when these summer squalls have subsided and the rains of trials past
are naught but steam and clammy vapor, the sort that scatters at even the faintest of footsteps,
I will reap the kernels of my discontent.
bushel by bushel, I will harvest my wistful fields until they are barren of want, and
come fall, I will take my troubles to the mill.
lined-up and counted and turned and turned and turned, I will bake them in the sun, and
when they are dry, I will grind them with a stone salvation.
under a December sky, I will bleach them with a mild amnesia until
they are as white and soft as springtime snow.
then baker befriended, these kneaded woes will rise--
and this time, I will feast on the bread of my shortcomings.
There was once a man with a hole in his sweater,
He whistled to himself and looked upon others with a scowl.
A beaten leather bag hung from his weathered arm,
Moist with onions and oil his breath was foul.
The sun scorched the holes on his head,
And lines under his eyes counted his years.
His foot twitched as if he were ready to run,
As the marks on his chin reflected his tears.
His brown leather bag held his few prized possessions,
Bottles that warmed his heart and stole his days.
The hole on his sweater will always be seen,
Through hell he stands, firm in his ways.
I remember you said you loved me.
I heard it. Four times. Yes, I counted.
I should have known when you jumped at the idea of more than one virginity under your belt that you’re there just to teach me…
My first time. It hurt. But you were slow, loving almost. Kissed me.
She held my hand and stroked my hair when I groaned, then stroked my chest when I moaned.
She and I kissed as you entered her.
I even delighted in her gasp of surprise.
Everything felt perfect. Then you asked for entrance again. Foreign entrance in a place not yet defiled.
You could see my fear and the blood you already took from my body.
I said no, didn’t I? I vaguely remember saying “not now” and “maybe another time”.
Of course, maybe I didn’t. Those moments before you forced access are a little hazy.
Tainted by pills and pot. Then forever dirtied by pain, tears, rips, and hands.
Yours and hers, both holding me down, locking me in. Again, I felt her stroking my hair.
“It’s okay, honey. It’ll be over soon.”
Horrible words from her mouth as she covers mine. My screams are hopefully tucked deep inside her brain.
It was you though. Your eyes meeting mine, just once. You saw me cry, sob.
Then, it was just a matter of who would cave first. It was me. I stopped fighting so you could finish.
Every single thrust invoked yelps of pure agony. I could feel myself rip around the size of you.
Eventually, she didn’t need to hold me down. You robbed me of all innocence and purity.
When you were done, your mouth met mine. You had to wipe away the blood from my lip.
It was perfect.
My dad used to eat sardines at the kitchen table.
I used to smear chocolate on graham crackers.
My mom used to eat coffee like caffeine was a food group.
My brother used to skip meals. We'd hear
his saxophone buzz from the corners
of the hallway.
Science books lined his bedside table. Beakers
sat in full unison, waiting. Facts loomed over
his blonde head like the future looms over a person with centuries to give.
Cartoons flashed over the living room television
and I sat on the leather couch in a pink dress I didn't like.
The train engine chugged from the trees, past the track, and I counted
how many seconds it took each car to pass.
The sirens hit airwaves every Wednesday, on point.
I saw three tornadoes and two house fires. I learned
to touch danger like a cat touches carpet; delicate.
If I blink, I can see it.
If I move, I can touch it.
Time, captured in the walls of a perfect white house.
Marionette dolls, staged, in perfect unison.
The strings on
my hands still pull me back home.
The smile on my face is a quiet resurrection.
The distance within me, serves, like a slave to my reactions.
I still get my news from my hometown.
And I do not respond to my new friends.
And I cursed November when he came.
And I told myself my existence was feeble.
And I got all the movie quotes wrong.
And I was coughing all the damn time, craggy inhales and spittle in my tea.
They were all phonies then.
Except the boy
I met who
ended every sentence with
"I don't really know,"
everything he said could be true.
And I was running all the time in my sleep, then.
And fucking, too.
And the same boy was always in my dreams - but not the right boy - the boy who was important to me only ever in sleep.
But dreams seemed important then, too.
Oh, I remember!
when I yanked you out of bed, come, I am going
(you were going mad, too,
just last week.)
The fog was not rising at all
chain smoking in respect to my lungs
and their strike on air
my strike on a way of living whose sole purpose was
to stay alive longer
what's all the yap about?
