Bottom of the Bottle.

Fullest throttle, throwin' melodic Shreds, mixed into our own Scar Gardens.

Ima tell you, both my feet are Planted and hope that the fact that you Won't Answer, isn't Irreversible.

~Tina Meeks

On a Thoughtful Strand of Floss

 

I feel as though I am a delicate canvas that is easy to puncture.

I am nothing short of ambivalence and painted layers of conjuncture.

My passions try to trace themselves over on the paper before me,

yet the ink just bleeds

and it's up to my blurring vision to focus and rely on the competency of me.

With hiccup cries being held back behind the pillows of my bed at night 

and the light 

of a Himalayan salt lamp to illuminate me in the darkest moments that I dread to possess.

Within every word pressed

between these pages,
and micro confessions of the darkest sensations

and tendencies that have themselves standing up against me.

The only form of defense that is grappling, are the moments when I face it head on and

tolerate the discomfort of my demons until we are comfortable as friends and I can redeem.

And maybe we're all fearful of the same things

and have a hard time putting them into words that are lucid and self-reflective perfectly

enough to be unique to the self and mitigate through.

~Tina Meeks

After a Brief Break

 

My absence has been abundantly away

from the pen and pad.

The last real me time, when was that?

Lost moments and the time away

was like a dream I've never had

and glad it's over.

It's time to dip back in with freshly washed fingers

-and my hands are clean.

There is much that I have yet to whisper

to the book of patience and divine opportunity.

I'm here for the stories and hear 

the cracking tiles from other sides

of the pages that have yet to fully turn.

Glance them, I do, prematurely.

My eagerness approaches with hopes

to intertwine immediately in case

of trouble rising like steam.

Yet here we are in this moment

of empty lines disappearing before my eyes

with very little shared.

Sorry, but this collection is mine.

So, try as you may to see through me

but my transparency remains

translucent for now

until I no longer feel like opaque

chipped away paint,

forging keeping my feces contained

in a dainty box

in a cool and dry place.

~Tina Meeks