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Best Poems Written by Carissa Marie

Below are the all-time best Carissa Marie poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Carissa Marie Poem

Forget About Her

I can’t breathe.
It isn’t because I’m upset, 
Because I’m not.
Not upset.
I rarely am anymore.
No, that’s wrong.
I am,
Sometimes,
But it’s not painful
Like it used to be
Back when I had real emotions;
Back when I knew what it meant
To be human
And not an empty husk
With nothing going on inside.
I’m a husk, 
And God
But it hurts so much 
To be empty.
Words echoing,
Screaming,
Always screaming in my head,
Slamming their fists 
Against my battered throat,
Tripping over my bloody tongue,
Whispering past my chewed lips
Because all their power 
Was lost fighting me.
I’m my own villain,
My own executioner.
I wrap ropes around my neck
And take a leap of faith
Off the nearest building.
My community service?
Suicide.
Wipe my remains off
Of your three-hundred-dollar boots
And forget about the girl
Who used to sit across from you in class
With the saddest smile;
Twisting her depression
Into something almost edible.
Forget about the girl
Who stood for 
Everything that burns 
And curdles
And breaks.
Forget about the girl
Who used to be okay.
Forget about the girl 
Who’s nothing more
Than a streak across the pavement
And a brief vigil in the streets,
An excuse for tears
When she didn’t deserve them
In the first place.

Details | Carissa Marie Poem

Painted Lady

He fell in love with a painted lady.
She moved in mauve,
Her limbs sweeping in clouds of gold
That broke the monotony of his glass life.
Her presence brought hailstorms,
Navy rain that streaked her cheeks
And stained lips tasting of peaches.
She danced in her own supernova, 
Yards of brilliant bronze hair
Filling his mouth, his nose, his ears,
More flavor than hue;
More scent than shade;
More song than any color
Her swirling body could produce.
When he was with his painted lady,
He knew no shades of gray;
Her moods were rose and plum and sky,
She his lovely painted lady.
They tangled beneath stars,
Each moment brighter than the last.
In the fervor of their love
His days faded into months
Which streaked into years
Until the cool blue morning 
When his beloved painted lady
Released her last bleeding scarlet breath.

Details | Carissa Marie Poem

Water On Fire

Showering
Knob all the way left

Skin on my calves 
Burning crimson
Tingling with heat

Scrub it off
     off
          off

Scratch the fingerprints out
Of my screaming pores
Pull every hair
He ever touched
Out of my scalp
Replace myself
With new pieces
Of me

Details | Carissa Marie Poem

Fall Harder

Three letters. 
Three notes
So full of honesty
That I nearly choked on the strength of them
While I was pouring them 
Onto those clean sheets of paper.
I love the number three;
I think I may have mentioned that,
At some point or another,
Though I can’t remember for sure.
Things have been like that a lot recently.
I keep finding that the little memories
Are slowly slipping away from me.
You’d think I would mind:
You’d think I’d object to losing
A second with you,
Even if the seconds I’m losing
Are ones already spent in your company.
I don’t, though.
I’ve found that I don’t care 
If I forget some tiny details,
Because I remember the emotions.
I remember how it feels
To be curled up against your side, 
Even if I can’t remember our conversation.
On top of that, I’m fine with replacing
The old memories with new ones-
Each sweeter than the last.
I’ve never been one of those people
Who puts everything into a relationship. 
I’m always too afraid 
To fall as hard as I’m ought to
Into arms that might not care
As much as they pretend to.
With you, though, with you
I can’t help but give up everything,
Can’t help but give you my entire being
And every mistake and heartbreak 
That I’ve accumulated over the years-
As well as a lifetime of pent-up love
That now I bestow on you.

