Birds always know
how to get home,
despite how far they go
and how high they fly.
I wish I knew why
Birds know where
the sun goes to warm
cold shallows of air.
Is it memory?
I wish I could see
what birds seem to see
before clouds turn to rain,
They rise and they flee.
For birds always know
how to go home.
Apr 23
Apr 23, 2026 at 4:42 AM UTC
Perfection stopped being what you spoke about on Saturday evenings.
Instead she walked around barefooted with her hair bewildered and her blue eyes dancing with your soul.
You found her in little strands on your pillowcases and car seats and floating around in your head.
She rolled you up, tucked you in, turned her back on you when it got rough.
She fell silent, just like you.
Sans peace in loneliness.
Fragility woven into her like she herself was woven into you.
She smiled.
Smiles that traced your skin lightly.
Smiles that dug their way through your flesh and made your chest feel bigger. Safer.
Perfection wasn't what you spoke about on Saturday evenings.
Perfection wasn't perfect.
Perfection was all you had needed all those Saturday evenings.
Her.
Aug 8, 2016
Aug 8, 2016 at 2:44 AM UTC
Follow tar veins
flowing through chiseled earth
to my obfuscated world where I'll wait.
and if by dawn you arrive,
in your whirlwind of grace,
I will show this place:
we can dance
amid notes
amid words
amid silence
If you're willing to find me
before the morn breaks
Aug 3, 2016
Aug 3, 2016 at 3:22 AM UTC
Crinkly in madness, self-doubt and pity
I laugh like a madman and speak as if witty
I dance with your demons, they dance with me too,
I lost mine some time back
They're dancing in you
Lovers may come and
often may go
And so too do demons
even ones who
You know
So, wonder I,
'neath dimming night light,
why happiness never seems to sit right.
It becomes forgotten,
in all the wrong places,
where flesh lies half rotten.
In little jump-jerkles,
Upon sensing the fear,
Of being forgotten,
Of still being here,
I know :
That maybe some weren't ever meant
To lead it foolish and giddy
Joyful and witty
Maybe I
Aye I
Was destined to die
Crinkly in madness, self doubt and pity
Jul 20, 2016
Jul 20, 2016 at 4:43 PM UTC
It's navy-night streaked with dusty stars and cold sand creeping into places I'd much rather be. It's arms streaked with bits of you as entity glows in fickle-firewood-flare and your hands eversearching and my hands eversearching for all that is you in abundance. It's the milkyway in your blue eyes and the ocean in your smile. Every small beauty you notice. How every strand of freedom on your luscious head tells a story of the truthfulness one finds in people when they don't notice. It's your voice - and imagine strings - goosing up my skin. It's darker and it's glowing and it's further and we don't really need the half-light so we wet our feet but it should be colder but it isn't. It's almost there and actually there and you're lovely here. It's falling asleep at nine-eleven-two-four, waking up in between and having you to fill. It's the last draw of lips and your condensation on my neck. How you should be wrapped tighter-untilthegapsareallgone. How I'd trace every dip and rise, the lines that make the muse and kiss
Until exhaustion closes.
Your chestful echoes deeper
Your butterfleyes fluttering closed
It's feeling you
Splitter-splatter-splutter
Your story onto this stained canvas and making it worth a glance or fourteen;
Jun 19, 2016
Jun 19, 2016 at 5:28 PM UTC