He smells of nothing
sometimes of trees, salt, rain, and everything pure
like moonlight
he is the colour grey under flesh, muscle and cloth
like rain; fresh, gentle yet violent
a silhouette
elusive but perhaps far more beautiful
The paths have fallen in love with your footsteps
there are cracks in the asphalt where flowers bloom
I swear they are trying to wrap themselves
around your ankles when you walk
I stopped counting
while the mountains stopped screaming
and Sohrab, you are beautiful and breathing
On mountaintops these echoes
are hollow and empty as they should be
exactly how I feel when I look at you
and how I feel when I don’t
It’s a battle of sorts
I need the reminder that there exists
the ability to feel so hard the cold will not win this war
but I know that in the end it will
I know that you are scared to breathe so deep
your ribs scrape the underside of your chest
tell me, who wants to be reminded of their ability to feel so hard?
It’s a tremor under your bones,
you’ve plunged your hand into your chest
to stop the heaving, the hurling, the surging
but everything is fading violently,
spiralling
in a decadent whirl of stubborn silence,
clenched teeth
and eyes that refuse to meet
Nothing, I am nothing
May 29, 2015
May 29, 2015 at 2:38 AM UTC
Inside of us you should always reign
with poetry given the main game
the lamenting heart of a stars heart
like chorus in a distant land
echoing through your star lite chamber
Compassionate parts of poetry of tomorrow...
Capable of infinite sorrow
expressive eyes that see
such kindness
as much as me...
To be special in an indifferent world
makes no difference in your million years
In the mire of your worlds
you hang on to every syllable
when hurt comes in shades
you write and weep in your poetry...
A poet's life, not understood
many shake their heads and go
as each poet's days on paper are born
carrying a message to another's day
the immortal message maker of beauty
fires the souls of God's art, that cries for me...
Through my poetry my heart has grown
contacts are many that share their life
seek their poetry through each strife
sweet to all our visions giving air of love
surrounded by a blazing sphere of sweet doves ..
May 21, 2015
May 21, 2015 at 1:52 PM UTC
What is a question,
That elicits a thousand answers?
That is more complex than,
The story of the universe?
More confusing than,
The mystery of religion?
Yet a question that,
Is asked all the time?
The question is:
"How are you?"
May 17, 2015
May 17, 2015 at 3:21 PM UTC
I believe that,
Human wisdom
Can be summed up in one phrase:
"Full moon"
You can never see the moon "in full,"
Only half of it.
It's like,
When someone says,
"You have my full trust and devotion."
But that's only true,
Until someone better than you
Comes along to,
Give their "full" trust and devotion to.
And anyway,
The moon is never "full"
Very long either.
May 17, 2015
May 17, 2015 at 3:18 PM UTC
The weight of these words
rolling around in my head
are breaking my neck
one thought at a time.
May 15, 2015
May 15, 2015 at 9:46 AM UTC
" Kiss me right here " and he points to his lips
I paused to think
"Come on "
Do it he says
No.
You'll steal My heart , Then you won't know what do with it I said
I thought back to the one and only boy before this one, I kissed every inch of him
To me it meant Everything , but all he said was
**"It's Not Like We ****** or Anything"**
May 13, 2015
May 13, 2015 at 1:49 AM UTC
As i sit here looking through college degrees i cry.
May 12, 2015
May 12, 2015 at 11:49 PM UTC
Querido libro ,
Tengo una adiccion
A todo lo que es ficcion
Quisiera vivir entre tus historias
Quiero ser parte de tus memorias
Me das alegria con tu
Sabiduria.
Me encanta los monstros
Los heroes y los villanos
Cuando no te leo , te extraño.
Querido libro,
Te amo
May 10, 2015
May 10, 2015 at 5:52 PM UTC
I’ve tattooed a line across
the veins of my wrist
and marked a down stroke
for every time
“you can’t wear red lipstick”
made me believe
I never wanted to in the first place.
for every time instead
I’ve stained my lips with cherries
learning how to tie the stems
so I can slip forget-me-knots
to the back of your throat—
do you feel my restriction now?
the razors that fly off my tongue
perk thorns on my skin,
another down stroke on my wrist
will teach me that
you were right,
shyness is a virtue.
no need to speak,
go spend one hundred dollars
and some percent for tax
to cover up,
even though I’m sure your mother told you
that cotton stains.
so make it black.
get your hair stuck
in the zipper of that sundress
and pray as you pull it out
that it will lose its pigmentation
in the process
mark a down stroke
for killing two flowers
for one bouquet.
hold it
close your eyes and throw it back,
I know we shouldn’t be wearing white anyway
but tradition can take a lot out of you
like what you really think—
don’t say **** in public.
instead drag your first impressions
all the way to the altar
and dress in your Sunday best
a flower on your lapel
clear on your lips
a stroke for the neat decline
of the son
I tattooed a line across
the veins of my wrist
and marked a down stroke
for every time
my image
was my fault.
May 10, 2015
May 10, 2015 at 12:31 PM UTC