I was not sure I wanted to live
you kept on talking about dogs.
I do not want to live
you started talking about cars!
I have death in my fingertips, you fool!
You supposed heaven was real
and I thought over what I had heard:
heaven is all around us
(yes, we were in a cloud.)
And I supposed you were right
but I kept silent,
I could not put my world on you
and its godlessness.
There was a green flashing light
on the other side of Cincinnati
but you did not understand that reference yet.
But we counted all the
churches and rainy cars
They couldn't grasp at God either.
it will make us all mad, then.
but it was science who spelt of protons and electrons;
and when I am GOOD
he shows me his twisted, gnarled little black heart.
and when he, angelic, comes--
I am the Darkness.
We supposed this was how God talks, anyways.
And the sun curled up again
we drank coffee
in bad lighting
night shakes leaving me and...
It took you hours to respond!
Grappling with insanity for hours!
the kinds in wavelengths
glowering hunched electric clock in the corner
I could not stop thinking over forgiveness
and if I forgave my father for forgetting my birthday
nine years ago
And if it mattered anymore
And if I forgave God
And if I would ever apologize to Him
there was a green flashing light in my baptismal basin, too.
I do not call myself Gatsby anymore.
there was this uncontrollable laughter
that seemed to highlight the memories of our youth
and we sat
in his room
forgetting the time
we counted the minutes in songs
records upon records
and we leaned towards the thought that
enjoying ones company is truly a blessing
a thick layer of smoke
maybe it was fog
a view from the window, slowly infecting the room with its chilled presence
a window wide open
people could hear us down the streets
something along the lines of
super mario world
I once saw a butterfly, its left wing was broken,
and it fell over and over, its legs crushed with feeling.
What is beauty?
We ask ourselves as we pile powder on our face like cement over our flawed skin.
Most attribute "beauty" as a physical trait, something you are either born with
or must qualify as to achieve happiness.
I think beauty is in the scrawled message at the corner of a Post-It note shoved in your right pocket
and in the tears welling to your eyes that have not yet fallen.
I think beauty is the hair unstraightened with wide tired eyes
and collaped words stumbling over themselves.
All we know about beauty was bottle-fed to us.
As a society, we have set aside what is and isn't beautiful.
It is unattractive to have acne, obscene to have leg hair,
and a downright sin to spend less than twenty minutes on your hair each morning.
But I've counted the zits on your crumpled forehead
and wrote in the stars the strands of your hair.
Your beauty's unbroken and awesome and perfectly celestial.
I've touched a million dizzy tulips, their heads nod off to the storm and rain.
But you held me even when I was unforgiving and broke me through the icy winds.
To me, beauty is not just what encompasses us, what we are born into;
Beauty is the yet-to-come and what you've tranformed to
after moments of fading lights and sick feelings.
Beauty is weaved into our minds, where no one can touch.
It's not in our appearance, nor in our actions.
Holding yourself high isn't cutting it for me.
Beauty is intricate thoughts, what you desire and feel.
I can't see beauty until you tell me by the dying light of noon
how much you'd love to change the world with your fingertips.
I once saw a butterfly, its left wing was broken,
but I swore it was beautiful.
Hush, my darling
Slip one foot over the edge.
Find that one weak spot and press
letting the cracks scream and spit and hiss.
Until nothing remains but a dark abyss
that's calling, begging you to fall.
Hear an ocean raging, seething, foaming
at the mouth. Wanting to lick up any piece of you,
to serenade you, promising desires before the curl.
The curl that pulls you into a peaceful lull just ahead of the
that collapses your breath and pushes
rivers into your lungs.
See an illusion.
A tropical paradise beckoning.
Beauty from a distance with devouring teeth.
Not whole, swallowed, painful, but brief. Rather,
slowly - one ache at a time.
An ant sting, small, but trickling poison
into a stream that pumps through your ankle. Then a bubbling,
ghastly surface that won't release the throbbing. Still more.
the serpent's trike.
Taking with, all dilemmas in one torturous
Moment. Wrongly counted as a blessing. Unbearable,
but better than the old pain, for awhile.
And more than pain is the hopeless knowledge: there's no boat
to sail you back.
Feel the blistering desert heat.
Lips that crack and bleed, releasing a sweet juice
into your unquenchable throat. Sweat that drips
driving you nuts from knowing
that water is wasted...
Know the burning seas that are nothing more
than your mind
discovering the darkest side.
