My addiction is spelled out in iron:
Words have been stomped into my fate by elegantly gargantuan feet of Greek goddesses and
in the metal lies every pretentious metaphor and ink-soul-splatter that will define the rest of my existence.
There is no going back
The poetry is here to stay.
the changes the letters have wrought are now normal.
I have become used to looking in the mirror and seeing none of my features for the quotes clumped across my forehead
knotted around the contours of my cheekbones.
My morning coffee will never again just be caffeine and warmth,
but a complex metaphor for love-("being burnt by what you also cannot live without").
Now, I only know what my soul looks like
after it has been typed into pretentious metaphors
and ever since that shivering Thursday afternoon I first picked up a pen-
I look at the whiteboard and cannot absorb the continuing inadequacies of various white men because the stanzas are scattered too thickly across my vision.
But I have adjusted.
I accept that every chemical reaction my brain sets off will have words, a story, line breaks, and lonely Friday nights spent editing my soul into prettier pieces
Editing poems and homework will forever struggle against each other on my priority list
And there is simply no denying the fact that behind everything is words and in front and after there are letters and when glancing sideways and upside down you will find quotes and little sayings and poems,
but it is all perfectly fine.
I will breath in each linguistically-caused tragedy with grace and gentleness
because words are the only way I feel at home in this madly spinning world.
I have never felt cozier snuggled with any human or bed than when I am nestled in the dips and dots and curves of language.
"So," you ask, "what seems to be the downside?"
well, dear reader;
if we are being honest poems aren't real therapists.
and they lend themselves well to madness and isolation
But I cannot bring myself to care...
If words were alcohol I would be that horrible mother they whisper about at the PTA meetings who comes home after work and chugs biccardi on the couch, ignoring her children as she runs around the house screaming and throwing things descending into a state of such lovely and intoxicating madness that she cannot resist another page, another pen, another shot.
If words were meth instead of meth sores I have little holes all over my organs where I have drilled down as deeply as possible, hunting for even the smallest hint of feeling just so I can lovingly string letters together like pearls and polish them until they shine with the brilliant lights of tragedy and love and hate and sadness and nostalgia and anger and lust and frustration-
all of these chemicals we fuel our pens with
because numbness is not an option.
I engage in this substance abuse because I am bloated with so much longing, filled with a desperate ache for all the beautiful things I have not yet experienced,
for those brightly lit 2ams and screaming laughter and being drunk and high and kissing and yelling and the because in this moment we are young and alive and breathing and crossing lines and who gives a shit about anything else?
I write in half-crazed scribbles, wondering,
"Maybe writing about friends and laughter at 1 in the morning as I am surrounded by only netflix and tumblr will make me feel better?"
I am always wrong.
It only makes it worse.
My words are glorious escape and icy blades of stark reality.
Clarity and obfuscation.
Pancreas-cracking pain and model-tall joy.
So if words cause me to ache, beat the world into pieces, sob, and ignore my responsibilities,
why am I so goddamn in love with them?
Because my words are mad
but people are too-
so one cannot look down their poorly-described noses at poems and smugly snort that it "doesn't make any sense"
as if they have brilliantly solved and debunked an art form.
They would be quite wrong.
The words are just a reaction and reflection of the world their letters were conceived in-
and so this fevered world and the expression of its insanity are inextricably linked.
(at least for poets).
the difference between poems and people is that humans are
in addition to the insanity,
horribly unreliable and capricious creatures.
They never stay.
They never stay
But metaphors will always be there to cuddle me in their warm arms on lonely weekend nights
Why writing? you ask?
Because when everyone is gone, annoyed, asleep, or dead and the whole earth has been blown apart;
every city destroyed and great moment reduced to nothingness,
I can still trace poems in the ashes.
Forever isn't long when I'm with you
I've never felt the same way about a guy
Maybe with us it might be true
I see you and I suddenly get butterflies
I tried my hardest to find someone
who didn't go around
and just date some girls for fun
maybe I just wanted
a guy who would like me for me
not break my heart,
it seems that guy is you.
You're the perfect one it seems.
Protect me, keep me safe,
I know it will be
Forever, and always
got these little emotions
never gonna leave my heart
never gonna leave my heart
I want to tell you everything,
but lately I haven't been able to find the right words.
Upside-down vowels adhere to fractured consonants;
mismatched words snap into twisted phrases and unkind sentences.
Hesitation has been holding my wrists and drowning me
in rivers of regret and loneliness.
