ayeelliottmyguy - Hello Poetry

Maybe that's why they said we just drifted away the boats of friendship wood can't handle the water anymore And breaks Leaving chips on the shoulders of waters in peoples own lakes (this is where someone's lake meets the rivers) and the chips carry on forever till someone cleans the water I have too many chips in my shoulders I'm a sculpture made of Georgia red clay, With those chips, waiting for it to rain so I can fall into pieces on the ground into mud, waiting for rednecks to have a mud marathon in my own self, getting them ***** in melted liberalism, My god, it's never been so beautiful to get my hair wet in the rain, Only this time, I'm not worried about my curls knotting back up.

0

Mar 6, 2018

Mar 6, 2018 at 9:11 AM UTC

Lead Is Poisonous, So Is Friendship

Maybe that's why they said we just drifted away the boats of friendship wood can't handle the water anymore And breaks Leaving chips on the shoulders of waters in peoples own lakes (this is where someone's lake meets the rivers) and the chips carry on forever till someone cleans the water I have too many chips in my shoulders I'm a sculpture made of Georgia red clay, With those chips, waiting for it to rain so I can fall into pieces on the ground into mud, waiting for rednecks to have a mud marathon in my own self, getting them ***** in melted liberalism, My god, it's never been so beautiful to get my hair wet in the rain, Only this time, I'm not worried about my curls knotting back up.

20

The subtle cross between intersections, a life of blurriness, through crossed t’s and neatly dotted i’s I removed from the phrase Poetic Form, (trying to spell it without crossing myself back into it). From lesbianism to manhood, to cross what being a man means, I wonder if my own identity is written in pen and everyone wants it typed and edited, Yet I’ve taken the plastic keys off my computer board and made them into magnets last week, Setting myself up with stolen magnets stolen blocks, Putting them in order on my own fridge, Scrambling them back because there is no order, They only told you there was so that way you’d sing a song, But I know now that I can write words, there’s no need for a pre-prescribed song when I’ve written my own, In my own words. When I look back and have pages of songs nobody else asked for or decided to write, When I’m in class and I pocket my songs into stories and my stories under my low grades, Under my teachers’ requests for MLA format, I think of that caterpillar I played with in my room when I was six, And how i thought about how people only wrote about butterflies And how the caterpillars felt about that, So when I asked my mother to ask her friend, an author, If she’d write me into a novel, Would she ignore me because I was a caterpillar, Only choosing to open her mouth and write when my story became beautiful and socially acceptable, When it grew out from the pubescent disliking of itself and stained the sinks of society, Out of a hot *** of queer and quarantine, Till the broth of the fluidity of my own being was was down the rabbit hole Till all that was left was whitewashed spaghetti? If these songs were anything I could write down again and again, In pen, ignoring the requests to write neater, To type faster, If I put all my work into an envelope I already broke, Shove it into a mailbox decorated with things people disagree with, My pages bleeding ink few people can touch without being soaked, When they ask me what to file me under I don’t say “minority fiction” anymore I say file me under “road signs” At the intersections. File me under that caterpillar, In the wheat field, Next to hydrangeas on the dinner table A Sunflower in the spring The harvested Brown Rice, So when you make me into a meal I didn’t ask for, I can be at least eaten by the vegans.

0

Feb 26, 2018

Feb 26, 2018 at 1:44 AM UTC

To The Cute Girl At The Writing Workshop

The subtle cross between intersections, a life of blurriness, through crossed t’s and neatly dotted i’s I removed from the phrase Poetic Form, (trying to spell it without crossing myself back into it). From lesbianism to manhood, to cross what being a man means, I wonder if my own identity is written in pen and everyone wants it typed and edited, Yet I’ve taken the plastic keys off my computer board and made them into magnets last week, Setting myself up with stolen magnets stolen blocks, Putting them in order on my own fridge, Scrambling them back because there is no order, They only told you there was so that way you’d sing a song, But I know now that I can write words, there’s no need for a pre-prescribed song when I’ve written my own, In my own words. When I look back and have pages of songs nobody else asked for or decided to write, When I’m in class and I pocket my songs into stories and my stories under my low grades, Under my teachers’ requests for MLA format, I think of that caterpillar I played with in my room when I was six, And how i thought about how people only wrote about butterflies And how the caterpillars felt about that, So when I asked my mother to ask her friend, an author, If she’d write me into a novel, Would she ignore me because I was a caterpillar, Only choosing to open her mouth and write when my story became beautiful and socially acceptable, When it grew out from the pubescent disliking of itself and stained the sinks of society, Out of a hot *** of queer and quarantine, Till the broth of the fluidity of my own being was was down the rabbit hole Till all that was left was whitewashed spaghetti? If these songs were anything I could write down again and again, In pen, ignoring the requests to write neater, To type faster, If I put all my work into an envelope I already broke, Shove it into a mailbox decorated with things people disagree with, My pages bleeding ink few people can touch without being soaked, When they ask me what to file me under I don’t say “minority fiction” anymore I say file me under “road signs” At the intersections. File me under that caterpillar, In the wheat field, Next to hydrangeas on the dinner table A Sunflower in the spring The harvested Brown Rice, So when you make me into a meal I didn’t ask for, I can be at least eaten by the vegans.

