I’m no Betty boop I’m not the prettiest bird around
so it’s hard to explain how I deal with the daily pressures, these writings are my mask, I hide behind the words and pour my heart out hoping to be heard out, I’m not looking for attention I just want recognition.
Right now I don't know what to do because I prefer the dark cold alone nights with nothing but the moon my music and my words which I dot cross and dash out, the world is my canvas and my mind is the pen which I use to express my pain,
I’m not sure if you'll understand but I had to give up everything because this voice within my head destroys everything I touch, I can't hold like she wants me to cause I might ruin her good soul,
But I need somebody, I’m not just the perfect somebody,
I look around and see the pretty girls wondering if they see me, I look around and see fast cars wondering if I’ll have more than one,
I look at myself and wonder why I’m so an understood am I doing something wrong or am I doing everything wrong, I know it's one of the two, am I deep? Or am I just one of the few?
emotional writer but I feel nothing except this numb feeling, I’m not sure if you'll understand but this pain is within and it’s the only feeling I know, I might be hurting I might be loving it still feels the same
My grandmother always said I look more beautiful when I smile but never thought to ask why I wasn’t smiling. My heart could only bring myself to smile back at her in return. I would spend every summer day I could at her house, swimming in the lake, basking in the sun, drowning my sorrows and letting them sink till I couldn’t see them anymore. I thought maybe they would stay at the bottom with whatever else was lost in that lakes depths. But I was only a child, and we think such foolish thoughts. I guess you could say my sorrows came back like ghosts with a vengeance because nothing was scarier than ghosts and nothing haunted me like my sorrows. I was thirteen years old and scared of the dark because it looked like silence felt and I was so overcome by it I hardly got any sleep. Then I asked myself what is sleep? Are we all just stuck in a nightmare or a dream, stuck in an infinite loop, a broken record, repeat. I wanted to scream as loud as I could but I didn’t dare wake the beasts in the next room in fear that I’d get beat. Emotionally, physically it was all the same to me because what’s the difference between visible scars and a broken heart, they both hurt. Sixteen years old and I’m staring at a rope tied in a knot, representing the hold my sorrows have over me. I tried for hours to untie that knot in hopes it would magically cure my problems. I cried in frustration and finally took a knife to it, determined to be free but only for a moment because the knot was me. I made a masterpiece out of the flesh I had come hate, trying to find some beauty in it but all I felt was sickness, pain. So I tied that rope around my neck a hundred times, saying goodbye and I’m sorry a thousand more, ready to end my life when all I really wanted was someone to notice. And if that makes me selfish than at least I’m something more than a disappointment. But don’t worry I’ll still see you in the morning because I never could bring myself to commit. Eighteen years old, a legal adult and the my only friend said he couldn’t love me if I couldn’t get better on my own. Said it was too hard to be with someone so far away even though I could reach my hand out and close that distance. He broke my heart and walked out of my life and the next day he didn’t have one. That day I came to terms with my life. No one could destroy me because I destroy me. And my worst fear is no longer ghosts, the dark, or the silence. My worst fear is one day, being as oblivious to my child’s suffering as my parents were to mine.
French bath! Twenty two year old mind cologne slut! My friend speaks of concubines in yellow autumn slavery like my soul wants to copulate against female hosiery. A woman had her period, what’s it doing in my pocket? Warm October moons circulate preliminary madness with a catwalk kind of patience. Terrestrial sisterhood and their cemetery leaf appendages stroke our hearts with a sweep like bone-silk companions speak dark history.
© Matthew Goff
Love is not giving yourself away piece by shattered piece
to convince him to feel about you what you feel for him
it is not a million misused chances for the stubborn hope that the pretty words you write will make him want to stay
it is not allowing him to treat your body like a hotel, to come and go in his own pleasure
because he knows better than to think there will come a day where you may have changed the locks
love is not an inexhaustible cycle of sleepless nights
spent wondering what variant of himself he may show you tomorrow
if he shows you one at all
love is not stripping yourself of all the armor you put on to shield away all of his demons
his lips may taste like honey but baby they burnt your skin
and he is already painting her the pictures you thought were only meant for you
telephone wires are sizzling
celestial water coloring stares
like a snowflake melting without
admiring her own poetic words
because silver armor is piercing
through glass throats that
scarlet rivers are dimly glorifying smiles
arousing lip biting & rough play
against the wall
i'm biting my lip again
The marriage of pen to paper gives birth to poetic imagery.
So full of life that its authentic nature can be felt every time you read.
My heart nurtured in its soil so deep that my mind thinks poetically. Aligned with the body and soul, I become poetically whole.
It was a place, I used to hang my art
now a poetic graveyard, devoid of better parts
Friends, collaborators, and people that I knew
all that's left are reminders, a place, I was passing through
Hours, days, and months, spent typing like a fool
architecting prose and rhyme, utilizing every tool
Crafting and collecting, arranging words sublime
the site, now covered, drown, in vitriolic slime
Becoming witness too, such complete technological idiocy
lack of competent management, absence, of rote security
Trolls by any name, of many names they used
all of them may have been only one, ultimately abused
Rest in peace, and know the torch, not fallen free
caught by hands, more poetic, than mine will ever be