when i was a little girl,
during that span of time
when years weren't the yardstick
but rather the speed with which
my popsicle would melt
or the days awaited
when wands of pine
would cover me from
sun-burned scalp to scraped-up toe
with sweet sap,
i would run about the tall grasses
and name every wildflower
that brushed my ankles
oh-so-tenderly.
i would keep a journal,
all in cornflower blue crayola,
about my findings,
my voyages through seas of green
and the whispers heard
in rustlings through the waves,
all turning to fae fairytales between my ears.
everything was named beautiful,
and everything was soft as a cloud
as i laid with my shoulderblades in the earth,
sticky fingers outstretched towards
projected memories far above me.
and now
i often find myself in a similar position,
ribs heaving heavily
as the floral essence
fills my lungs so amazingly--
the leaden comfort in my limbs
making it almost as if i had never left.
it's as if those fae fairytales have finally come true,
the ponderings finally rippling anew,
and the poppies lulling me to sleep
for hundred of years,
millenia stained with
the purity of august's finest daisies.
their perfume roused me one morning,
the sky still bruised and fluttering,
head sticky with a misplaced exhaustion and the woes of age;
the circumstance to which i awoke was this:
the buds,
the lilacs and hyacinths,
the baby's breath and dandelion
fluff
i had made delicate wishes upon since my earliest days
had found themselves a home wrapped around my spine,
fragrant petals gracing my stomach with their presence.
as if influenced by draught,
the ache did not place itself
but rather my fascination
with each tickling floral
forming fissures in my abdomen--
i took mental note
of their names
and characteristics,
as many as i could fit in that sap-lined cavity of my mind,
just as lovely as ever.
the soil was as soft as a cloud,
childish glee filling my heart to overflowing.
some things never change.
sometimes, the beauty of flowers
remains
the beauty of flowers,
whether it is plush under foot
or pushing through
bone and sinew.
Jun 27, 2018
Jun 27, 2018 at 5:47 PM UTC
a young warrior fulfils a dream,
one on one combat, and his foe
folds like wet parchment.
a wounded musician, has his back
even as the javelin impaled
in her arm (her spoils)
drips with life.
the clatter of a die.
a number announcing if she survives
is softly reported
[or how Oscar’s help was neither wanted nor needed, thank you very much]
Jan 17, 2018
Jan 17, 2018 at 9:35 AM UTC
I have a bit of a blunt proposition for you:
let us move to Wisconsin or somewhere just as hidden
among soy fields and monotony;
let us leave our names behind,
the concrete slabs too heavy for our broken frames and silk rucksacks;
I am tired of fulfilling a Sisyphus contract, to be entirely honest.
I think that we could hitchhike from I-95
and drum our anthems on fleshy kneecaps,
our sights pulled away from the windows of some random Honda Accord
as scenes of purple mountains majesty paint themselves
on the insides of our singed eyelids.
Wouldn’t you love to skip along dirt roads
and forget the concrete jungles
that left painful calluses on your palms
and broke my left arm in a juvenile monkey bars contest,
complete with purple cast and a tablespoon of kids’ ibuprofen.
Pleistocene mulch would no longer plant itself
in our pink feet,
and the scars from past romps would heal.
We could lay in the high grasses until high noon,
until the moon rises high in the sky,
until it sinks behind our worn heels
and lights them with its cool flame.
Our minds could wander in Wisconsin,
wily teenage worries abandoned in favor
of punk-rock philosophies.
Maybe we could even make up that alt band
you dreamed of at sixteen,
as blandess is the birthplace of creativity;
you could pick up a flea market guitar,
and I could sing with a newfound, folksy humor.
We could do anything, and we could do nothing.
That’s the glory of something over the turnpike.
Just shake my hand,
those callouses scraping my crepey skin
and forming a blood bond like no other.
No signature required.
Leave your post stamps on your pock-marked kitchen counter.
Jan 8, 2018
Jan 8, 2018 at 9:44 AM UTC
There are butterflies in your stomach?
They flutter when you see him;
a furious blush paints your face,
raw brush strokes and
unadulterated emotion
leaving behind a rich pigment
known as cluelessness.
Mix in a bit of pallor,
and it's embarrassment.
They beat their mosaic-printed wings
with a stumble of your feet
or a failed exam,
a 68 in Applied Physics
when you should have pulled a crisp 69.
They find Eden-tier gardens with excitement
on par with that of a pajama-clad kid on Christmas morning,
and I bet you relish in the feeling.
But little did you know,
Miss Little Innocent sitting there
with her head weighed down
with her heavy thoughts and knock-off Docs
pigeon-toed in a less than symbol
(don't you know that, sixty-eight?),
had elephants,
prides of lions,
*********
the whole savanna
housed inside her ribcage,
bones rattling from deafening roars;
a cognizant mind stumbling from the seismic waves
of leviathan footsteps,
shaking the ground she walks on.
The pain in her chest,
the god awful attempts to provide
for her own microcosmic ecosystem
wracked her frail frame without mercy.
She continued to bounce her knees
and answer your questions
with breathy, exhausting syllables,
but you put yourself out of commission.
You write and write about your butterflies,
but think about how
it must feel to have to accept
lionesses gnawing on your shoulderblades.
