He wears his solivagant demeanor like armor; your battle of love will never scratch his silver plated chest, your swords will never pierce the walls inside his ribcage called, "home" Home is where the heart is and he flatlined a long time ago; broken heart syndrome only has only 11 documented cases of death, but something snapped inside that boy that day and I think about how they never mention that you can die on the inside, too.
He says cigarettes are a way to manipulate time, that sand is just sand if you don't know how much you have left in your hourglass, and I didn't know whether to laugh or cry.
You could've called us time travelers, we were making best friends with the moon and the stars as we breathed in the promise of calm, an ashen beach lay beneath us. Sand is just sand, after all.
The confessions of an insomniac, the stream of unfiltered emotion laying open, so vulnerable- how terribly sad it looks in the light.
Dec 14, 2016
Dec 14, 2016 at 10:41 PM UTC
I think you leave little bits of yourself in the trees
I can always see you in them
Your energy is constantly intertwining with nature
And when I'm in nature it's almost like you're there; in the mountains, the trees, the wildflowers.
It's the tsunami waves of missing you
It's the warm sunny days where everything is alive and singing, "He's all around you, just look."
It's that feeling that you get when you're on a mountain looking up at the sky and realizing how small you really are.
You're the boy who plays with the moon, and I'm the girl watching, mesmerized by the way you two move.
It's that moment when you love nature so much that it crushes you, because you know that you don't belong.
We are built to destroy, and the world deserves so much better than that.
I know I am a disaster, but you make me feel less evil than I've made myself out to be.
I feel more like a tree when I'm with you.
Dec 13, 2016
Dec 13, 2016 at 1:44 AM UTC
I remember the first time I discovered poetry,
bolts of electric affluenza coursing through soft fingertips
and into the skinny blue lines of fascination
meaning nothing at first, yet transforming into the spillage
of emotion, the invention of color,
the budding metamorphosis of the artist’s apprehension.
I remember telling everyone about the honey-tainted metaphors
that exhaled yellow pigment through our film noir madness
of ravaged years cementing over irises
and I remember the revelation, saucer eyes and trembling hands
after discovering the faultlessness of magic
that tore at heartstrings and furrowed brows,
the mumbled prayer of stitching entire blankets of words together
to keep our souls warm even as the frigid ice of Time
burned in desperation to freeze our heartbeats.
You are a poet
but to the world, you are wasted opportunity
you only know of words that slip through tied tongues like silk
and mending excuses to make up for heartbreak
You are a poet
but they never stop reminding you to keep your feet glued
To hollow ground, shaking
To find something that tastes of reality, the human flesh
sweat of long lost longing
You have to stop living in your head
In the spaces where you breathe life into promises
You are a poet
But that has never been enough.
The poet is used to this--
the knowledge of failure always shoved under the doormat
numbers that collect under crumpled paper,
the rotten look of misunderstanding as they wonder
where the science of living went missing
When did art decide to invade your insides,
Leaving no room to calculate meaning with mathematics?
Oh, but only the poets understand
That there is no formula to meaning
No theorem to calculate suffering,
Only words that get stuck and disintegrate into whispers
only all-consuming madness, write me a storm
That rages through afflictions
Write me an ending where
We are older, in the house we dreamed of, buried
Under blankets in the forgotten fog of Decembers
Write me an ending where my voice is steady
Instead of constantly wavering past the silence of goodbyes
hellos
heartaches
Love me
And I will love you
Lose me
And I will turn you into poetry
stretch your bones into feelings,
follow the lines in your palms into futures
Where we end up together
I will hold up your eyelids
so they will never feel heavy at the sight of destruction
I will shelter your heart to keep it beating
As we watch as the words I could never say
flutter at your fingertips like moths
with broken wings
The world does not understand love
nor the poets that create it.
Dec 12, 2016
Dec 12, 2016 at 6:16 PM UTC
Kaleidoscope love scenes may cause motion sickness, so be careful because I've been slipping silver-lined sentiments into your tea.
Streams of honey pour from my lips, infused with good intentions and "I'd love it if you'd stay," undertones to really sweeten things up- but not too much, I know how sugar makes your head spin.
All of the late nights we've stayed up talking have made the bags under my eyes perfect for brewing and i'm ready to pour myself out to you; that little tea *** short and stout has nothing on my porcelain frame.
Tea cup collarbones made for you to drink from. Our tea party wouldn't be complete without snacks, and I hope soul food is what you're looking for. I don't want small talk, I want the kind of talk that makes me feel small compared to the possibilities. Lets take note from Alice and her glass vile's labeled "drink me", and drink up as we watch the universe expand before our eyes.
All of the love i'm trying to give you could easily be compared to most hallucinogens, because you make my world flip-flop in the most beautiful way.
So, would you care to see what I see? Turn me into a cup of tea, and when i'm done i'll scream and shout words of "I love you," so tip me over and pour me out.
Dec 12, 2016
Dec 12, 2016 at 5:47 PM UTC