You write depressing poetry you lay in your bed for hours wasting time rocking yourself back and forth with tears streaming down your face and you cry until you can't you stare at the ceiling and you go crazy you want to scream and punch things you want to hold a gun to your head and pull the trigger you want to die you want to hurt her but you want to hold and love her at the same time you want to shout you want to throw things you ignore it and you don't ignore it you sink into your darkness and let it consume you you burn because that's all you have left to do you burn with each memory and laugh as it sears your skin and fire rips through your veins and your heart thuds in your chest and you can't breathe. I don't know I don't know because that's all I know how to do I can't tell you how to stop loving someone or how to heal from your sadness because I'm still searching for that answer myself.
The voices inside her head its where her demons hide
time is paralyzed and she catches her breath
where there is a flames someone’s bound to get hurt the
blade as the brush with slowly skimming on the canvas
the crimson paint will steadily dribble down the pale canvas
she has a story to her hazy existence and if she is to let her walls come
down, the inside wall be annihilated by shallowness and cruelty
in the past she was isolated so she covered her feelings with a tight
smile, she goes through life aching with eternal agonizing pain
there is no one to have faith in if one shall live on this sadistic earth
no one is there to be her superhero before the hour has come,
before it is too late, the spell must be broken
before it all scatters on the floor; before it goes boom; before
it drains out on the white floor; before the stool is pushed away; before it
thuds in the city lights; before it makes a splash in the navy pool of salt;
before those gray eyes shut completely, exiting the world
just before it is too late
but wait, are those five guys, running towards her? They are quite
unnoticeable, who can they be?
These boys saved her life before the time has come
they are her saviors, they understood the grief
for she is thankful and
they are in her heart, and she is in their hearts, engraved
The sky is clear & bue,
sea aqua to the horizon—
a shark thuds the hull.
As the wind pounds
that does not shut,
thuds and clatters fill the air;
knocking the breath out of it
with its own.
Much like you
Tell me that the eager
glimmer in your eyes.
The words that leave
your vermilion lips.
The euphoric thuds,
pacing away to its
And not just another,
I have tried to get over you for over a god damned year.
The harder I try to force you out of my head, the more my memories of you smiling at me right before kissing me goodbye beg to stay.
The days I give up and ditch trying to control my own thoughts by just letting my mind be, you are still there.
Slowly knocking against other thoughts with soft thuds. Like a pinball machine in slow motion, or that blue DVD logo that hardly ever landed directly in the corner of the screen.
I dated a boy last November who smoked a lot of cigarettes.
Once in December I stood outside in the cold with him and watched him inhale, flick the ashes, exhale. He lived in Eldersburg, not quite farmlandish, but close enough- it was so beautiful.
One night we brushed away the snow and laid out in the wet grass just because.
As we were looking up at the moon, I was shaming myself because I knew that was something I only wanted to do with you.
But I kept quiet and laid down.
He and I spoke of our dreams and he said he wanted to become a pro-skater, and I told him I believed in him; that he could do it if he tried hard enough. He grinned.
The moon was so bright.
He leaned over and kissed me and I didn’t smile the way I used to when you did.
I didn’t become suddenly aware of my heart pounding in my chest- because it wasn’t.
But I continued to kiss him anyway.
I don’t remember who pulled away first but one of us did and we stared at the moon and the stars in silence for quite some time.
Many moments later he asked me what I was thinking about, which startled me a bit.
My thoughts were going a hundred miles per hour and I was trying to grab at anything, anything to tell that poor boy.
"Oh, just the moon."
I was being somewhat honest.
Billie Holiday’s voice resonated loudly in my head.
I’ll be looking at the moon, but I’ll be seeing you.
Thirteen androgynous men and women, dressed in pressed black suits, like some swarm of government bees, stoically entered the dilapidated school bus with solemn disregard for the general mass of people surrounding them in the California street, and the sun was shining. An ecclesiastic figure, swathed in purple robes with wild glittering gleaming beads adorned across the body, stepped forth from the shadows of a cluster of palm trees; it wore an incredible mask, damask as a rose with intricate golden patterns around the cheek and toward the forehead of which was embellished with an etched geometric pattern that seemed to resemble a flower and faint lines that would require a keen eye to be seen and elaborated upon. The hood was up and formed a velveteen waterfall at the back of the head, as it crumpled over, though it was probably designed to look that way. As each member of the secretive yet oddly unconcealed cult traipsed onto the growling, garish yellow bus, the pensive figure gazed on and regally followed the group, taking a place at the back, holding a staff with arms crossed, and the rest sat coldly, staring ahead, unblinking and sedate. The hours passed under the drab desert sun as a singular cloud passed overhead and gradually dissipated into invisible vapours that fell gradually into the densely blue backdrop of the California sky. The old school bus chortled along the deep black road, with pristine lemon lines hugging the left-hand wheels and a driver as stoic as the passengers. There, in the desert, amongst the snakes and the saltbush, a rusted old bus, full of strangers had parked, and with little fuss the suited men and women reached below their seats and removed a piece, they exited in an orderly fashion with eyes fixed ahead and hands immovable from their guns, gripped tightly as if life itself was within those guns. Colt M1911 to be exact. Every gun, though not obvious to an outsider, was loaded with a single bullet (230 gr Federal HST) and cocked, with the manual safety on. Each of the silent group had left the bus, with their apparent leader at the back of the line, holding the staff and the driver stayed seated with the engine off and staring straight ahead into the vast expanse of the sandy hell ahead of him. Twenty metres from the stationary bus, the man and women formed a perfect circle, each were standing a little over an arms distance from the next person. The robed figure took centre stage and uncrossed its arms, the staff outstretched in the left hand. A magnificent golden rod, a thousand etched stories from base to tip, each one emblazoned with fantastical jewels, this staff could belong to a Queen, a King, a God. The followers were still silent, and still stoic, despite the glaring sunlight reflected from every wild diamond and ruby on the majestic phallus like object. The masked person made a crude attempt to engage a member of the round by walking before them in a cyclical fashion, making eye contact with each but none did move, nor bat an eye. Finally it took its place, back at the centre of the circle and made an unholy sound that sounded as if the Devil himself were dying. Garbled words and unnatural screeches thronged from the unmoving masks mouth piece before suddenly falling silent and it raised the staff higher before striking the earth with passionate fury, and this led a simultaneous movement from the centralised hive mind as they each removed the safety from the own weapons. A single shrill scream echoed across the valley and a second strike to the ground from the staff was the indicator to raise the guns to the person to the immediate right. No noise was made, but a third strike of the staff to the desolate, cracked ground caused thirteen concurrent shots to ring across the arid lands, followed by thirteen solid thuds and a ghostly silence fell across the desert once more. A perfect circle of death among the cacti and Kangaroo rat, and the silence finally broken by the starting engine of a school bus as the driver awakens from his trance and returns back to an apparently civilised world. The fine figure gently steps over a corpse and lifts its robe so as not to disturb the pooling blood before sauntering into the basin of a lonesome American desert and fading into obscurity.