And nothing less.
Cry for all the lights you can't turn to. Can't bring to life
because they'll break you.
Let that hole open so wide that there's no mistaking it
but for the darkness is possesses.
Then pull that foot back and stand
on solid ground.
You've seen, heard and felt your demons.
Safe, my darling.
I can tell you’ve never been touched
like a hurricane doesn’t matter
like 40 below or a deep papercut between your
thumb and your index
couldn’t do any more harm
than a teddybear or marigold —
but that was
you’ve never been touched
and you’ve never touched
into the fresh dew on dawn’s grass
and you’ve never stopped
to feel your orgasm like stopping to
smell the roses on a worthwhile jaunt
or the daffodils
or the lilac trees, purple and white
or to smile at a happy sunflower
like all of your little hesitancies and horrors
are of little to no caliber
you’d never go a night without at least a sip of something,
you’d never give yourself
to be yourself
in the sober light of love
you’re shy and you avoid it
but if you counted the number of empty wine & beer bottles
on your balcony,
you’d finally know
you ought to stop pouring at night
and figure out how to explore at night;
dip your fingers in gooey paint and smear every colour
on the pavement
for hours and hours
until the sun awakes
like you have the power to love
and at first, it will, like frostbite,
like papercuts all over your palms,
like cartoon cliff jumps that can never kill you,
like getting fired or evicted or rejected
because remembering something
as fierce and as merciless
is heartbreakingly overwhelming
for the fact that
and forgetting does not make you strong or shrewd
it’ll only screw you over
and give you a blubbery beer belly and empty bottled balcony
and before me,
I’m pretty sure you thought your life was a tragedy
because drinking feels nice and sex releases hurt
but I’m just not interested in being with an alcoholic,
so it’s best we stop taking off our shirts.
You know this never should have happened.
I was never suppose to write a single poem.
Let alone have followers, comments and views.
But here we are and I have you to thank.
And this is my thank you to you all.
My first round of 'thank you's' goes to my followers.
Devlin Andrew Harris, who is quite remarkable, followed me before I had even written anything.
Charlotte Weigh, my most favorite person in the whole world
Nicholas Jones, you were inspiration behind 100 of my poems; yes I counted.
Alysia Michelle; if you ever find yourself in Oregon we'll get some donuts ;P
Harry J Baxter
Nolan Fillman, you have no idea how much your following me, liking my poems, and comment meant to me.
THE WHITE RABIT
Floyd Allen Michael Redenbaugh
Nat Lipstadt, who is beyond brilliant and honored me with being a subject of his writing
Jonny Angel, thank you
Miss Jade Murder
Emily Rose Williams
Timothy, the nicest commenter ever
Peyton, she's pretty fantastic
Tyler Lynn Pulliam
Fadi Shaker, thank you
Kevin Song, sorry I'm not much of a talker
Soul in Torment, beyond words of the skill this one has.
Kelly Rose, thank you
Bailee K, missing you girl
Bilal Kaci, thank you too
Blue K, greatness she has
Tristan Costello, hello
Sadie K, the one with her hands covering her face
Queen of Pancakes, yes you
Whit Trash and Retarded
Ryan Cullen Macleod
The Masked Sleepyz
Okoye Chude Maryanne
and Haley Madison
Next my thanks wants to go to those who took the time to like and comment.
Ernest Gone, one of the first
Joshua X Noheart
Joshua Wann, this guy is the stuff
Andrew Joseph O'Donnell
A Mess of Words, you have no idea how highly I hold you. If this is a 'mess' I hope it never get's cleaned up
Austin Skye, thank you
Heather E Perry
4 different ---, why are you hiding from me?!
I wish I could cry
Kitty named Bailey
Whinging Wonder, I'm sorry
Chandin Clinton, I was never more honored.
Enter Name Here
Sally A Bayan
Yong Hwan Son
Rose Saba, thank you
The Wolf on Red Street
Josh Nunn, hats :)
N, hey you
Michael J Davies
Alexandria Christine Lund
Andrew Siegel, thank you
and Jade Ellen Peel.
And of course to all of you who read my words.
That means a lot to me.
And sure I could have simply said
"I hit 20,000 views thank you all!"
But honestly it means SO much that I needed
to thank each one of you individually.
I am know the pain and frustration of having a name misspelt so let me know and I'll fix it :)