Her Story Is Strange
Posted by Lauren Yates | Filed under Poetry, Print
There’s something about the post-punk silence of nighttime that makes me doubt my soul. That makes me define things in terms of what they follow instead of what they are. Someday, I hope my life will be as interesting as a rock-and-roll portrayal of history. Something to be envied. Something to be admired for its brilliant art direction and cinematography, but panned for its lackluster script. In simpler terms, something boring but pretty. But I’ll only be in it for the costumes. And the one critic who will understand and say, “Her story is strange. At night she levitates above her bed. She’s over the age of sixteen, but she’s still not a witch yet. Kudos for not succumbing to clichés.”
Irony in Retrospect
Posted by Lauren Yates | Filed under Poetry, Print
When I was a little girl, I said to my grandfather:
“I know my mind isn’t ripe yet, but can we copyright it anyway?
Someday my ideas will be good enough to steal.”
Betelgeuse
Posted by Lauren Yates | Filed under Poetry, Print
To the ninth brightest star in the night sky:
Project divine sparks toward this back wall.
I’m hard of hearing and your feelings aren’t quite mine.
Come closer.
No one can outshine your dark horse harmony,
bracing front man melodies sung by the sun.
Know that you’re bright enough to hold
your own, that you illuminate the night sky.
Ninth brightest star, come closer.
Your potent whisper still can’t fight
the distance between us. But I don’t want it to.
Six-hundred light years later, you’ll shock my fingertips
once I’ve called your name three times.
Bed
Posted by Lauren Yates | Filed under Poetry, Print
Lost
in the
analog
sway and hopeless
attempts at control.
We set our clocks to strike
perfection, but nighttime comes
too soon. Like a desperate lover,
darkness sweeps over to strangle our
dreams and shakes its little death until dawn.
