Heat
Fire:
A noun;
combustion or burning,
in which substances combine chemically with
oxygen from the air and typically give out bright light,
Heat
Heat
An igniting source
Burning red hot
The curtains drenched
In orange and
Yellows and
Red.
A flash in my
Mind.
An image.
The color of your face
On the night
I first kissed you
The dry wood
Crackling under heavy
Footsteps and brazen
Combustion
The sound,
A memory pulled
From the recesses of my
Mind.
Your voice,
A song
A poem
A fire.
Igniting my insides
Burning the house I
Have built inside of myself
In order to start
Anew.
Sonnet of the Broken-Hearted
The day you left, my heart did stop;
The sunflowers in the front yard wilted.
Freezing bitter rain did drop.
You said you didn’t love me, but you I did.
The day you left me, the sun did not shine.;
The blue birds in the heavens did not tweet.
This day I could no longer call you mine.
The truly was our loves cruel defeat.
A wise, educated man would once say,
“Love is the voice under all silences”,
But I could not hear your voice on this day.
And sullen tears broke through my defenses.
So here I stand, back where I started;
Reciting the “Sonnet of the Broken Hearted”.
Poems
Essays
Self-Homophobia
The boy I love
Calls me a faggot.
His words an acidic
Burn as his anger-induced
Spit hits my face.
And I ponder,
Is this why
There are holes
In his bathroom
Mirror?
Gray Area
Breathless
And cold,
The skin around
His eyes
Sunken and
Dark,
Almost empty.
My baby lays
Gone.
Sweet baby
Boy,
Hair matted,
Sweatily,
To his soft
Scalp.
Images rush
Into my scattered
mind.
Christmas toys
Barely out of
Their clinging paper,
Strewn around the
Living room.
A coffin,
Too small
For any human
To fathom.
A grave plot,
Bought and used
Before the thought
Of death has
Processed.
Goodbyes
Lingering on
Dry,
Cracked,
Lips.
A gentle kiss
Placed on
Grey skin.
Goodnight
Sweet baby
boy.
Spark
Your fingers brushed
Gently
Against my skin.
Tracing my figure,
Writing your name in goose
Prickled flesh.
Your breath whispered
In my ear,
Eliciting moans and groan
Of euphoric pleasure.
Electrifying.
My teeth graze upon your glistening flesh,
Biting my love into
Your skin,
Letting the universe
Know that,
In this intimacy,
We are one and
It cannot hurt
Us.
East Fork:
A Journal of the Arts
Quinton
Locker Room Jesus
I don’t want to be
Who I am,
Standing silently
In a crowded middle school
Locker room.
Waiting,
Patiently,
For the other boys
To leave.
Each coughing out
A mumbled
Faggot
With their cologne covered
Pre-pubescent B.O.
Tears stream
From reddened eyes
And shallow sockets
As I sit.
Repeating
And repenting
Hoping to change who
I don’t want to be.
A suffocatingly dense
Halo of Axe body spray
Surrounding my
Head.
Holy am I.