Home » Poems » Best » Clare Maceda » Best Clare Maceda Poems

Best Poems Written by Clare Maceda

Below are the all-time best Clare Maceda poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Clare Maceda Poem

A Year For a Moment

For twenty two moments, wracking your brain
In the past he would’ve stood still but today matters
Three years in purgatory and I lost my ring.
Hold her hand - take her back - 
trace your name on holiday.
“Inhale, it should hurt” but 
she won’t if you roll your eyes one more time.
Fist pressed to sternum because her nerves are numb.
We slow dance to affluent chatter.
Two stairs were broken when the fireworks started
not just one.
Put your copper on the train track, wait for it…
… Godspeed you! black emperor.
Get off at Spring if you like the smell of cigars.
Forget about firsts because 
lasts last longer.
You aren’t as tall as you think because
after the sun sets she can break branches.
When she opened the door one last time
she was under the bridge but he was home.

Details | Clare Maceda Poem

Younger

A window pane, framed, by your simple face. 
Your day’d rush by with the green and red lights. 
A down feather mountain defined your space.
Celluloid, cellulite, closed eyes to fright.
A word was spoken, a quick glance exchanged.
You sank into a pit of your own make.
I’d given the world to help rearrange
the course of events for your better sake.
You grasped for a hand just out of reach.
Your breath wavered despite it’s youthful might. 
Unbind yourself, to find the self you seek. 
Unkind times made you step out of the light. 
The unknown you can conquer, just concur
the weight you carry, you it can’t defer.

Details | Clare Maceda Poem

Don'T Look At Me

I’m trying to remember how to breathe.
There’s this emptiness, this feeling this this this
Don’t look at me, because I can feel your lips on mine
when you’re halfway across the room.
I don’t fully recognize what it means to be here.
It feels the same but I can’t remember 
what it feels like to lay in this bed,
to have your hands choking my stomach
and the sound of your breath.
Your form in front of me, looming
Your heart in my hands, I’m sorry I dropped it.
I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.
Buy me a sandwich and swallow my smoke.
It smells like Brainscan in here and I feel seventeen. 
I’m not seventeen.
I’m older but these hands are that of a child
and she doesn’t know why she can’t sleep. 
She’s trying to find out why she doesn’t feel girly. 
I’m not a girl, I’m a woman. 
I’m smarter than you think I am.
I’m more than these burns on my hand 
from the heat of your repression
What do you want for lunch?
Please say it’s me.
I hate your hair like that. Can I touch it?
Get away from me, I want you right here. 
I wanna put my hand on your back
and pretend I know where the pain comes from.
I’m gonna keep trying.
Please tell me to stop.
Please, please stop looking at me.

Details | Clare Maceda Poem

Extremity

Look at my hands. 
Pristine at first glance but look a little longer. 
The pointer and middle on the right hand. 
The yellow hue comes from an addictive personality. 
Pan down to see a child in that line of white.
She woke up crying because her hands were bloody. 
The wrinkles that stretch and close as they drape over my knuckles. 
My dad would say my blood was made of sugar, 
his evidence was the white dots that litter my skin. 
I’ve been asked why my nails are so long. 
A long nail elongates the fingers. 
If you are visualizing the nails of Rita Hayworth or the likes,
think more along the lines of Corpse’s Bride with skin. 
On the left, the gray polish is always chipped. 
The most active of the fingers. 
Where one would usually have wrinkles between the joints,
on the middle one the skin is perfectly smooth,
the cause being sexual tension and a cigarette. 
On the side of the same finger, hugging the nail,
a wound from a seventeen year old who shouldn’t be trusted with sharp things. 
The protruding, mechanical nature of the bones that ebb and flow
as they breathe with broken movement. 
The breath is felt in all but one finger
embedded with glass from bad decisions during communal living.
It left with with a little bit less feeling and a little bit more character. 
The most beautiful thing about me is the one most harmed.

Details | Clare Maceda Poem

Not a Burden

The middle finger meets the notch inside my thumb,
squeeze tighter, maybe it’ll shrink.
Trying to push up inside of my skeleton,
closing my eyes I try to pull out my chest.
This feels inhuman, like she’s someone else.
She’s looking back at me, but she can’t register my form. 
Count from one to sixty, it should take longer. 
Someone wraps your fingers under the protrusion on my shoulder,
shake me and tell me you noticed. 
After hours of this standoff, this plasticine mold of me
is like a faceless mannequin I wanna give a name. 
Kissing bathroom walls is an occupation
I’m waiting for the badge on my stomach to rise from the dead. 
I’m never less alone than when alone.

Details | Clare Maceda Poem

Some People Are Satanists

I am no longer worthy of his time
When I told him I was sad he said he didn’t believe me. 
When I told him that I loved him he said he didn’t believe me. 
For the latter he was right 
I don’t like that he could be right
I am lost but not because I lost him
Because I can’t exactly remember what it was like to believe someone
when they extended friendship or affection.
I had a dream last week or last month
and he was there but when he turned around 
he was someone else.
That confused me.
I think about how I was never really told
that I was beautiful
even though I always thought everyone was beautiful.
I want to know what drew me to the devil.
My actions are the voice of my subconscious
so there must be something wrong with me. 
I think about slashing three of his tires 
since you only get insurance for all four.