Bubbles Stir The Glass
I like my Mexican Tequila with kosher salt,
yeah I’m funny that way, and the forearms
on a man, really turn me on. There’s an
ingenuity, a clumsy approach to the way
I adjust my heart to forgiveness, so soon
after being hurt.
I’m uncomfortable with my writing demeanor,
with the way it sinks into people’s skin,
dying within my own. The so-and so scenarios
just don’t cut it anymore, the frailty and baggage
burns a hole through my soul, yet, the humility
of what pours out of me is something forceful,
something pure. It’s too bad so many like the
idea of me not realizing the idea, is me, on a
deeper more serious level. It’s so damn hard to
reconcile with those who have failed me. Instead,
I think, write, stretching my fingers along the
keyboard, as the wall, the barrier, begins to fall.
I want to look back and say, “They’re only words”
I want to stop writing. But this lineage of voices
within me begs to be carried on. I wait for time,
for the day when my thoughts will betray me,
when ideas will be no more, as I begin to fail
like the bubbles of a warm drink,
in a chilled glass. The sun draws near and I lose
myself in all this, in the iridescent water streaks
that glitter as ice melts, trampling on feelings
that were never cherished but questioned. I
wanted to tell them, “See me! Please see me” but
fuck it; my pride is not that naïve.
Sometimes it’s hard, when the moon rises high
against the torrent, She drowns sweet sentiments
in the light of those transfixed into not giving a damn.
I’ve learned the difference between affect and effect,
there is life and death in my poetry. Hands guide me,
as I look back, it’s only a blueprint,
of roads not yet traveled, it’s only bones, piled against
lies and the betrayal of broken promises and silly pipe
dreams. It’s my inheritance to the echoing wind, to silent
wishes that die from lack of exhalation, to the vulnerable
whims, sounds, smells and passions of an abandoned place
where the tequila is warm and the writing, cold.
Theresa likes to write about matters of self-inflection and personal experiences. She likes to write about matters of an out-of body, out-of-mind state, as well as subjects of an idyllic, pagan nature and the occult. Theresa writes horror, as well as concrete gritty and realistic dramas. Theresa is said to be a witch and a poet, (within the horror writing community) and she has been published in a number of magazines throughout the years.
RAMINGO! 