Waves of sorrow crippling my psyche with every drip
of the faucet.
What once was a controlled trickle
is now a raging flood.
Oxygen isn't common
in the box labeled reality.
"Take a hatchet to the walls,
and step into the sunlight!"
Curious knights ride upon steeds of
broken glass and rose petals,
with hopes to sew heartache back onto my
all of whom are poisoned by greed and
They don't know about the bridges
that've been incinerated inside my soul.
But we all need that person who will kiss our scars,
and read us seasick faerie tales of love and triumph.
When we find this victor of such an immortal task
we'll dive into the ocean of eternity,
and hope for the best.
I hate and I love. Perhaps you ask me why I do this?
I do not know. But I feel it happen and I am torn apart
Here we are again.
At the insides of my conscious identity.
This wholly human entity.
The ever growing obscenity,
that helixes off into infinity.
The voice of a thousand
concentrated into two or three pounds
of intoxicating intelligence.
the utter lack of brilliance overtakes us.
I know I tend to ramble but
I wish I took the gamble.
Return me to the stage
when I first studied the dance.
I never found the gold
at the end of a rainbow
but I'd gladly try another chance.
Well, to be so bold,
even if I did
I’d still think it a shame so
I suppose that its better off I slept it off.
You know, bro?
These last few days have been torture.
Blowing through tissues while sitting on the sidelines.
If only I didn't buy that vacuum cleaner
Or paint that picture.
That's what I thought: all those petty things.
But it's not.
How I betrayed your trust.
How I belittled your faith.
How I insulted your family.
Then I unraveled your lust.
Fuck, was I stupid?!
I only wish I could turn back those hands.
And kiss you. And love you. And tell you how I feel.
But I can't...
There is that little hope.
You know which one I mean.
That one that sits in the back of your mind, the bottom of your heart.
That's hope that tells you your love will be there tomorrow.
With each passing day of solitude, that hope dies a little more.
Oh god, did I fuck up.
There's nothing I can do to change that.
The only thing I had was hope.
But I guess it all unraveled.
Get out of the light
And kiss me goodbye if you need to
One second is all to get used to
The feeling of being beneath you
Can I meet you on the other side
And if it's bitter-tasting and see-through
But is the bloody-scream always true
From dust to dust we go
Follow me around again
This repetitious cycle stinks of venom
But I like the smell of it
This syringe's the kind of killer
You can only inject mentally
If I drink this poison
Will it kill my enemies?
She lays again down in her bedroom
Seeking council from committing taboo
In your dreams I will meet you
But this sin is something you can't undo
But in the night we can always rendezvous
If you want to, I'll run away with you
In another time we can start anew
Look at what you've gotten me into
Sick of the tide, and the heavy fetish you cling to
Or the darkest feelings you pursue
In the night this is why I don't chase you
'Cause that mind isn't big enough for two
Spent half of your life
Waiting for friends that don't even know you
For a man who wants to control you
And a love life that only can own you
wrapped in your smile--with my toes toying the edge
where your look's soft cloth blankets me and
blocks the cold wind so we swim
silent and alone in a hot, dark star—
until your gaze takes with it this warm world,
leaving again cold brick red and the wind, and
sounds, soft over walls, of street-folk--
I will wonder if you know, any more than they,
how the corners of your lips when they open,
open not to show rows of white pearl,
but instead to consume my heart.
The sun sends us life as a
coherent cohesive beam, unfiltered.
Our science has shown us that
all it takes to rationalize this
is a prism, the rainbows'
gatekeeper, after whose interference
we can see the dichotomy of
each ribbon of color, naked
and categorized like society.
A prism isn't necessary to see
that life is beautiful, any
more than society or our
minds are necessary for us to
instinctively know that light
loses something as it meets
The light was too beautiful for
us to comprehend, so we broke
it down to build up walls.
We used the walls to build rooms,
and our minds to bar the doors
and windows. Society took care
of the rest.
The real breakthrough takes place
when we take all that we
learned and use it to tear
back down that prison
of the light.
Thanks for everything, Nelson. Now you are finally free. Godspeed, & R.I.P.
It's the morning,
a smile upon my face
You're on my mind and
there are butterflies
all around this place
I wanna call you but I'm running out of things to say
this is how it is, it's how it's gonna stay
I'm heart struck in nearly every way
and this is
how I feel almost everyday
and when I
see you I don't know what to say
heart struck in nearly every way