Details | Carissa Marie Poem

The Liar

The lies connect us all.
We are entangled in their web:
Our bodies pierced,
     Bleeding,
Dripping crimson over the strings
Which ensnare our neighbors.
We drink,
     Thirsty,
But the blood cannot satiate us
For we are gorged on our own importance.
I wear a crown of thorns.
My forehead is pricked and bruised
And I speak with my black tongue,
Oozing fallacies into my gaping breast.
I grasp for the hearts you’ve sacrificed to me,
The lives you’ve gifted me,
The trust you placed in my hungry mouth
To feed my gluttony.
I am the sin
Your Father told you to purge.
I am a roiling serpent in a dress,
My lips the Tree of Knowledge.
     Partake.
Let my lies penetrate you.
I am the serpent
And you are aching for a dangerous playmate.

Details | Carissa Marie Poem

Kissing Girls

I think of my sexuality 
The same way I think of chemistry class:
Pretty often, 
And with a definite air
And complete and utter confusion.
I believe I had exactly one day 
Of sexual conviction-
I came out to my boyfriend,
Sort of,
And I posted repeatedly on the Internet-
But it didn’t take long
For my questions to come back.
How do you label yourself
When you fall somewhere between the lines,
Somewhere murky 
And perhaps a little scary?
The terms are all so complicated,
So unknown,
And all so very taboo.
We can barely get lesbians 
On prime-time TV,
Let alone a bisexual
Or an asexual
Or, God forbid, a pansexual.
I’ve tried on sexualities
Like bell-bottom jeans:
They all sort of fit,
But none hug me the way I want them to.
I spent a few days as a pansexual.
A few weeks as a poly.
Now bisexuality is creeping up
Like a Peeping Tom in light-up Sketchers
And a singing Christmas sweater.
Sometimes, I’m convinced
That all of this questioning
Is just useless blather.
After all, a single label
Isn’t going to change my life.
I know who I’m not-
Isn’t that enough?
Sometimes, the desire to just know
Consumes my every thought
And I have to remind myself
That I think about kissing girls
Far too much to be straight.
1/7/18

Details | Carissa Marie Poem

Brutality In Honesty

I’ve noticed the popular opinion-
Aided, of course, by all forms of media
From novelizations to song lyrics-
That high school boys
Are cuter, smarter, and nicer.
Now, I’ll be the very first to admit
That they get significantly
More physically appealing.
And I suppose they do get smarter...
At playing you.
Nice, though?
I can count the number
Of genuinely nice guys I’ve met
On one hand.
Oh, I can hear the male indignation now!
“Not all men.”
No, you’re right,
It would be wrong
To classify an entire demographic
Based on one stereotype.
Especially when my opinion
Hasn’t been properly researched.
That would be like
Somebody saying:
“All Muslims are terrorists.”
But nobody would say anything
As far-fetched as that.
God seemed like such a nice guy
Until you used him
To support your prejudices.
I’m agnostic.
That’s not the same thing as atheist,
Which isn’t the same thing as Satanist.
I don’t oppose your God.
I’m just opposed to any religion
That makes me feel oppressed.
To any religion
That bashes a woman
For seeking medical attention
News flash!
Abortion is actually a very small portion
Of what Planned Parenthood offers.
“May contain sensitive content
Viewer discretion is advised.”
Am I censored because my opinions
Aren’t socially acceptable,
Or because you’re uncomfortable
With having your bigoted views stripped away
Like my rapist stripped me?
Suddenly, an unexpected statistic
Emerges from the wings!
“What were you wearing?”
Oh, I dunno.
I was thirteen.
So probably a Hello Kitty t-shirt
And light-up Sketchers.
“Men get raped, too.”
No, men get raped.
That’s a sentence that belongs
On its own,
Not tacked onto the end of mine.
I’m not worried about female rapists.
I’m worried about all rapists,
Regardless of gender,
Race, age, religion, culture, or sexual preference.
I don’t care if you like
Asian girls,
Short girls,
Blonde girls,
Old girls,
Or guys.
Just as long as you don’t like little girls.
Pedophilia isn’t a preference,
It’s a crime.
Oh, I’m sorry,
Am I making you uncomfortable?
Good.
If you don’t feel
Completely disgusted right now,
You’re a pathetic excuse
For a human being.
But I won’t say you should die-
Because the last time
Someone told me to kill myself,
I tried.
But, yenno,
It was just a joke!
God, girls take things so seriously.
It’s not like any of these
Are actual, documented issues, right?
No, women are just freaking crazy!

