Maxwell Searcy
Maxwell Searcy Poems
Does your mind ever play tricks on you? Because it sure does on me. Your mind tells your lips to do things to the air between them and my ears that my synapses just can't keep up with.
And late at night, it convinces your fingers to type things onto a tiny phone keypad that leave me smiling long after I've hit the
reply button.
...
I tried to sit down and write a poem about how much I hate you,
but there weren’t any words
so, instead,
I used numbers.
...
I stood in front of my bathroom mirror.
The cutest smile–
no scratch that–
smirk–
...
I'm awful at pentameter.
I couldn't catch a slant rhyme with a mit
except that I know orange will
rhyme with door hinge, which can be spelled with or without an interword hyphen.
...
Woman. Your hair burns when I look at it.
Honestly, your hair incinerates the very core of my optic nerve and
your voice gets on my next one
and you in a whole are sitting right on top of my last.
...
My heart soars so high when I think of later that now falls to the wayside and the future springs up to the frontside.
Summer does a backflip and you turn bitterly cold.
Winter cold.
My thoughts are so icy that
...
(based on a much older, much shorter, much cheesier, much dumber poem)
I wrote a story.
And you were in it.
...
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The Best Poem Of Maxwell Searcy
Toobusywithmyflowersto Believe
Does your mind ever play tricks on you? Because it sure does on me. Your mind tells your lips to do things to the air between them and my ears that my synapses just can't keep up with.
And late at night, it convinces your fingers to type things onto a tiny phone keypad that leave me smiling long after I've hit the
reply button.
But recently, I think my eyes have gotten themselves confused with your mind and have started playing Roxanne,
but not heeding Sting's advice.
My eyes turn tricks to pay the tab you've run up in the tiny pub that is our relationship.
My eyes whisper buck fifty shots of dirty tequila to my brain that you aren't really interested and I don't know what to believe-
the bartender or the
splitting
headache the morning after-
but I do know that I'm sorry.
I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry.
I'm sorry that I'm not enough for you and
I'm sorry that I texted you too late and
I'm sorry that I confroted you like an adult
because I forgot that you are in the Cult of the Kid.
Your religion is one of roughhousing.
Your sacraments are swingsets and
your commandments are colouringbooks and
your Eucharist is unicorns set in black velvet painted with a neon pink crayola.
I know you never cared to talk about the Mythology of Maturity.
I know I promised I wouldn't bring it up again.
I know you never really cared about that pinky promise we made over the white hot,3AM telephone line.
But I did.
I had a conversation with myself about whether I could leave you-
I have NEVER left someone.
And guess what?
My mind doesn't.
Mind, that is.
But my heart, well it... It won't do so hot after we pull a kitkat.
I can't believe you think that what you did was forgivable.
I won't believe that I love you as much as my mind tells me I do.
And
I don't believe in an afterlife, but
that doesn't make the 'go to hell' come out of your lips any more gently.
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4/24/2024 8:53:43 PM # 1.0.0.1119
