And maybe I loved you.
Maybe I didn't.
Who cares by this point?
While you're screaming at me,
while I'm curled in the corner,
not sure if your's or the voices in my head are
louder this time.
Maybe I didn't want you to touch me,
while I laid so still,
my tears carving deeper scars than my razor.
Maybe, I did.
Who cared by the time
I woke up with you ******* her,
in my bed,
next to me.
Maybe I didn't want to get you high,
when I worked sixteen hours a day,
smiling lies, and cracking when their eyes were averted.
Maybe, I did,
but who really cares,
by the time I found you,
finger ******* the carpet
for little crystal rocket ships,
that would put you back in your head.
Maybe I didn't want to stay,
when you begged me.
Secrets, brushed under the carpet for a minute,
love facades painted in your black hole eyes.
Maybe I did,
but, who really ******* cares,
by the time I finally got away,
because, I had to face the inside
of the Jack O' Lantern smile, you'd sliced onto my eager face.
but who cares?
You didn't.
Mar 10, 2015
Mar 10, 2015 at 2:48 AM UTC
She glares, in contempt of her cage.
She bites the bars.
She screams her rage.
Her sun thirsty skin stretched over a soul
too big,
too bound,
too much for this tiny cathedral.
The ceilings of her Sistine Chapel rebel against
her plaster skull.
They waltz in her spotlight,
fighting over her camera's eyes.
look at me
They flick their tongues,
bat their painted lashes.
They flash their brilliant colors,
their brilliant intellect.
Prey lying in the arms of predator,
they sacrifice sanity for the ecstasy of her madness,
just a taste of her sacred communion.
She drifts,
one to the next, because they're all the same.
They make promises they can't keep
for the sake of romance.
They marvel wide eyed, because she's not the same.
Absorb her until they can't,
and hobble away, broken.
They won't stop though.
Cracked like a whip on their tender skin,
they come back,
limping and smiling.
Her weakness in the devotion playing on their
bitten, pouting lips.
*"Love me." said The *********
"Always." said The Sadist"
Mar 10, 2015
Mar 10, 2015 at 2:24 AM UTC
I only told you once.
How unhealthy my love was,
my obsession,
hurt me more than you anyway.
I wrapped my life
around you.
I wrapped my thoughts
around your vague desires
your cruel demands.
I remember your head on my lap
your tears on my thighs.
I remember you laughter,
your promises.
I remember
exactly
how hard I tried
to fight your demons.
I remember days, weeks, months, years
wasted on your sick delusions.
I was so lost.
You saved me,
Jim Jones to my misguided youth.
Better the abuse you know, than the strangers you don't.
Mar 9, 2015
Mar 9, 2015 at 11:55 PM UTC
I'm a believer in late night conversations.
I'm a believer in starry eyed, open smiles,
ink stained fingertips.
I'm a believer in hour upon hours,
lying in safe arms
disregarding the world and it's perpetually
complicated
social structures.
I'm a believer in butterfly kisses,and eskimo kisses,
and any other kisses you can muster.
I'm a believer in spontaneous proclamations of love,
sweet slow touches, reassuring words.
I'm a believer in eloquent anger,
words turned to a fencer's foil,
dancing in careful time with a discussion bordering heat.
Feb 3, 2015
Feb 3, 2015 at 3:52 PM UTC
If we end up angry, screaming reflections of who we are now,
Thank You for the butterflies.
If I end up choking
on tears I won't let you see
Just Know
I would never allow myself to mourn
for someone I didn't love.
Feb 3, 2015
Feb 3, 2015 at 3:46 PM UTC
Give me your lies.
Slip through my thighs.
Sing me a song,
sweet lullabies
growls through bared teeth.
Involuntary sighs.
Love, close your eyes,
and give me tonight,
desire tides on the glassy shores
of discovery.
skin
eyes
for once, I'll try
to forget how I flinch.
For our grand reprise,
our opus
symphonies
cacophonous rise
and fall.
Callous poet, silent philosopher
let my fingers ask you
why
Feb 2, 2015
Feb 2, 2015 at 2:06 AM UTC
I'm finding it hard to sleep these days.
While my mind whirs electrical currents
civil war.
And my voices whisper
yesnomaybes
taunting my neverending curiosities.
today and tomorrow and yesterday pool at the back of my skull
forgetting which came first,
and which hasn't happened.
Forgetting to care,
as I stare into the smokey galaxies above my bed.
Dreams consort with ghosts,
nightmares sing cryptic lullabies in hollow voices.
Conversations that never existed, unravel themselves
before my hopeless, opened eyes,
and I breathe my silent testimony
to the horrors I so graciously accepted as home,
to ears that will never hear it.
Like a nymph I feel my skin,
cellophane tight,
conforming to laws of nature that are not my own.
Accepting existence as an anomaly, out of spite for my creators.
I rise and fall
pulled by sweet Luna
into the fading lights of my consciousness,
then back to harsh reality before I can appreciate
my mind's secret gardens.
Feb 1, 2015
Feb 1, 2015 at 4:02 AM UTC
I love the way you pretend.
I love the way you dress up
all skin, and cotton, and beautiful
lies.
I love the way you tease,
my words from their dusty catacombs,
with your smile, your sway,
your beautiful ******* lips,
trailing down my neck, my chest.
******* this neverending
journey to the end of your corridors and locked doors.
I love the way you don't know
how you inspire my deep seated desires.
I love your innocence
my inner demons coaxing
the lost little lamb
in your eyes.
I love the way you shiver
when my fingers make promises my heart can't keep.
When my smile makes promises
my foundations can't withstand.
I love the way you don't ask questions,
how you trust me.
So lovely,
misguided,
and I know I'm going to break your heart.
But the way you look at me
reminds me of what it means to be human,
even if what I do to you, proves
I'm not.
Jan 25, 2015
Jan 25, 2015 at 1:47 AM UTC
And I run,
I run so far away;
from the pain and the decisions
you've forced on my fragile mind,
From the agony of realizing
every second I spent blind
to your lies, and your love,
and your useless promises.
To your empty dreams
your late night wishes.
Future
turned into a past tense verb
moved by your lack of motion,
momentum created from my
spontaneous combustion in love
Inflamed
infatuated with your hollow charm,
and your flawless game.
The desire to tame,
an nothing more.
Though, I became the *****
who took it all and shouldered
the Burdon of your wasted potential.
And buried the belief that
ideservedmore
than what you gave me.
What I got,
the empty handful
of ashes.
pain/fear/freedom
paid in full
Jan 21, 2015
Jan 21, 2015 at 3:56 PM UTC
Those that say writing is for those avoiding life,
have never seen the way my pen
dances across it's stage.
They've never seen the way words can
wrap themselves about you,
settle in your bones,
nap in your empty places, guarding your secrets.
They don't know how it feels
to squirm under the relevance of a poet's
transcending prophecies.
They don't know the subconscious way we bite our lips
when e.e. cummings whispers
oceantides.
Or how we sigh, starry-eyed
when T.S. Eliot feeds our fantasies with dreams
of places and things we can't find in our backyards.
They can't possibly understand
the relief of understanding,
when Sylvia Plath eviscerates herself into our thirsty
mouths, spilling her soul onto skinsoft pages.
Maybe, then
poets are not so alive after all,
human sacrifices to their own mortal experience.
Jan 14, 2015
Jan 14, 2015 at 1:18 AM UTC