Would you ask for your beautiful ******** back?
Dec 27, 2017
Dec 27, 2017 at 6:31 PM UTC
Always message me if you ever need anything, advice, a friend, someone to rant to, anything at all, please message me!!
I've been through a lot of stuff so I'll be able to help you with a lot of stuff.
I will usually answer very quickly, within a few minutes.
I love all of you, even if I've never met you or read your poems <3
Dec 22, 2017
Dec 22, 2017 at 11:35 AM UTC
You built a house out of dominoes and Jenga blocks, and it still took you by surprise when it all came shattering down around you.
In all fairness, it’s been a long time coming.
In all fairness, you caught pieces, from time to time.
But you wanted to hold onto something, because everything you ever knew only told you that the only way to make a good thing was to burn the bad thing down, rebuild it from the ground up. And you just wanted to be able to be fixed.
People are not houses. They do not survive the fire or the burn or the smell of acrid smoke. They can not be reborn like phoenixes from the ashes.
You flirted with denial longer than you should have. You let the streams of I’m fine It’s okay That’s great Everything’s good. I’m okay. I’m fine. I’m alright. I’m fine, really. I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m fine. bleed into and over each other until your lies clashed a little too close, and people started to peer in with suspicion.
Rule 1 of denial: deny.
Rule 2: lie until you believe it.
Rule 3: don’t let anyone suspect.
Rule 4: minimize the damage.
Your house fell into rubble with a phone call at the end of a good day.
Because it wasn’t really a good day, just a good enough day, because you ate lunch and dinner, because your hands shook a little bit, because you had only a small headache. Because things weren’t worse, and they could have been.
You aren’t fine.
You’re breathing, and you’re going through the motions. And you don’t intend to die any time soon.
You’re existing, but you aren’t fine.
A stack of dominoes, and a pile of haphazardly stacked Jenga blocks. So build back a complete house, without the collapse. Add in glue, or safety pins, rope. Take a step back, sometimes, observe. When you see a fissure, hold steady and fix the crack. Do not avert your eyes.
You are not fine.*
Dec 22, 2017
Dec 22, 2017 at 11:24 AM UTC
I'm looking at everything and at everyone
but not at anything or anyone
in particular.
My eyes fleet over the distance
but not drinking in any detail.
I'm in a daze;
Hunched over in my oversized jacket,
hands hidden in pockets.
Sad sad.
This place is too noisy;
I'm getting warm with agitation.
My eyesight is blurry.
I just want this to stop.
But it goes on and on.
They're looking at me oddly.
Shrugging at each other
when I don't respond.
I tried to smile but fail.
Came out as a grimace again.
I did it again.
Always the odd one out.
"She's in that mood again"
I don't know. I don't know.
b r e a t h e
You'll get back on track again.
Hopefully. Eventually.
-m.b
Dec 22, 2017
Dec 22, 2017 at 11:23 AM UTC
I.
My pillow smells like another deity.
In the morning, I breathe out
from only one form,
daylight to dictate who is allowed to wake,
from within me.
And during that time,
I am one deity;
I am one deity;
I am one deity.
But when night falls
and lullabies are accepted into a place
with four walls and barely a door,
I am seeded into a different
plane of reality.
Hitting my pillow,
falling into its soft embrace,
its plastic scent is dizzying-
because it is not mine.
This way,
vertigo can easily write itself over
my heightened senses.
II.
In this realm,
I exist not as myself,
or just one deity that
wishes to be
skinny-dipping into daylight
without anxiety.
Instead,
I am everything I ever wanted to be-
either something that is
close to this "true persona" i speak of
or something of a far away fantasy.
In this realm,
this void that is a blockage
from a world of judgemental skin,
I have one hand-
the key to the judgements
of the ministrations of the night.
III.
You see,
in this realm,
there are two things your hands can do
in a rather lengthy moment of warm privacy.
You can either use both yellow hands
(frigid, lacking of blood circulation),
to embrace
(without loving, without care)
to snake around your neck or
you can snake one hand
between two pillars that,
in daylight,
bring them from one place
to another.
IV.
While,
far far away,
in a wonderland,
you (or perhaps me?) wish
to be a part of one day-
a boy you've seen in short,
sizzling hallways to arousal
and moments of desire
ー He sings.
V.
He sings for you in unknown pity,
in the fact that he barely knows you,
in the fact that you,
despite never being able to touch
such majestic and soft paleness
of another-
to touch what can be touched,
yet you yourself cannot-
He sings for you until your fingers move slowly
far, far away from hell
yet closer and closer to a little
bit of death.
That is how it is;
your pillow that smells of another deity
that isn't in accordance to the "you"
painted by social sunlight-
That is how it is;
a duplication of you that is somewhat you
and the small waist you felt
your fingers touch-
afraid you'd break their
small innocent body
is gone.
It's morning now,
and fantasies are better
when kissed by blankets
and shown with purple skin
and a clock
that depicts midnight.
VI.
Before you do,
morning comes first
and it is time-
to burn yet another
undecipherable duplication
of yourself-
or whatever left of who you
used to be.
- eozyoh. 14.12.2017. 16:37.
Dec 18, 2017
Dec 18, 2017 at 9:41 AM UTC