Some things never come to pass,
you never forget them,
you love them forever,
like her intelligent thinking,
the taste of her lips,
her succulent organic-ness,
her soft kisses,
the way she makes you feel
O, I must confess,
I'm a renaissance man,
I love the fine arts,
her strong beating heart,
the way she starts things up
and finishes them.
O, I must admit,
I'm not vegan,
I love her sweet meat,
her line of thinking when
she's lying off her feet,
Many before me have died
I feel engulfed in their wisdom
the knowing to you
is just a breath away
just talk to your God
for he will listen
God just wants understanding
of all that makes you tick
just pray dear people
before all is too late
This is the Knowing
the glow within my heart
I need not speak
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
you know whats annoying
have to get up every sunday
and go to a place where
people try to belittle your beliefs
threatening hell if you do not
submit to there corrupt ways,
and interpretations of one of
the many holy texts,
so this is why i do not want to go
to that place, i hate it
all i am allowed to do
is bite my tongue, grit my teeth
but it makes you happy
it seems, when i pretend
to be glad, pretend i want
to be there, when in reality
every second there eats me alive
put in your hand and
t u r n t h e k e y)
keepthenightmaresout (dreaming of the things we could do if you were here and we were alone)
givememouthtomouth (dreaming of how you taste and what it sounds like when you m o a n )
ican'tlivewithoutyou (dreaming of the shadows your hair would make on our skin )
takemetoyourhouse (dreaming of the bruises i'd most certainly allow you make on my neck)
take me home (take me away from these people just let me be with you )
you're my faerie queen (you're justlikeanANGEL)
not a queen, a khaleesi
pale and perfect (your skin makes me cry)
and stars (and croon-sing like Amanda Palmer does into her red little ukulele)
don't cut yourself
because you're perfadorableamazingmagical and a million other things
and your blood is precious
(your skin is precious,
you be careful with it
while i wait for you
from far away)
just like your face
and your hair and how you talk to me (how you speak is wonderful even when you get angry about things and swear like a sailor your words sound lovely and your accent is adorable and your voice is perfect i love hearing you speak to me)
about sharja smut fanfics and beautiful finnish people and how you just vaguely say "doing the thing" and dimplegrin at me
because I am usually vague like that
everything I've ever wanted (i've found myself alone alone a l o n e
across a raging sea
it stole the only girl I loved; drowned her deep inside of me)
you're just like a dream
just like a dream
but hey i like writing cute sexy attempts at poetry to keep myself awake in that class.
featuring lyrics from CocoRosie, The Cure, Daughter, and Radiohead, if you look hard enough. i regret that i always have to use other people's lyrics to add to my shit writings.
also additions and revisions only this tired feeling could create
written Nov 8, 2013.
We don't talk,
but I'm quietly watching you,
so when you make eye contact shyly
it's easy to know what we are doing.
You approach me,
sanitizing wipe, Band-Aid, and mic
(complete with wires)
and peel the plastic.
Swab my cheek gently,
and I smell the alcohol
but it's a pleasant
Put the mic over my ear,
position it against the side of my face,
tape the Band-Aid to my cheek,
fingers brushing my skin.
You send the wire down my dress,
pull up my skirt and reach up for the end,
soft fingers lightly skimming over my back.
Adjust the mic in its belt, and lower the fabric.
Tell me in your sweet voice:
I do, "oh, hair", you say, and I pull
my ponytail out of your way,
thinking of your soft short hair.
Then, "Look straight"
and as I do, and you tape the mic tape
against my neck, I'm thinking
Backstage I think to myself
that you haven't done anyone else's mics,
and this makes me feel good.
I know later I'll be watching for you
to be free, so I can feel your hands
near me, watch your eyes rimmed
with liner as they study the mic
hooked to my face.
Crouching slightly as you are up
on tip-toes, and we can communicate
silently once more.
there's something truly nice with writing long, poetic notes
it makes the baggage easier to carry and manage
keeps you from further damage
to what is already broken beneath
and underneath the beautiful surface
as a poet, i've experienced a lot
as a young girl, i grew up fast
my childhood didn't last
had to be an adult
before the appropriate age
had to feel heartbreak
and sadness all over the place
i could feel an ache in my bones
a sense of sadness when alone
cried my eyes out at home
and hid the pain away
to disguise my tears
hoping sadness would fade
wrote about love for hours
dreamt of you and my fears
destroyed myself to cope
pain changed my view on life
and the relationships i'd had
thoughts are like knives
stabbing me deeper
each and every time
I just don’t know where to start
Its like I love you
But I hate you
I want to be with you
But I know I cant
Yet you’re terrible
You made me so happy
But still wounded me so bad
Why did you do it?
Why’d you end it?
Were you not happy?
Was what I was going through too much for you?
When you were all I had
When you were the only thing keeping me sane
It makes me mad
It makes me sad
It makes me want to scream
How I couldn’t keep
Let me lay in your arms
Let me hear your laugh
Let me feel the way I used to
Just let me be yours
I just wanna go up to you and scream
Let you know how badly
You mutilated my soul
Let you know how
Bruised my heart is
Let you know how
The words you said
Manipulated my mind
I just know looking at you
Ill fall right back into your eyes
It's not all about your appearance,
Which you're wrong for thinking is worth a store's clearance.
It's about your soft heart,
& how we can't be apart.
It's not all about your heartless facade,
Which makes your sweet moments all the more appreciated.
It's about your presence lighting up my day,
& how you've managed to stay.
It's not all about the promises we made,
Which are hard to keep when you say the things you say.
It's about your way with words
& how you strum my chords.
It's not all about how without you I'd feel a vacancy,
Which just the mere thought leaves me antsy.
It's about our pulling through,
& how our love is true.
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
Working on 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.
As I stare and watch you,
Deep inside I knew,
Your sweet voice give me the clue,
I think you love me as I do.
Whenever the night turns to day,
I always think and make me say,
"Can he stay?"
But it makes me cry and I just pray.
Every time I am alone, sitting,
You draw near to me and we are talking,
I saw your eyes scintillating,
All I can say is "I am now Loving."
When you tell me that you love me,
I was like a bird flying so free,
My heart was happy and so glee,
You're like an angel as I see.
By: Earl Jane Sardua
Dedicated to: Xeeb Pov Lauj