Leria Hawkins Poems

I'm Not Asking For Much
Date: January 25,2015

You've set a fire burning
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Once I Believed
Date: February 7,2015

Once I believed that a perfect smile
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Alone and weary at the grave
Feeling weak, but acting brave
Saddened that it came to pass
It burned so bright, but didn’t last
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I Cannot Go, I Cannot Stay
Date: July 10,2012

I cannot go
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I am but a fool
To love you so
Simply a fool
I should have let go
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It's A Love, I've Loved In Vain
Date: November 11,2014

A decade ago, I loved you
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And Yet I Love You Still
Date: November 29,2007

Answers remain hidden deep in the shadows of your heart
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A Rose For All Seasons
Date: January 15,2012

This I compare to the raging vein
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My poet’s pen has no rage
No magic ink to grace the page
Tis more so just a tedious tap
To line the page, with useless scrap
My poet’s mind has no flair
Beyond the scribbles sprawling there
Tis rubbish of the typical kind
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Play It Again, Sam
Date: September 25,2013

I think of him, rewinding. Heart hammering a worn-out song. It’s a score that’s always in his favor. Distant drums drive a sick avidity into my brain. I listen without pause (and certainly, most certainly…without cause) . Behind blurred lines of well-versed servility, I hear the all too familiar sound. Rusting blades scrapping, scrapping bare the walls of my conviction. I know and well-remember the woodsy smell of his hair…and no doubt, the bawdy nature of his pretense. Yet without fail, I find myself searching for a slow sip of his disgrace. Like moth to flame, hell-bent on a suicide flight straight into fire. I know damn well the burn, the stinging pain, the insanity, plain and simple. Yet, like a slow sweet song set to rewind, I circle back, eager to please. Eager to replay, relive, and re-die in the torture of this obsession. I am weak to his persuasion. Willing to risk it one last time (and time…and time, time, time again) . Weak indeed (although not entirely without sensibilities) . I am prepared, I know the score, I’ve danced the dance (many, many times) . I stand at ready for the breathless, wingless, free-fall into gut wrenching sorrow. And there’s one thing for sure…he never disappoints. It’s a hot-cold spiral, a perpetual pot that simmers but never quite boils. He stirs, I sputter…hot, hot, hot then cold…ice cold. Madness I know….yet I’m always ready to cook the grits…just…one…more…time.
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