Belle Jar Poetry

You'd like to see me, Down on my knees, But I've always been one, To think on my feet.

Waiting for, My time to bloom. I am the morning, Without her glory.

Sometimes I feel, As though I am your mother’s tea kettle, That you have left on the stove, For far too long. At first I sound like, A nice indulgence, But you leave me on the backburner, Till I am forced to scream, Releasing a shrill howl, From within my lungs, To remind you, Though you have moved on, To other things, I am still here, Burning.

you are the worst, criminal there is. you rob words, of their meaning.

Words touch me in ways hands never could. Hands can hold your heart, but they can also break it. Words which touch your soul never leave your mind. They are a loyal love that withstands the test of time.

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The universe tied rocks to my feet, and initially I would weep. But you see I needed these rocks--I needed to sink. For with them I formed a ladder so steep. I turned dead weights into stepping stones, and with them the sky was finally in reach.

Water is capable of terrible things, but a captain would not last long if he refused to drink in spite of the ocean and its crimes. People are like water too, capable of terrible things, but vital for each other to survive. We cannot refuse to love the second our heart falls into unruly hands. We must be resilient if we want to thrive.

I wanted to live in the city, But I did not want to sacrifice the stars. So I stargazed at skyscrapers, And bought milky ways from corner marts. You want the constellation, That lives between my legs, But you want to ride the subway, To her lofted bed. You cannot have us both. You must sacrifice one to stay afloat.

I thought you had, The hands of an artist, But the way you carved my heart, Was a butcher's work.

Everywhere I wandered I walked through beautiful doors. I couldn't help but capture them all on film. I thought to myself that maybe if my heart had a door as colorful as those in Portugal, you wouldn't want to stop at being a visitor. Perhaps you would finally want to make it your home.

You lit a match to my flame only to douse it, because you couldn't stand the intensity of the fire. You created a spark. You craved the heat. But in the end, you only used it to burn me.

I am not a storm, But a wind chill. Strong enough, To send shivers, Down your spine, In the heat of September. I am not a hurricane. I won't drown you. I won't leave you destroyed in my wake. But when I am present, You will know. You will feel a tingle in your bones. You will feel a tightness in your throat.