awkwardari
Writing poetry as malleable as my mind. / / I like alliteration. / / "If you expect to find people who will understand you, you will grow murderous with disappointment. The best you'll ever do is to understand yourself, know what it is that you want, and not let the cattle stand in your way." -White Oleander by Janet Fitch
Use of heat
engulfs your ends
Into a splintered crisp.
Every inch you sear
Irons out the curls in your mane.
Flick the lighter,
Spark up some magic
And bring that
Shy, crying ember
To your dry lips.
The harder you inhale,
The faster you burn.
Smoke sneaks around
Your body and
Encapsulates you in
A hazy plume.
The scorch marks on your arm
Emphasizes your need
For warmth.
You seem to think you’re
A phoenix by how often
You play with flames,
But how high will you rise?
Will the ashes you’ve left
behind provide you with
a rebirth
or purge you into
the hearth forever?
How long will your eyes
Stay ignited,
Because every time you
Play with snowflakes,
You become a dimly lit,
Sputtering flicker.
Sep 17, 2014
Sep 17, 2014 at 2:58 PM UTC
Flick the Bic
and you'll get a flame.
Ignited as if magic,
a spark, explosion,
hidden within
a hard case
cold until held by
callous hands.
You become grounded.
The earth begins to claim you
as it's own.
Vines, roots
scale your body
and dig themselves deeper,
becoming one with
the captor.
It started with
a drip.
A singular orb
of pure and innocent
water,
and soon you're submerged within
that person more
than you thought possible.
The air you had
inhaled, exhaled
together
has become more
painful than the searing fire,
hitting harder than the
most crusted stone,
pushes poisonous liquid
into your lungs
with an endless swell
and leaves you breathless.
Sep 15, 2014
Sep 15, 2014 at 6:09 PM UTC
Blank paper
quickly morphs
Into something
Extravagant.
Our mind
Prints and
Polishes
Everything white
And adds some
Needed color.
We are the
Creators
And concoctors
Of a world
That's unknown
To anyone but
Our crossed faded
Minds.
Beauty is found in destruction
Aug 16, 2014
Aug 16, 2014 at 1:10 AM UTC
Your thoughts start coming out
In low key lighting,
Sepia toned shots,
And distorted by a fog machine
Hidden in the corner.
You analyze it
Piece-by-piece,
Paint-by-numbers,
Cuts, takes, dissolves,
and throw the fragments up
in the air.
Confetti in the form of "art"
Left for anyone's interpretation.
Jul 28, 2014
Jul 28, 2014 at 1:25 PM UTC
Off comes my slip, socks, sanity and an echo
Goes up my spine.
The men
Film my sinking heart
And dive into the
Filth plastered against my mind without a thought
Of what moments define me.
That girl who used to wear a
Shirt embroidered with flowers and had a mother
Making her a meal with love is now working the
Room with what's left of her.
For -ward motion depicts nothing
More than bones and memories never cherished.
Jul 27, 2014
Jul 27, 2014 at 4:16 PM UTC
Pick and pencil
Retired and replaced
By a packed piece.
In an acoustic sense,
Life is empty.
In an analytical approach,
Life is already over.
All we’re left with
Is half finished sheet music
And half written pages.
Jul 4, 2014
Jul 4, 2014 at 9:14 AM UTC
My entire existence
has been orchestrated
around hypocrisy
And conducted by
artificial affirmations.
It's a dead end
and we're already dead,
So what's the point
exactly
Jun 24, 2014
Jun 24, 2014 at 12:31 AM UTC
Anticipation climaxes
the moment you unscrew
that seal tight jar
keeping hazy secrets
locked away.
*You're about to touch the
snow-kissed mountain tops
and breath air so pure,
it distorts the very heartbeat*,
and that feeling granted only by the enemy
--sobriety--
drags you to hell itself.
It gets off tormenting your every particle of being
but you're clouded in a smokey shield and
wielding the winning sword colored ash black
(obsidian
volcanic
explosive)
Defeat is on the horizon
and you're so high above the battleground
that a giddy serenity enfolds you into the
golden-dipped sunset
But the height only lasts
for as long as you hold in
that choking air
and it's gone
and your sanity returns
and you've never felt
more insane
than ever
before.
Jun 22, 2014
Jun 22, 2014 at 9:42 PM UTC
It scares me
That this empty,
disturbingly vacant feeling
seemingly rooted in
my gut
can only be temporarily
sated.
What more is it going to take?
What more can I do?
Because my ulterior forms of escape
are encapsulated within
*****
drugs
people
hate
love
wispy smoke
clouded dreams
warm cups of coffee that burns the throat if sipped too quickly
And those silly,
frivolous
mechanisms of coping
do less
than water slipping through open fingers.
My apathetic attitude
Has been finely tuned.
Jun 22, 2014
Jun 22, 2014 at 9:11 PM UTC
The coal sky
Splatter painted
In cherub white
Emphasizes
And encompasses
That feeling of incompleteness.
How is it even possible
To feel everything
And nothing all at once?
I used to worship a God.
He used to be my savior
Father
Faith.
Now the only prayer I whisper
Is crafted in the sound
Of runny pen
On lined paper.
Jun 7, 2014
Jun 7, 2014 at 4:44 PM UTC