kpk poetry

If I should have a son
Instead of naming him after
A great-grandfather he will never meet
I’m going to name him after someone who
Reminds me of the way that
Even though the sun is nearly 93 million miles away
We still can’t look directly at it
Because my son is going to be
Nothing short of illuminating
And if I should have a son
I will paint kind sentiments over his knuckles
So he always knows to use his words
Before he uses his fists
And when my son doesn’t let me cut his hair
And instead chooses to let it droop into his eyes
I will let him
Because sometimes the world makes a little more sense
When you’re seeing it through strands, not magnifying glasses
And when the other parents gasp at me
For letting him ride his bike without a helmet
Or cheering him on while he tries to flip over the rusty top of the swing set
I will tune them out
Because I know that a bruised forehead
Hurts a hell of a lot less than a bruised ego
If I should have a son
I will wait until the blood and the marrow in his bones
Have been sucked out and replaced with sorrow
Before I tell him that heartbreak is supposed to feel like this
And even though she may have been his sea
He might just need to look inside a puddle
And every time my son inhales
I will teach him to smell for rain
Because that is the first sign of flowers
And anyone who says they don’t need more color in their life is lying
If I should have a son
I will put a baseball bat in his left hand
And ballet slippers in his right
And tell him he doesn’t have to decide between doors number one and two
That the only thing in front of him is a gate, and it’s wide open
If I should have a son
I will stand tall above him with a sword and a spear
One to slice through his troubles
And one to stab through his fears
And since I’m standing with two weapons
He will have to be the shield
And the blows that slip through my steel grip
Will push at him like a roaring tide
But if I should have a son
I will teach him to push back like he is the moon
And he is their master
And if I should have a son
And he decides to leave
I will bid him adieu
But I will always set an extra plate at the dinner table
And have a mug of hot cocoa – the kind with extra chocolate – waiting for him
Because no matter how many unmarked pathways he chooses to cross
He will always belong to his mother


Inspired by Sarah Kay’s “B”

Poetry: search no more!

Sometimes it’s hard to find good poets so I’ve made a list for people who, like me, love poetry but can’t always find enough or the right kind for your mood.

  • Christopher Poindexter; his Universe and Her and I series is my favourite; recently published his book Naked Human and i can’t wait to read it
  • Tyler Knott Gregson; his typewriter series poems are lovely; also does blackout poetry; published his first book Chasers of the Light (i have a copy and it’s wonderful); he also does a daily haiku on love
  • Rupi Kaur; i read some of her poetry more in-depth recently and it’s quite alluring; published book called Milk and Honey
  • Robert M. Drake; has published multiple books including his most recent that was published in August 2015: Beautiful Chaos; i haven’t read a lot of his poetry other than the wonders that came up on my Pinterest feed but i will definitely do so soon
  • KPK; ipoetried on tumblr; a romantic poet; some of her stuff is hard to find but there’s quite a bit on Pinterest and no doubt a whole lot on tumblr
  • CP; i have no idea what their initials stand for but their poetry is beautiful; much harder to find when you don’t know who they are but i can usually recognize that it’s CP from the format on Pinterest
  • Gaby Compres; poetry usually found in italic font and signed G.C.; i think having her poetry in italics is a great was to describe her poetry itself, i think it’s positively lovely
  • Michael Faudet; i love his poem Sunday Epiphany and many of his other poems as well; he has an interesting structure to a lot of his poems because he uses a hanging indent
  • It’s midnight so I’ll stop here for now and I may make a part 2 to this list another time. If you would like more recommendations, never hesitate to ask. 
Your first love ending is the feeling of the car door slamming on your fingers, and as it drives away with your half-ended tendons, you can’t help but think about how beautifully the light reflects off the hood. Your first love leaving is the sound the paintbrush makes as it cracks into two pieces right before the brushstroke that makes an artwork into a masterpiece. Your first love hurting you is the rush of the water down the bathtub drain, sinking sinking sinking like a pile of stones in the pit of your stomach, before disappearing forever simply because you no longer think about it. Your final love is the feeling of a symphony orchestra playing your heartstrings like a harpsichord to the tune of the song that never fails to turn your lover’s lips upwards like a sunset that happened to flip itself on its back to reveal its pink belly to the world. Your final love is the sound of the robins singing their good mornings outside the bedroom window as you open your eyes against their neck at the crack of dawn, before pulling them closer and slipping back under. Your final love leaving is with a note that says “see you tonight for dinner, I love you, be safe” and you tuck it in your breast pocket because that’s the closest you can touch it to your heart and you start heating up the oven because you are so excited to kiss their cheeks that night.
It is no coincidence that a rattlesnake makes the same noise as a bottle of pills. I have seen my friends open their prescriptions as if it has just unhinged its jaw and is about to swallow them whole. When did growing up mean chasing drinks rather than chasing dreams because I can spend a whole day in bed and not once think about where I should be going and when I manage to drag myself out it is a question of how much therapy can you pay for sanity and is it worth it for my parents to empty their wallets so that I can spill my guts because at what point does a shell have to stop calling themselves human? I am so fucking tired of people telling me that there is room for improvement because I can scream into the hollowed out bits of myself and only hear echoes - when you tell me there is space to grow, I will show you that I am the grand canyon when you imagined me as a pothole and it would have been a lot easier to fill me with cement and walk all over me again. Somebody once told me that being bipolar was like trying to visit the opposite ends of the world at the exact same time - that the closer you got to where you want to go, the further you get from where you should have been in the first place and it is a matter of just standing still and letting the Earth do the spinning for you. But I have been trying to take steps and I swear to God if I hear that I am not moving fast enough that I can assure you my body is quicksand and it is enough that I have not completely sunk inside of myself. I do not have black eyes from the struggle, I do not have broken bones that let you know I have been fighting for my life, but I have my beating heart and the sunrise that tells me this is a new day and for now that is enough.
—  February 19th, 2017 (k.p.k)