42

And when her eyes turned, brown to blue, I drowned in them navigating too far into the oceans She blamed herself took matters into her very own pale impish hands And before they could arrest her, She buried herself into the the eyes of her lover, smudged in soil, Maybe that's why I loved her.

0

Feb 14, 2018

Feb 14, 2018 at 1:55 PM UTC

The Interracial Loving of A Woman

And when her eyes turned, brown to blue, I drowned in them navigating too far into the oceans She blamed herself took matters into her very own pale impish hands And before they could arrest her, She buried herself into the the eyes of her lover, smudged in soil, Maybe that's why I loved her.

14

I’ve sat in throngs of people, between seas and seas, knowing there’s a small chance salt gets called by its name CaCl2 instead. I’m constantly aware I am one compound; full, contradictory, Knowing people will find In the ocean of things More salt as oceans evaporate, Lifting to clouds, Till only enough is left for us to swim in. A little girl, collects the beautiful things, the Seashells people always want —conversation, joy, money— In ziplock bags, with water and the handful who can handle it, And we, Undesirable stay in the sea, Brushing from horizon to horizon, until we’re swept up, Or drown someone.

0

Feb 9, 2018

Feb 9, 2018 at 6:42 PM UTC

Sea Salt Caramel (The Silver Lining)

I’ve sat in throngs of people, between seas and seas, knowing there’s a small chance salt gets called by its name CaCl2 instead. I’m constantly aware I am one compound; full, contradictory, Knowing people will find In the ocean of things More salt as oceans evaporate, Lifting to clouds, Till only enough is left for us to swim in. A little girl, collects the beautiful things, the Seashells people always want —conversation, joy, money— In ziplock bags, with water and the handful who can handle it, And we, Undesirable stay in the sea, Brushing from horizon to horizon, until we’re swept up, Or drown someone.

29

Her laugh made flowers bloom, popping out of the soil and making my heart grow enough to where my doctor told me I had a preexisting condition of loving you. He couldn’t fix me, so he took me to a mechanic to see if I was broken, If too many screws got loose, If maybe my problems were caused by me afraid to lose you, So he twisted me apart, unscrewed me part by part, But the only thing he found were rusted windshield wipers and hydrangeas on my dashboard. I told him every time it rained, I opened my sunroof and let cold drops hit me through my hoodie, Every time I saw that flower, I’d take it petal by petal and spread it across the dashboard so you could always be with me, no matter how far I go.

0

Dec 7, 2017

Dec 7, 2017 at 6:30 PM UTC

Referrals

Her laugh made flowers bloom, popping out of the soil and making my heart grow enough to where my doctor told me I had a preexisting condition of loving you. He couldn’t fix me, so he took me to a mechanic to see if I was broken, If too many screws got loose, If maybe my problems were caused by me afraid to lose you, So he twisted me apart, unscrewed me part by part, But the only thing he found were rusted windshield wipers and hydrangeas on my dashboard. I told him every time it rained, I opened my sunroof and let cold drops hit me through my hoodie, Every time I saw that flower, I’d take it petal by petal and spread it across the dashboard so you could always be with me, no matter how far I go.

