I am not much more
Than the nicotine stained walls
And scratched records
I am crafted from
The same child who wore her grandfathers glasses to stare at dingy linoleum in new light
The same child who wonders in her own set of rose color glass to peak at humanities clouded flaw
No much more than mud , clear in her right that she too is made of stars
Oct 8, 2016
Oct 8, 2016 at 2:42 AM UTC
We compare people to hurricanes and storms
Acknowledging the beauty of natural force
Romanticizing the unhinged power capable of breaking the backs of men
But forgetting how these things end
With broken homes and sarrow sunken hearts
Trembling in the shock of ruin
Shaking hands to pick up unmeasured damage
And still we look back and put an asthetic label on your wrath little girl and admire the strength
Only because we must ignore your lack of mercy
For beauty is a two headed snake who will captive your gaze ; or spit poison into your eyes
Oct 8, 2016
Oct 8, 2016 at 2:28 AM UTC
I have felt so cluttered by your absence
Constantly loosing what was just in my hands,
Scattered messes I've left for myself to trip over
I should've known you couldn't call these walls home the day I invited you in
But I had hoped maybe you would've rested here a little bit longer
The same window you lept from has refused to fully shut and I tire of sleepless nights over the cold draft you were, creeping in and teasing my skin with the sensations brought by moonlit breezes carried on the ******* of thunderstorms
I have not found a way to shut that window, but at least he is by my side to warm your lingering chill, and to kiss my hands after they bleed from ripping out the nails you once hung on
Oct 6, 2016
Oct 6, 2016 at 3:39 PM UTC
If we were on a canvas;
I. Ocean blue greys in heavy handed strokes,
Bleed into a green of sun lit canopies .
Burnt umber and soil with quick wristed flecks of something like the yellow of thick honey
Intermingling over deafening white, the colors collide messily but not unintentionally
Not oil, not acrylic, not even water color .
Rather something made truly of these very things,
Ocean depths and hurricane hights, black tire marks burnt into cement and the mud that squishes beneath bare feet. The colors of momentary bliss . Unapologetic and unraveling.
II. Dust collects heavily on a lustrous and listless painting , dimly lit in an empty gallery.
Only my fingertips disturb the sediment of dust and salt, the face of these colors only haunt me .
And those who remember seeing it look sadly apon me and tell me only; that there are more muses in this world than one.
III. You're somewhere doing something ,
But no matter what satisfaction is gained
You know there is no recreation of those hughs,
And a piece of you too mourns the capability to finish the art set in place by fate and choice.
If we were on a canvas , we would be hidden in lonely parts of eachother, because whatever we made this of is stained into our skin no matter how hard their loving hands try to cleanse them .
We are the very mess we create.
Unapologetic.
Unraveling.
Undeniably human.
Oct 6, 2016
Oct 6, 2016 at 2:49 PM UTC
I notice how often my thoughts and poems start with you , and I resent my weakness .
Just as often as I'm the one to seek you for comfort , how it's me and not you that seems to be tied . For that I resent you for not casting me away properly, for not telling me the keys I hold no longer fit your iron clad locks .
Life has loved laughing at the pitiful gardens I've watered with my tears .
And I feel no greater urge than to rip the weeds from their roots, because you know well as I that I could never be as beautiful as pink stained petals.
I notice all the ways I would of and still could contort myself to be even half as deserving of you as so many others would be twice as I .
I am a **** and you are a great stone wall I fear I will never scale .
Oct 6, 2016
Oct 6, 2016 at 2:42 PM UTC