Where The Pen Falls - S.J Rowe (literature books to read TXT) 📗

Say What You Mean, Mean What You Say

She says, lets paint this love like a double entendres.
For if I say what I mean, I mean what I say, so I say things so mean, but never mean what they say.
But it is up to your interpretation.
Does she sleep in sheets with hallow bodies to feel full, or is her body its own entity vigorously searching for identity?
Does it seem easier for her to kiss the seams or your poetic justice, or does she watch from a transparent window hoping you ice the bruise from your shattered ego.
Does she fall for the satin lips of a new lover or remember the feel of your cotton shirt against her chest as you made love in intervals of love.
She says to paint her love in double entendres and do with it as you please, you want her to mean what she says or just say what she means.

Still Frame in a Mirror

 Sometimes I look at you in the mirror and we both squint as if one of us doesn't belong there.
Sometimes I look at you and I want to hug you and clean your wounds, because I know I'm the only one who can see them.
Then I want to punch you. I want to slap the cold water against your face. For you to feel the chill of its body like that of a lonely winter air.
But then I want to love you. I want to be like a that dad and wrap my arm around your shoulder,
You did alright kid
You did alright kid
Then I want to see you.
I want you to keep me on my toes. So I know what I have to lose. So I know what I lost.
Then we look at each other and squint. To see you as me and me as you. That's what it's like when you see the shell of yourself in the mirror and you whisper , it's okay-I still love you.

Ghost

 You look your best when your dancing in shillouttes

When youre shaking through satin sheets

And you’re waking on top of me

And I’m waking inside a dream

With a stranger who doesn’t sleep

But whats stranger than strange to me

Is the distance that we still keep

And Im mourning in the morning

Over whiskey I left pouring

And forgiveness seems so boring

When you could even the score and

And parts of me are incomplete

With parts of you buried between

Things we don’t and things we know

When you’re still in love with a ghost.

If I Were a Doctor

 If I were a doctor I’d give you reason.
Feeling the soap glide
between the web of my fingers
I’d wash away any trace of
lingering doubt.
I’d hum each part of the procedure
in my head like a catchy hook
tapping my scalpel against the metronome.
The operating room would be my orchestra.
My eyes would stare down clamps, dilators,
tools for incision to be handled with precision
and I would make music.
I would conduct a song in the key of life.
I would pry my mind open like a retractor
to the ribcage and find a way—
every way, to save her.
If I were a doctor, I would know why.
I’d pick through years and years of
anatomy and build you an atom.
I’d know that the buildup of plaque
depleted her arteries and turned your spring
sunflowers into roses on her grave.
If I were a doctor, I could give you a reason. ​
Instead, I watch tears roll down your face
like the gurney along the
operating floor.
If I were a doctor, I wouldn’t need the teleprompter.
I’d know how to tell you your mother died,
because I’ve said it a hundred times
before.
So for lack of a better word,
I’m sorry.
I’m sorry the sun shined
so bright that Saturday
reminding you it was too beautiful to die.
Reminding you, like the silhouette
of her coffin
in your eyes.

If Roses are Overrated

 When roses are overrated bring her tulips.
You'll get lost in her voice when she tells you about her day so make sure you look in her eyes.
You'll ask her what she uses to wash her hair because it's your new favorite scent.
She'll smile at you when you stare not realizing you stare at her smile.
When roses are overrated,
Like the idea of perfection,
The overpriced steakhouse,
The asshole mus(I)cian--
The scary movie that's never scary

These never worth it.
Treasure her, Cherish her.
Because though you bring her roses, she could never be
Overrated.

Back Around

 When you touch your scars think not of
The pain.
Refuse to blend the hate as oil and water
Never mesh.
Let go of the anchors which weigh down your spirit
In ways you never felt good enough, beautiful enough, enough enough.
Love the most when you are so heavily pierced with spares of rejection or loathing.
And in our times where you even debate
The very pertinence of your kindness,
Remember the sun.
How she still comes around every day, though
Never fully appreciated.
What comes around goes around,baby
Stay kind.

Talking to the Moon

 Talking to the Moon
I watched words dance in circles around my
Tongue.
Like the craters of the moon, there was a hallowness in the way I'd say
"It will be okay." There was a certainty in uncertainty
As if that was the only certain thing at all.
I realized most people looked up at the sky
And spoke.
Some didn't know what, or who they were speaking to
But knowing something was up there listening
Intently to the intentions which clasped onto
Their hearts like clothes pins to a clothing line

Was enough.
What is enough?
Is it comfort?
Is it risk?
Is it certainty?
Is it intuition?
Is it the thumping of your heart which lets you know when to run and when to walk,
When to fall and when to fly?
I am certain of uncertainties
But tonight I can promise,
You the moon.

Mother

 You are a queen.
I was too young to see
Your throne when the kingdom
Was under seize.
Too young to know
How hard it became to feed
My sister and I
And too young to know what
It was like
To choose between water and lights.
Too young to see how long
Your commute would be
Too young to know how the heels
Of your shoes hugged your toes
Forming bunions around your feet.
Too young to realize the sacrifice
Of private school
The sacrifice which let me rise
Above any statistic about a little girl
Without a dad.
Too young to understand how
You cried when doors would close
On our face as you'd race to find a
Way
To