13

I cried myself to the shower last night. I used boy shampoo over the arms that I’ve been scratching for hour, four hours spent trying to get the blood I hated so much to come up and sit on my skin like it was their art gallery, hanging on for display. It never came. I run water over me burning tears into camouflage,the words of an empty life stung to my head as if the thoughts branded it here on me permanently. I’ve had nights like this before. Nights where I put on the loosest pajamas I could find, the ones with ESPN written written as read as the books on my old library shelf. The ones I took when my brother went to work and left me by myself, the ones that made me feel manly, even if I didn’t look like a man. I wouldn’t put a shirt on. My chest was bare, not in the way I wanted, but I couldn’t tear off my breast and give them to a girl who wasn’t born with them, I’d just have to stare till my stomach growled and tears streamed down my face, fears of a life unloved and unlived made me put on a loose shirt and tell myself I wasn’t hungry, so instead I thought of you. You, with your crooked smile when you see me at your doorstep with the sun’s colors draped in a bouquet. I show up in a fox shirt, the one I call lucky, and you count each and every one and you point out how dorky I am. You, with your back on the mattress of the cheapest apartment we could find, reading love letters I’ve written to your baby sister over the phone, telling her of all my love in the distance of thousands of miles. I try to pretend I can’t hear you from the kitchen as I make you tea, the lemon juice coating it bronze with the color of its juice, your vase holds out bright sprouts of happiness as a centerpiece. Daisies plague my mind on nights like these. They’re scattered at your funeral & my own on our graves, at the fifty yard mark. “We’ve been rolling together since we were 25.” Nights like these remind me that my masterpiece is so far, even if the dasies are so close, so near.

0

Nov 14, 2017

Nov 14, 2017 at 1:28 PM UTC

Daisies (Yellow Joy on a Blue Night)

I cried myself to the shower last night. I used boy shampoo over the arms that I’ve been scratching for hour, four hours spent trying to get the blood I hated so much to come up and sit on my skin like it was their art gallery, hanging on for display. It never came. I run water over me burning tears into camouflage,the words of an empty life stung to my head as if the thoughts branded it here on me permanently. I’ve had nights like this before. Nights where I put on the loosest pajamas I could find, the ones with ESPN written written as read as the books on my old library shelf. The ones I took when my brother went to work and left me by myself, the ones that made me feel manly, even if I didn’t look like a man. I wouldn’t put a shirt on. My chest was bare, not in the way I wanted, but I couldn’t tear off my breast and give them to a girl who wasn’t born with them, I’d just have to stare till my stomach growled and tears streamed down my face, fears of a life unloved and unlived made me put on a loose shirt and tell myself I wasn’t hungry, so instead I thought of you. You, with your crooked smile when you see me at your doorstep with the sun’s colors draped in a bouquet. I show up in a fox shirt, the one I call lucky, and you count each and every one and you point out how dorky I am. You, with your back on the mattress of the cheapest apartment we could find, reading love letters I’ve written to your baby sister over the phone, telling her of all my love in the distance of thousands of miles. I try to pretend I can’t hear you from the kitchen as I make you tea, the lemon juice coating it bronze with the color of its juice, your vase holds out bright sprouts of happiness as a centerpiece. Daisies plague my mind on nights like these. They’re scattered at your funeral & my own on our graves, at the fifty yard mark. “We’ve been rolling together since we were 25.” Nights like these remind me that my masterpiece is so far, even if the dasies are so close, so near.

13

1.) I came home from a marching band event, (I'd call it a football game, but in that little tent on the sidelines, the whole football team gathered and watched their 69-0 loss.) I barely ate and went to sleep. 2.) I scrolled through Pinterest and saved dank depression memes. 3.) My unofficial girlfriend called me a GIRL and I've died inside. 4.) I didn't complete that assignment, I just sat there filthy, unshowered, and called it depression, instead of calling my therapist.

0

Aug 26, 2017

Aug 26, 2017 at 6:45 PM UTC

Four

1.) I came home from a marching band event, (I'd call it a football game, but in that little tent on the sidelines, the whole football team gathered and watched their 69-0 loss.) I barely ate and went to sleep. 2.) I scrolled through Pinterest and saved dank depression memes. 3.) My unofficial girlfriend called me a GIRL and I've died inside. 4.) I didn't complete that assignment, I just sat there filthy, unshowered, and called it depression, instead of calling my therapist.

8

Cigarettes stain my nose with the smell I'm not sure how to tell you I'm love with you but the smell of gasoline makes me forget to tell you I'm allergic to three words.

0

Aug 19, 2017

Aug 19, 2017 at 5:35 PM UTC

Words can be so Scary

Cigarettes stain my nose with the smell I'm not sure how to tell you I'm love with you but the smell of gasoline makes me forget to tell you I'm allergic to three words.

4

Warning, warning, red alert. Warning, warning, Breaking News: This just in A woman loves me.

0

Aug 19, 2017

Aug 19, 2017 at 5:31 PM UTC

Emergency Warning