Do not Hunny Bunny Me
Do not "Oh My Pretty" me
By any means find a genuine thought
a compliment that is not
words spat out to satisfy me
Where is the meaning
wheres the heart?
Do not hunny bunny me!
About my power
Its very simple
And very common
We all use it
This powerful tool
Has been weilded by many.
It has the power
To tear countries apart,
Bring about peace
And put into place
Laws to protect
Us and the future
I can write with it
And hurt everyone around me
I have done it
Many times over
Now the final bit of power
I weild from it
Will be my own undoing.
So be careful
With this power
Protect and use it wisely
This pen can create
Which will you choose?
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.
Every Saturday morning
the same sweet escape:
Homework at the library
The all too familiar scent
of books sitting
waiting for a reader
The clattering of typing
on the keyboards
teens on social media
students doing work
adults finding jobs
The Saturday regulars:
the girl with the long brown hair
a vibrant red streak runs through it
as she searches for another
The mother and daughter
fast food in hand
mother working diligently
young girl distracted by the latest mobile apps
The man from India
chatting hours upon hours
business calls I think
there is always so much paper work
He is, perhaps, my favorite
the language brings me memories
memories of my first failed loved
I would receive secret words in Hindi
mai tuhjey chodna chahati hun
It's just too bad that sweet turns into sour.
the same happenings
And as I leave
and a new book in hand
A smile takes over
Until next week
and as the deafening silence fills the room,
the daunting voices fill my head.
they scream for me to hurt myself.
they tell me i am all alone.
they tell me i am not worth it.
they tell me i should end my life.
the saddest part is there is no way to turn these chilling words off;
i can only drown them out
but that only lasts for so long.
and when they come back,
they are even louder than before.
this time they don't stop until they get what they want.
but even when i do give in and hurt myself
they are still there -
that is, until they get bored and decide to haunt me once more.
and oh, how i wish these voices had an off switch.
they do not.
and i suppose that is the tragedy of mental illness.
You left you imprint on me, by bruising me.
With your fists you wailed on me
turning me cold
Sucker punched my chest cavity to snatch the wind from me
Blackened my eyes, to cause me to see your perception of me...
Caused my lips to bleed, that I might forever remember the way your words could
Your mouth is a military weapon, and with your words you sniped my hope, dreams and integrity
Pinned my hands behind my soul and murdered my young woman hood, execution style.
You left your imprint on me, by bruising.
Leaving eternal, never healing bruises on my metaphysical
These both literal and metaphorical bruises were your love letters to me
The only intimacy I ever knew with you
The only time I desired to call out daddy
Solely in plea for you to release your grip on me
End your constant jabs at my self esteem
causing me to buckle and reach for the emptiness in the atmosphere without any faint hope that you would cease
These never healing scars I trace and follow along the lines of my spirit have all but faded
As I lie, awakened by cold sweats and the realization that I am beyond jaded,
I curse the thought of you
Because you left an imprint on me, by bruising me
Bruises that no amount of frozen steak or peas can relieve
You bruised the very fabric of my being
Causing me to reach out in the night, trying to grasp my shattered dreams of what you could be,
But instead, you left your imprint on me.
And because of it I shutter, quake and quiver at the mention of your name.
Because you bruised me.
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 can hear it in my head
The words just won't come out
My thoughts I wanna spread
Feelings I wanna shout
But these words just won't come out!
Begging to escape, trapped inside me
Perhaps its because the thoughts are mixed
Roaming in my mind, playing tricks
Regardless of this, my thoughts belong to me
Do I dare take a step inside, my thoughts I wanna see
I can close my eyes and they fall in place
Line up side by side with ease and grace
Perhaps with pen and paper my words would flow like the seas
Instead of punching these little keys
Maybe I shall just write in my mind
There all my emotions a home they seem to find
There the words spin less
Hidden and safe they seem to rest
So I shall sit back and close my eyes
The beauty and wonder my mind can find
Yet sometime it slips to a dark place
I feel them and see them
The pictures they paint
Open fields, sunsets on the lake
New love's bliss, gone without goodbyes
Sunday afternoons games
Saturday night cries
Flowers that bloom
Roses that wilt
Snuggled up in front of the glistening fireplace with great grandma's quilt
Pain and hurt of memories and scared
Flashbacks to hardship
And desperate prayers
As I open my eyes reality I see
Maybe these thoughts I'll just keep with me
This day always comes.
Frantic searching for you in my life...nothing there.
Desperate wanting to hear your voice...no words.
Very few have the elegance of no regrets.
By the way, the answer is yes.
I miss our minds.
His diamond heart melts in her flames
Set ablaze by her malicious gaze
She's a golden hurricane
Catching dreams in her haze
Driving the party thoroughly insane
When she dances the crowd is tamed
And there's no one but her to blame
She's dressed to kill, a walking fantasy
We could lead the show like this, she said
Let me be your queen and I'll lift you so high
You'll never fall down, only fly
With eyes the colour of autumn nights
Sweet forests, black lavender shadows
Dark turquoise skies and other words to live by
Her tattooed speech was poetry against his skin
So he followed her in
And his face was candy to her eyes