I like the words they use to tell what a poem is
better than any poetry I've read.
Like: fragments, ghost, allusion.
I like the way my ribs move
when someone talks about storytellers;
It's a pride I taste more than during a story told.
A review says 'intricate' and 'masterful'
So I put the thing on a pedestal of stolen adjectives.
My crown jewel is 'aesthetic' and I own it, lying.
What is a creator without his critic?
Condemnation and commendation
mean more to me than original construction.
But then--poets are just the translation of Creation.
And never has a word of soaring perfection
surpassed the garden, fallen.
Feb 1, 2019
Feb 1, 2019 at 11:00 AM UTC
All that lies here are my bones,
A wooden box, this new gravestone.
My mind is left where it was born;
Go to my bookshelves when you mourn.
Jan 30, 2019
Jan 30, 2019 at 4:07 PM UTC
The contemporaries show the world at it’s best as a panoramic pane of glass,
Clad in bloodless steel.
But it has never looked more a forbidden garden than between prison-bar windows,
My view is the sweetest fruit.
And I wouldn’t take the modern architecture because what now looks like paradise,
Is probably a parking lot.
Jan 25, 2019
Jan 25, 2019 at 10:37 AM UTC
scratchy and damp do not harmonize underfoot
and fear and the ocean should not coexist
but like this elevator missing the thirteenth button, my comfort sinks with tantalizing, lethargic anxiety.
the boards are a smokeless fire underfoot,
grit rolling between me and chipped brown paint,
as i beg for cold, thirst for salt, but do not run to the provocative, promising body beyond the dunes.
and my clothes are underfoot,
and this lemonade pink towel whose corner grabs at the sand,
and the hot dry fades into something that is sturdy and packed down by bounds like mine.
carbon slices at my underfoot,
the sharp home of a long-dead thing,
as my heel strikes the iron, water-pat shore, and the shock of it stuns my bones.
shock! cold underfoot
lace between my toes, smoking from wood and run
and then my face is in the sea, because who needs air when life is the sun trapping itself in the pink of my shoulder blades?
Jan 15, 2019
Jan 15, 2019 at 2:12 PM UTC
Caterpillars on my bones
Sealed in my skin
Cocoons growing on my ribs
Where heartbeats should have been
Unraveled silk slides down my lung
Look! The moths are free
They dive, wings lost in foamy waves
They settle in the deep
A hole the size of galaxies
Fragments left in me
Mothlings on the ocean floor
Tangled bathymetry
Quiet, strands of sinning
Cling to me, long and thin
But better pieces of myself
Escaped as earth's new skin
I'm buried deep within it
I feel worms on my bones
Cocoon pieces become dust
But my heart: a smooth sea-stone
Mar 17, 2018
Mar 17, 2018 at 1:43 PM UTC
I lift myself up,
pointed on toes
tipping at the edge.
A wind molds to my face.
I'm held there by grace,
as my mind begins to dredge
Up memories
of you and me
seventeen
blessed with resilience
none are faded by time
in feeling
if not in sight
some are good
some are bad
all are mine
I take a breath
inhale this wind
bowing me back from this cliff.
But I hear waves below.
It's a siren's song so
strong to my ears
as I sniff back tears
from memories
sent by this breeze
so old to me
of when you would tease
so I'd unfreeze.
The only other thing
that could put me at ease
is the violent sea
I stand above now so desperately
And I'm tipping
tipping
at the edge
of my sanity.
Oh, I'm tipping
tipping
on this ledge,
questioning your humanity,
as I tip above
the oceanity
of what could be
in front of me.
And I'm tipping
tipping
at the edge
I take a step back,
release my breath,
settle my heels
into this earth.
Let the wind roll my tears
back towards my ears,
the sound so much quieter than
these memories
I hid from me
to let myself
relearn how to breathe.
They swell up again,
just as wind dies down.
I grit my teeth,
say an amen,
and prepare to drown.
And I'm tipping
tipping
at the edge
of my sanity.
Oh, I'm tipping
tipping
on this ledge,
questioning your humanity,
as I tip above
the oceanity
of what could be
in front of me.
And I'm tipping
tipping
at the edge
Air at my face
Earth at my feet
Seas in my heart
to drown you out of me
Then I cry oceans away
with the saltiest tears
I can taste all my pain
And my leaving fears
Cause you left me
and I can't see
this edge you left
in front of me,
And you left me tipping
tipping
tipping
tipped
Nov 18, 2017
Nov 18, 2017 at 12:44 PM UTC
is there any such thing
as too much ink
too many pens
more paper
than the human heart can fill?
the heart does nothing
but pump the blood that is necessary
to fill my fingers
to move
to scrawl too much ink
with too many pens
on more paper
than such a treacherous ***** deserves.
but the heart will get its ink
if it has to bleed dry in order to fill
the pens that it thinks it should have
to defile more paper
than any forest should have to give.
the heart will have what it wants
forests
nibs
and veins
be ******
Nov 18, 2017
Nov 18, 2017 at 12:12 PM UTC
I'll lie here and pretend
You're still in love with me
A quiet charade
That you believe I believe
I'll pretend I'm not ignored
And revel in silence
That I never asked for
Try to win you with compliance
I don't trust my defiance
I don't believe in myself
I can't catch you
Can't win you
Can't cry out for help
I'll act like I'm happy
Fake like I'm not alone
Won't act sappy
Won't change the tone
I'll keep it clean, keep it sweet
Keep fears hidden deep
You won't hear a sound, won't hear a tweet
I won't be the one to speak
I won't push you away or be the one to end it
Cause I'm dying to be near you
I won't write it, won't send it
Because deep down I fear you
I fear you leaving
Fear you running
Fear you cleaving
Fear me being lost
What's the cost
Of speaking out
Against the silence
Oct 12, 2017
Oct 12, 2017 at 6:53 AM UTC
I chase fairies
I follow the flicker
I hunt for glimmers
Of hope for love
I chase fairies
I chase the dreams
The impossibility
Of you loving me
I chase dragons
Dreams too large
So dangerous
They will roast me alive
I chase flying horses
Cats with wings
Elves and sprites
All impossible to be had
I chase fairies.
I chase after you,
After your love.
It's not the same.
But impossible enough
For me to catch
I might as well search
For other myths as well.
Oct 11, 2017
Oct 11, 2017 at 10:23 AM UTC