"If you tell the truth, you don't have to remember anything." -Mark Twain

To be honest, I'm sick of the perfect romantic relationship. 
To be honest, I love our little spats and when we're hurtfully truthful with each other.
To be honest, I don't like some of your actions.
To be honest, I think you're perfect but you're the most imperfect person I know.
Truthfully, my honesty seems to be the only option I have left.
You can disagree.
You can fight it.
But opinion is better than no opinion.
And a hurtful truth is better
than
no
truth
at
all.

Poetry Is The Poet's Excuse To Vent Secrets

On the edge ready to leap, he waits.

Vibrating with joy that the pain will lessen.

He leaps.

Gliding only along his brawn and bone he plummets towards the ground.

There, he reached true happiness.

Splattered in his own pool of water, he lays.

Contemplation

With his acute sense,

His fine sagacity ceased being replaced with nervousness. 

This hideous, distinct task had to be done.

With his gesticulation he seemed mad and confused.

A tale of which red wire was actually red and was to be cut.

White Christmas

As Bing said.
“It’s dangerous to put those knights up on white horses.”
As we girls thought.
Where’s my knight on his white horse?
You kept falling off.
You’re horse kept galloping.
Far off into the darkness.
30, you’re still my knight with his broken horse.
At least you’re not 5; the dead horse.
I’m sorry 30, but you’re not the knight who broke the castle down.
I’m sorry, you’re not 20.
I still love us.
But my love isn’t what it was.
My love is galloping with your horse.
My love is a baby’s love for his toy.
When it grows old and tethered
He doesn’t love it anymore.
I apologize 30
you’re old and tethered.
I love you for our memories and your help, but 30
But you
I don’t love you.
You’re the monster that created this Yeti.
But I can’t thank you enough.
You let me see that 5 was useless and 20 is who I need.
I miss you.
30
I miss you.

How Sweet The Grapevine Is

I’m at that age.

Not the age you think

Where minimum wage is my best option

Or when mother passes the skillet down to my pregnant ankles

Especially not the age where Santa’s the kinder version of the sex offender down the     street

My hips -twisting- to the beat of Motown

My legs go sporadic at the deep sound of Marvin

Call me an old soul

But baby

Blame the Rock n’ Roll