Here she was wondering how time flies,
Only yesterday she tried to say it,
Her floral dress, swayed slowly
Our hands clasped, eyes moist,
Heart beating with the loud thuds.
Her eyes had that bright twinkle
The sun couldn't outweigh their brightness,
She swayed back and forth, dancing,
Her eyes spiraled down to her soul,
They were begging for a dance.
It was hard to keep up with her pace,
One had to be quick but not too quick,
Slow but right in time to catch her,
Because she was bound to run away,
Far away from the loud thuds of her heartbeat.
All she wanted was to dance,to her own tune,
without boundaries,Slowly her arms move,
tracing unsaid words as she starts to whisper,
Her brown eyes like a deep dark cave,
Where countless echos lay lost,
Trying to find its way out,
A puddle of water forms in the corner,
Slowly the puddle makes way for a river,
She lets it out believes that its just,
Just a matter of time, it’ll pass,
You try to tell her there’s more to life,
She laughs, the sound, vibrant,
Full of life, full of curiosity, the sound,
Ringing loudly, You fall in love with it,
She tells you she doesn’t want to laugh,
She embraces you for the last time,
Leaving you with the sound of laughter,
Ringing behind her with every thud,
Thud of her heartbeat, footsteps fading,
Everything fades away, time fades away,
Just a while ago the sun shone brightly,
Now its replaced by the shades of dusk,
And for that brief minute, life is beautiful,
The last bright vibrant strand of light,
Before its dark, and there’s absolute void.
I wish I could spare you words like beautiful, babe, figure and thin.
I wish I could guarantee you a complete disregard for the size of your breasts
Or the length of your legs.
I pray never to find you hunched over the toilet
Or hiding a sandwich under books in your bag.
What will the equivalent of cyberbullying be, in ten years time?
I will try, so very hard, to keep you safe.
Please, always talk to each other, and to me.
Share your heart’s bleedings
And I will help you staunch the flow.
I will find the courage to share my failings
And the confidence to pass on my successes,
Both were instrumental in my becoming the woman I am,
A woman I hope you will be proud of, and applaud.
It is hard to be a woman, in this world,
Urged, relentlessly to perfection,
Bombarded with it, drowned in it,
But perfection is a myth, and becomes imperfect with attainment,
It is the imperfections that will mesmerise,
Embrace them, love them, let them shine.
How long did it take me to learn these lessons?
Have I learned them, even now?
Sometimes I think I have, then I become overwhelmed
By anxiety and self-doubt.
This will happen to you too,
I cannot hope to save you from it
But I can provide some armour.
Think for yourselves,
Reject the babble and the screens, the illusion of celebrity
Twenty-first century addictions.
Do not become a slave to technology.
I can see how hard that will be,
But it must be done, if you are to remain people,
Retain your humanity.
I will help you; I will hold your hands.
You are tiny now, but I can see the strength within you both,
And I will nurture it, protect it,
Then it will protect you, out there.
I promise I will always be your tigress,
But you will not always be my little cubs
I will have to find a way to sheath my claws,
And let you stalk your own prey,
And evade the predators, just as I have done.
I watch you, playing happily together in the sun,
And wish you peace, and love, and joy.
Such simple things, yet so elusive.
I will not show you this poem.
But I will read it, frequently,
And try to keep my promises.
My heart thuds in my chest, each a double-beat
A constant repetition of your names,
Tattooed onto my soul.
Pull me out from under those cinder blocks of emotion.
Poke me with holes and drain me dry--
what is humanity, what is humanity.
I don't remember the day I died,
the guard at the gate had to tell me:
had to tell me how you plucked
petals from the headstone and tried to
reconstruct me. O terrible woman, you mother,
you'd be better off singing with the
Christian choirs and decoding their godly mouths
rather than rattling my rotted bones in front
of the age-broken hearth
where I spent twenty years trying to not
throw myself in it while the blood pumped
what is humanity,
what is humanity.
One does not think, does not do anymore
after years of birthing premature lives--
a copy and paste sort of resurrection where
I clambered out of you,
but the winters were too hard,
and you were not.
What is life like as a grave digger,
where the stale cadavers make you their
last acquaintance and
there is something overwhelmingly beautiful
and sickening about it as you shovel six feet
into their calm faces, and the dirt
"What is humanity.
What is humanity."--
is it everything you dream of