i've always had a peculiar affair with history
history is a woman draped in red silk
with vixen eyes and sharpened claws
carefully picking out the hearts to break
and stories to keep
one day i'll arrive in her velvet palms
until then i am but another spectator
aligning myself with what has come to pass
i felt so deeply for the lost souls
souls history deemed unworthy to chronicle
i often wonder about the stories of fossils
of what love laid in the bones below me
of the life shared in worn out alleyways
i often remember all the sadness
the war that plagued the world around me
the death of kings the rise of nations
being affiliated with history is one way to come to it
to sympathize with all her victims
to love so much you love even what is done
the fall of rome broke my heart
for if an empire could fall
how much more i
to remember so much even what you never knew
i feared the flood that carried noah
for if all those quiet beings never reached that ark
who was to say i would've as well
i weeped for the library of alexandria
and all the parts of history left astray
for if that much life could burn
i am already ash
i find it hard to let bygones be bygones
when i am forever hanging on history's clavicles
somehow reaching for her and never quite making it
as i am a lost soul ripe and wary of her place
in a muse as big as history's heart
Have you forgotten how this works
We get off in one big jerk
You can not put me off for later
By then I will have become a fable
You must write when I command
On this fact I squarely stand
Even when sleep tries to steal you away
In your brain I still romp and play
I will make your tired body get up and write
For your brain is not that tight
The words will leak right out
You know that fact without a doubt
I know how important I am to you
So what I say, you will do
You will always do as I choose
For you can't live with out your muse
I've always been on this journey
Of floating with words.
Looking for you
I travelled across the
Sacred skies of many hearts,
Forming and breaking constellations
With the language of my ribcage.
For a thousand years
I walked through the veins of love
Wondering about the face
Of your virgin mind.
Your were the white heads
Of those tulips
I held each morning before smelling
Your absence inside them.
A constant search, still going on
As all the words of my poem
Keep running towards your smile.
Just answer me with your hands
Will you be my muse?
the clouds look like vape smoke
and like, um, gross.
all of my friends are still confused as to
why poinsettias have nothing to do
w/ kissing you underneath mistletoe
there is straw basket suspended from the ceiling
holding five evenly spaced lightbulbs,
which, if you think about it, is probably
the most inefficient way to hold onto light
there is a girl, underneath these lights
sketching an image from her computer screen
and i’m honestly about to warn her
that if she doesn’t move quickly
all of the light above her might spill out over her
in third grade, i learned that indians
wove straw baskets so tightly that
they held even drops of water, even though
they weren’t even indians
wait! she folds up her laptop now, and puts
her sketchbook to the side, and there are obviously
only two possible reasons for this:
either she sensed that i am writing a poem about her
or she has recently drowned in all of the light
True inspiration is like a good muse
what it has to give you can’t choose.
This is the worst thing
that could’ve happened to me:
I met someone who thinks like Thierry
and who talks like he’s in a dream.
Smooth moves, calm watery eyes,
tipped nose, expressing tongue.
His facial features are all he’s got going;
his symmetry was the best of him;
his art was the worst.
No soul, no history, no personality;
too many layers for me to try to knock down.
He said he needed more than a friend
but that’s all I ever was.
His surrealistic tongue had nothing
to do with me but I wanted everything of his.
He’s a genius.
He took a razor in one hand
and with scissors in the other
he cut off my hair (he wants to change the world,
so he starts with me).
While cutting my ears, my blood came out
and his blue eyes rolled back in his head
and he pretended it never happened.
Hers was always the only soul I ever wanted to absorb entirely.
She's the only reason I write weird shit like that.
Before her, I was plain and thought words were just empty sounds breaking through our silence when we felt like.
Before her I thought movies were for entertainment like Insidious or Rambo,
not feelings like The Perks of Being a Wallflower or Blue is the Warmest Color.
Understanding the world was the least of my worries.
But with her gorgeous insightfulness waking me every morning, I'd gotten used to curiosity and enlightenment.
I wanted to feel the world's love and soak in every perfect ending.
I wanted to listen to the voices and grasp the thickness of the meanings etched into their words.
Every laugh I heard I saw happiness.
And when I look at her I feel the entire universe hugging us as we dance along to heartbreak in The Front Bottoms' lyrics.
I want to hear her voice above all others because making sweet love to her and drenching her body with the promise of forever, well that's the one that stands out the most.
And she calls my name like I never dreamed anyone could.
The poetry she reads me is the most imaginative and splendid and I want to write like her.
To put more beauty into my font.
And I try to make the world my muse.
It'll never be as good as hers.
Because everything that ever was, is her muse.
And mine could only ever be her.
My memories cheat me, and render no justice to my soul
She still holds my major keys and pieces, empty darkened holes
I sail the seas and oceans, searching melodies and shoals
Listening upon the breeze, ever lost with no controls
The waters yield no succor, or salves, for my broken heart
Forever am I searching, having lost my spirit's greatest part
My dreams are filled with desires, of past and future falls
As I can only dwell and live within, my muse and siren call