Departure

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I saw you in the morning
rain.
from the window of my
apartment,
running to catch the train
You were wearing your
famous blue shirt, which
is really more green.
You smiled at the
pretty brunette to
your left. Distracted
by her beauty,
you almost tripped
boarding the train.
You were headed to
work. Your man purse
slung over your
shoulder,
Your hair slightly
disheveled,
in that sexy
way that your hair
does.
It reminded me
of my heart
always slightly a wreck,
and in disray over you.
As I was daydreaming
your train pulled away.
Then there was just
the hazy, gray sheen
of the morning, like
unpolished sliver and
the steep buildings
that blended into the
dullness of the sky.

It was you, and the
disappearing train
which shaped the
scene.
Departure and
arrival.
The journey and
the destination..
It is here
our narrative
fades.
Leaving the narrator
behind with a memory
that lingers and loves
without reason.
Tosha Michelle 

For Mr. Modigliani

Hello lovely people. Below is my latest cover. This is dedicated to the dashing and dapper Mr. Modigliani If you aren’t follow him, shame on you. If you enjoy erotic poetry, beautiful art and insightful musings, his weblog is for you and you and you and yes, even you.

https://mrmodigliani.wordpress.com/

and now for my caterwauling

and for some real coolness

Crushed Flowers 

One of my earlier poems 

And these are my flaws

My vices.

Impatience, a tongue

sharp as a guillotine.

Caffeine. Chocolate.

Sarcasm on every occasion.

And unquenchable desire

to be loved.

A heart that is an

exhibitionist who

weeps upon

my sleeve

A fear of monochrome

colors, thunder,

the undone,

petty gossip

and letting go.

A hunger to be kissed

often and with fervor.

An awkward shyness

around new people.

A fascination with

the lure of a snowbound

life.

Not being Christian

enough to turn the

other cheek or Zen

enough to just be still.

The knowledge that my

life is unimportant

in a world with a noose

around its neck but

writing about it

anyway.

I often prefer the company

of books and my cat to

other human beings.

I live nside a cluttered

mind in a pristine house.

And not listening closely

to my Granny and her

treasury of wise words

Most which I have

forgotten, but

I do recall her saying

you must learn

to take what will

be with grace,

that our flaws

bind us

to humanity,

and to never forget

even crushed

flowers are beautiful.

Tell Me

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Tell me how you suffer
in notes both high
and low.

Tell me why everything
is rarely enough in a
world that is collapsing.
The sky nothing more
than cornbread crumbs.

Why do we not
notice this?

Tell me how we got lost
in a word of logins, of likes,
of tweets, a web of passwords.

When did Google
become a verb?

Tell me why people are disposable,
and we are constantly
judging our life
by the lives of others?

When I hear music,
my life shifts.
Layers of overstimulated
brain cells shed
their skin.

Dress me
in your melody.

Tell me in a song
why we love
something we
refuse to talk about.

Let your tune speak
of shattered knees,
barbwire fences
cutting into roads,
illness, loneliness.

Sing me
your pain.

Tell me how words
in old books
draw you near.
How their ghosts still reflect
pleasures recalled.

How peace is the
county you want
to live in,
but you get stuck in
customs instead.

How hard it hurts
to fall, to fall,
but each bruise,
each disappointment is
a testament that
our system is still
functioning and
there are tunes
still left to be sung.

I’ll sit beside you as
you serenade me
and finally pay
attention to the
sky.

The evening opening
up like a meteor,
a tail of a comet
waves to us as it
touches the sidewalk.
Satellites fall. For the moment,
heaven comes closer,
entranced by your song.

-Tosha Michelle

Nobody does suffering better than Adele

Words, Interrupted

If I write it down
I can’t take it back.
When I’m gone, and
the wind of your world
is still scented with
my verse, what then?

Who will I be to you?
a bittersweet arrangement
of molecules only legible
under certain nostalgic light?
The tug of your heart, of
what might have been?

If your voice fails you
give them my words.
Tell them this is how
she adored me,
with syntax and lyrical sighs,
bleeding emotions.
The wingspan of her poetry.

I dressed you only
in the sun, too far gone
to halt our ending, but still
close enough for you to cling
to the last bit of light.

You’ll find me somewhere
lost between the pages of
your life. Sitting on an
endless porch swing singing
the blue notes.

The language never quite finished.
The language  never quite done.

Tosha Michelle

Issues

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I was always clingy
with my boyfriends.

I never really knew
my biological father.
He left when I was
two.

I never got a bad grade.
I did the right thing, but
not evey time.

I never told my mother
about that time I snuck
out to meet my first
love.

The fault that is never
mine, but always is
mine.

The feeling I get when
I get something right.
The despair I get when
I don’t.

I’m not okay with being
alone, but I crave
isolation.

There is an exact ratio
of sugar and tea in
every glass I drink.

I hold onto books,
even the ones I don’t
read anymore.

I’m always nervous
in new situations. I
worry about being
liked.

I get excited over
vintage anything,
but mostly dresses
that sway on my
form.

I like how his eyes
stay on my form
wherever I wear one.

I spent $123 dollars
today at the Antique
Mart. I bought a lovely
Mod Print Dress and
a sequins party dress.

I don’t like parties.
or sequins.

The number of time
I obsess over anything,
over nothing.

The way I hoard my
relationship and worry
he will leave me.

I purposely call him
just to make sure he
is home.

How much I hate
doing this.

How much I
hate doing this.

-Tosha Michelle