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.
There is a noise out there somewhere
speaking of fast cars and responsibilities
and I see you turn your head that way;
but tilted-up eyes promise me you’ll stay
for the ten minutes that become an hour
and the stories spilling sweet and sour
unbidden, ill-timed, unorganized and badly rhymed -
but you’ll tilt your head my way.
If I make you some tea, will you stay?
My mother’s guardian angel mug and
your father’s sins swept under the rug and
There is a noise out there somewhere
of people who know what blood means.
Bad cinnamon gum and Little League teams.
That’s all I hear;
I tilt my head your way.
If I promise to listen, will you stay?
The gray light filters cold through the blinds.
You look old,
Keep sleeping off last night’s debt;
your consciousness and your pale blue eyes
to midnight ignorance
and a few hours of freedom.
A few hours of feeling strong but yeah that doesn’t last long,
and by the time the gray light filters cold through the blinds
your bold laugh has died away;
all I hear is your fragile breathing.
I’ll stay barefoot this morning and I’ll wash your plastic tumblers again,
toes curling on the cold tile and fingers growing old under the faucet.
I’ll hum the song you were singing last night and remind myself to
tell you about
your lovely cracking voice.
It says that you’re happy but your hands were so cold
and your face somehow too old
and your eyes whispering no,
there’s never been a choice.
I hear you, I see it.
But hear this: I don’t believe it.
Still, I’ll be the one to laugh at your jokes and dissolve in the smoke,
to hold your fragile wrists together and keep your skull intact.
It’s only half an act.
The other half is me watching your chest rise and fall in the cold gray light,
wondering at your heartbeat,
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.
you know, most doorways don't choose to open
and computers identify themselves as the insane ones,
though I don't think so. Rockland! you are my friend,
ally of mechanized shortcomings. what is a flame held
capture by water other than a current in the wind? Testify
our eyes, bathe them in glass, the kind that is without a
vampiric vein! take time, it is out, afraid and away from
eternal longing. here we are in technique, tearing glue against
that same glass, to treat the ego right, a stoic hand of stone.
Socrates is a lot of people, and we hear symbols speak to
each other. in birth we know the most, i am Socrates. the
Universe is struggling to separate itself from indigenous
stars, Freud is still/after all these years/grinning with a cigar.
Rockland, i am still with you! what is alone when you can't read
Neruda? when trees fall, why are there no funerals? when
the doors don't open the game is too close to the brain—
there are times when we think our sun is the only star in
the Universe. if God is water, we are oxygen and the soul
is a moony moth, a winter lantern. Socrates had wings! In
death, the ego cannot survive The Chair. Birthday letters
are burned and the saints are shot one by one. ya know,
somedays doorways die and stay dead. Fuck the cave
when humans are born blind anyway.
Roll me up and smoke me,
I want to be the smoke that runs into your lungs,
I want to be the deep exhale leaving you,
But my effects stay with you,
I want to be your drug,
I want to be the gram you spent 20 on,
I want to be the reason you enjoy life,
Oh sweet Mary Jane,
How much I love you so.
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
You're caught up in my oxygen
I need you here so I can breathe
Like the ink spilled out of my pen
That needs to write to be read
You're mixed up in my chemicals,
Addictive, needed by my nasals
Like the medicines I don't need
Still I take though I know I may bleed
You're the scent I want to inhale
You slowly get into my veins
Like a spell told in my tale
A king that in my heart always reigns
You're the sun forever shining
Needed by my skin ev'ryday
Like a bear I need whispering
"Be careful, you might get burned if you stay."
I might be your worst nightmare, dear
But to me you are my sweetest dream
With you I have nothing to fear
Though in the blood we might get to swim
A thousand miles won't be a problem
Just remember my name, It's enough
You're like a rose without any stem,
Still pricks when I hold in my arms
You're my oxygen needed by my lungs
If you'll be gone, then I'll be too
Like a song needed to be sang
Let me be your melody in everything you do.
After boring nature study lessons
with Miss Ashdown
and on the walk home
the man along
of the flats
where I live with my Gran
his wife's eyes
and locked her out
of their flat
and she was crying
to be let in
and this was 4 o'clock
in the morning
and Gran went out there
to get the man
to let his wife in
but he wouldn't
and someone phoned the police
but they said it was a domestic
and that she'd have
to sort it out herself
and so Gran let her stay
at our place
for the rest
of the night
and so she slept
on our settee
not that she slept much
she was crying
for a long while after
here Janice paused
by the newspaper shop
and went in with you
to buy some sweets
she had over
from her birthday
and you had enough
from your pocket money
to get some bubblegum
then walked on
so what happened next?
she went back
to her flat this morning
on the door of her flat
and he let her in
by which time
he had calmed down
and was all over her
as Gran said
what an arse
not what Gran would say
but yes he is awful
and it's not
the first time either
and her eyes
were really bruised
if I thought
it'd do any good
I'd go round there
and blow him away
with my toy 6 shooter
Janice looked at you
that wouldn't help
no I guess not
but at least it'd show him
we don't like his sort
once he dragged her
along the balcony
by her hair
and Gran chased him
with her broomstick
and he rushed indoors
leaving his wife
on the balcony
in a heap
I could always fire
an arrow at him
as he entered the flats
from the balcony
don't it wouldn't do
Janice said patiently
you went down
the subway together
and your words
along the walls
especially the words
he's a bastard
having that gross sound
as it bounced
off the walls
from a gun
and Janice said
hush not so loud
but you liked it
you liked playing
to the crowd.
Now I'm lying on the ground
I tell myself
Remember there's more to life
Just keep looking towards the sky
Only then you'll be one with the sunrise
There's only one way out
And that's what I'm going for
Isn't that what time is all about?
Now the seasons over
And the weathers changing
I had a whole lot of time to think while I was falling
Things never stay the same
There's only today
Forget believing and faith
Life's an art
It's whatever you create
I don't know much about love
All I've had is hate
But I'm still learning
And I'm not afraid
I have feelings I don't even know how deep they run
My hearts been numb
Ands it's always back to the same conclusion
For all the wrong and right reasons