Xeroxed vitals on paperplanes
Crashing into window panes
Broken-heart blisters and voyeuristic veins
Appear and create transparent glass stains
Blue-Green grass on the other side
Laying there, our fathers died
Dreams and streams of alcohol
Run from their mouths with no control.
Shaking, breaking, no where to decompose
Skin peeling off of worn down toes.
Tell me where their love goes
Tell me where their love goes
Everything turned into gun-shy eyes
Blue-lipped Sunday surprise
Bodies breaking into waiting
This is nothing but carbon dating
Bottles breaking of ***** that's so clear
That I won't see until they're near
God and Jesus in picture frames
Suburban families with jungle brains
Broken homes and replacement Brad's
401 k's and missing ads
Finding our homes that aren't so black and white
Let us sleep in our dreams tonight
Validation through our existence
Is dead but still our resistance

Everybody wants to be,
loved somewhere, somehow internally.

Everyone's trying with heart ,
To be so the same, or be so apart.

looking for love, in all the wrong places.
gliding through applications;
rejecting, accepting, based just on their faces.

Denying love ,
Defying love,
and simply not trying love.

but its tough to be loved in the this day and age;
because we judge people on how they look on a page.

Alas..

Everybody wants to be,
loved somewhere, somehow internally.

dating a writer
is like guessing the weather.
you think you know what you'll get,
but you never do.

you never know
because

she'll create a hero
from your weaknesses

and she'll write a great character,
from every last flaw.

she'll create a thousand plots  
from your worst nightmares.

she'll take every last thing you hate
and create something you'll love.

she'll turn your anger
into confessions of adoration,

and she'll make you,
everything you're not.

but worst of all,
she'll leave you wondering-
is it you she's in love with,
or things she's created from you?

but here's the beauty of it:

if you date a writer,
you'll never die.

I want to be haunted by you.

Want you to...

Sit down beside me, 'til I feel your presence in the air.
Watch me remember you, So you can see I still care.
Caress me in passing, leaving chills on my spine.
Visit my dreams, make me believe that you're still mine.

     Haunt me daily, and keep this loneliness at bay.
     Haunt me nightly, until my desire goes away.

I want to be haunted by you, so I can ignore the pain
Haunt me please, so I can pretend that nothing has changed.



© Tina Thompson

Seriously?!

I'm a ****...

Wait. No you're not. Hold on.
I can't find...
I can't find my *******. Help me look.

blankets flung.
nothing.

You're...
you're laughing right now?
How could you not?


Can you see that
we're standing in a
giant pond of
ridiculosity.

a glasses lense
popped out.
hair a nest
of invisible
rodents.

his belt
all askew worried
face pursed
lips.

shirt tails- a crumpled
facade of the pressed
summer evening shadows
outlined behind
the lawn sprinklers from
the night before.

and in the cab
to work
phone almost
dies. 37 degree damp
heat pressing
against the car
like a monroe-type
kitten from the
50s.

the morning world
bustling awake
the driver asks
'you work this
afternoon?'

shake my head 'no'
slowly working the
knots out of my
hair

brace for the last
day.

And I'm
still missing
my underwear.

Dating & Relationships are Complete Madness.

where do you draw the line between clingy and genuine desire

of course I desire Your presence

if I didn’t then you wouldn’t have My time

does that make me clingy?

I believe If a man Wants a woman

the woman does not need to ever Ask

or suggest

or sit back and Wonder quietly

in fear of being “clingy” upon muttering

the words “I miss you”

"hello:

"how was your day"

or

”:)”

does “:)” even say too much

my god why isn’t there a way to read the mind

i feel like i’m regurgitating my own words

and thoughts of words

the way they come to me so easily and

then fester in my stomach tickling

the back of my tongue

pressing on my lips

they nearly spill

and just before they do

i swallow them right back up

and say nothing

leaving you hungry

in the same way

i am hungry for you

Sometimes, what hurts is not just losing love -
but the reality of losing your best friend, your world.
Losing the person you've spent many-a-time making memories with;
the only person in the world you felt a sense of belonging with.

Sometimes, what hurts most is watching things fall apart -
rooted to the ground, you are unable to hold on to your slipping love.

Nights you would spend conversing with your love;
planning your future memories,
enjoying the night-sky together -
now turned to nights of sorrow, loneliness and heartache.

Sometimes, what hurts most is knowing you are responsible for everything that went wrong.