Details | Carissa Marie Poem

Our Thunderous Silences

High school:
A cacophony of deafening personalities,
Everyone racing,
Competing,
Fighting for individuality
In the midst of a war
That cannot end.
If we had nothing to battle,
What would we do
With our emerging identities?
In a symphony of adolescent instrumentals,
I am the piano,
Dancing quietly below the louder instruments,
Just soft enough to remain underneath their notes
But important enough that without me
The entire piece would fall flat
And be reduced to nothing
But useless noise.
I must pay close attention
To every note I play;
One misstep and the piece comes crashing
Down around our sunburned ears.
No matter how cautious I am,
There will always be the one line
That my fingers stumble over:
I've learned to keep moving,
Keep playing,
And smile like I haven't royally screwed up.

Details | Carissa Marie Poem

Porn

My boyfriend has informed me 
That I don’t know what irony is
Because I make bad jokes
That don’t make sense to anybody but me.
Sometimes, not even me.
He has informed me that my poetry
Is full of nature
And that is ironic 
Because I don’t go outside.
It’s too hot out there,
It’s too buggy out there,
But inside I write poems
About the sun I don’t bask in 
And the seas I don’t bathe in 
And the virgin snow I’ve seen maybe once
In a freak storm
When we had twelve inches on our porch
And all I thought about was getting laid.
I think about getting laid a lot.
When I am and when I’m not
And what code words I can use
So I can write about it in my journal.
I scribble letters on the corners of my pages,
Tattoo sex into the history of my life
Because I’m eighteen years old
And I’ll be damned if I’m not going to document
Getting a good shake-down.
Break it down into a play-by-play.
I make porn in my head 
Because it’s blocked on my phone
And at least then I can star in it.
I practice with myself.
Sometimes I even love myself-
Until it gets weird,
Then I quit and watch Doctor Who,
Which is basically porn for my brain.
A few weeks ago,
I went into a lingerie shop
And would have bought a vibrator
If I’d had more cash.
I don’t understand why sex toys
Are so much more expensive than boys.
I thought their purpose was replacement.
It seems stupid to pay forty dollars for a toy
When I can get a guy for free.
Or occasionally a burger and fries,
Which definitely isn’t going to cost me forty bucks.
Maybe fifteen, if I’m feeling really frisky.
Even so, I was needy,
And if I hadn’t had only a twenty dollar bill
And my mom’s credit card,
I wouldn’t be writing this poem
Because I’d be in bed,
With myself,
Rediscovering why people like poems about sex.

Details | Carissa Marie Poem

Murder Me

Three fun facts about me:
One, 
I’m a condom baby.
Two,
My mom wasn’t really supposed to be able to have kids,
So my siblings and I are kind of  miracle babies.
    And three,
I’ve spent almost half of my life wishing
That these first two had ended me
Before I even began.
Believe it or not,
Looking back on yourself
At ten, eleven, and twelve
And realizing
    God, I was actually <****ing> depressed
Is pretty horrifying. 
My mother doesn’t know how to love me.
At some point
The love she had for the child growing in her womb-
If it ever existed at all-
Was perverted by her selfishness.
My mother doesn’t love me,
She abuses every ounce of trust
I gave her in my childhood innocence.
She destroys my relationships.
Poisons my friendships.
She is everything that scares me about myself,
Gave me my worst fears.
She has spent almost eighteen years
Murdering the wonder and hope of a child,
Teaching her to hate herself,
To mistrust others,
To hate and hurt and lash out.
She has spent almost eighteen years 
Murdering me. 
12/20/17