To the girl who swears she has never been enough,

I have heard you cry until your lungs rattle like the snake announcing itself in the desert, I have listened to the sound your heart makes when it shatters at sunset and takes all night to stitch itself back together again with fraying string. No more.

I have sat where you now sit at the kitchen table, staring at the plate in front of you and wondering if this is how each man has seen you. Your mouth doesn’t water but your eyes begin to. I have crossed my legs tighter, as you do. You ask yourself what defines an animal - if meat is only meat when we say so. No more.

I have been with you as you walk down the street, the night announcing itself in the laughs and yells from the bars and the keys between your fingers. You tell yourself you would feel better with more protection, even though by now you have built up so many walls you can call yourself a mansion. No more. 

I have waited for a call by my phone for hours, as you have. I have stared at the ceiling for one hour too long, paced the length of my house for two hours, wondering for three hours straight why I am not worth the ten seconds that it takes to send a message. No more.

You are not the dry-heaves from your stomach that beg you to pull yourself together. You are more. You are not the dessert or the dinner, you are not served on a silver platter, ordered from a menu. You are more. You are not street-candy, you are not “hey baby”. You are more. You are not an empty building, or darkened alley. You are more. You are not counted in the minutes he has chosen to care for you. You are more.

To the girl who swears she has never been enough,
this time,
tell yourself,
No more.
You are more.

—  NO MORE (k.p.k)
The difference between falling in love and falling off a sixteen-storey building is that you only get road rash from one. You can tell everybody that you can still feel exactly where his lips last hit you and they will shrug their shoulders and say, “but where is the blood? Where is the scar? If he touched you that much, shouldn’t it have become part of who you are?”
—  WHERE IS THE SCAR (k.p.k)

underneath the happiness is this indescribable sense of doom,

as if the depression is the foundation that all my other feelings are built off of,

as if my emotions were a skyscraper, 
my happiness would be closest to the sun,

but it is the sadness that touches the Earth and keeps me grounded.

Love makes you the bulldozer.
Love builds you from the bottom up.

—  February 21st, 2017 (k.p.k)
I want you to fall in love with me more than once. I want you to wake up next to me in twenty years and still be surprised by how pretty my eyes look when the sun comes up. I want you to see me walking across the street and have your heart skip a beat even though you know you’re coming home to me and we’ve been living together for the past thirty-five years. I want the excitement, the rush, the purity of falling in love and getting sweaty palms when you reach to touch my fingertips with yours. I want you to hear your heart beat a little bit louder for me every day that we’re together.
—  Just One More Time (k.p.k)