you all speak of God and of angels like
looking at one won't burn your eyes and
touching one won't singe your skin and
smelling one won't scorch your lungs
you forget their thousand eyes and
warrior tendencies--
their ability to detach and to fly and
to cast unworthy ones far away
you all speak of God and of angels like
you know them.
have you seen one light up a city or
set fire to the droplets that fall from the sky?
you know nothing of the blood that runs from my lips every time they kiss me
you know nothing of the cuts on my palms from the ridges on their hands
you all speak of God and of angels like
your heart won't ache for them like
your heart won't break for them like
loving a celestial being is easy
loving someone who brings you pain is not easy.
loving something that can only hurt you is arduous.
May 11, 2016
May 11, 2016 at 2:45 PM UTC
bleached
and
soiled
and
damaged again
i am the color of rain
the color of the ocean
the color of chemical spills
mixed in rusted tin
bleached
and
soiled
and
damaged again
Jan 24, 2016
Jan 24, 2016 at 10:52 PM UTC
i have never written a poem
i've only pounded out my fear on a keyboard
i've only slung my blood onto a page
i've only cried and screamed and hoped that someone would hear me
i've tried to write poems for the ones that i love but they always come out as hatred
i've tried to write poems for the ones that i love but they always end up about death
i've tried to write poems
i've tried to write poems
i've tried
i've tried
i've--
i'm in that awkward place between prose and poetry
what am i trying to say?
every line break ends a sentence,
ends the phrase,
as if i am speaking out loud or crying in the biggest stall in the bathroom at school
it's the only one with a toilet lid- we all know what that means
sit down and sob when you've ******* up
walk out
act as if nothing ever happened
it didn't
it is just another line in the story of God
Sep 24, 2015
Sep 24, 2015 at 10:26 PM UTC
Almost every time I ***** I cry. It’s like a habit, a song. Puke, tears. The first time I remember it happening -when I was 9- I sat up straight in bed and vomited all over myself. It stained the mattress and got all over the wall and my bedsheets- projectile stuff. Real nasty. I got out of bed, took off my clothes, went to my mom’s room, and started sobbing. Even at seventeen, I still almost always cry when my stomach betrays me, when the bile mixes with spit and I’m running to the bathroom and seeing stars as I feel pain erupt through my body and out of my mouth and nasal cavity. There’s nothing I can ever do to stop it. And afterwards, I always cry.
Maybe that’s why, when I could tell the friendship was ending, I cried so much that first time. When I could tell we were growing apart and my soul was rejecting you. You were rotten steak and I hadn’t eaten meat in five years. I couldn’t handle you anymore.
Do you ***** when you panic? Is that why there was such an explosion in the middle, bile mixing with bile? You didn’t want me to be mad at you, so you puked on me and gave me a reason to be angry. Yours wasn’t so rotten though, nothing your body couldn’t keep down. Are you bulimic or an emetophobiac? Did it scare you when you couldn’t breathe and you rejected me from your body? Or did you do it on purpose? Afterward, did you cry?
Jul 16, 2015
Jul 16, 2015 at 12:49 AM UTC
We are both struggling to get breath in, laying next to each other in bed;
Your snores are loud and could shake the walls while I'm just choking on my thoughts
The blue of the room reminds me of the blue of the waves I am obsessed with, and how I want to put them permanently on everything, even myself
My feet are warmed by a small dog who doesn't move unless he wants to, and I'm afraid to disturb anyone in this fairly domestic dreamland
Do you know I write poems at one A.M.?
Mar 30, 2015
Mar 30, 2015 at 12:48 AM UTC
my thinking is too rigid
too organized
i already know what i'm gonna think before i think it
no spontaneity
no muse
no one/no thing
to make me choke on my words
to make me drown in thoughts
no repeating
repeating
repeating
i'm beginning to miss drowning
Jan 21, 2015
Jan 21, 2015 at 1:05 AM UTC
my room smells like
smoke and incense
and i hope this is in my future
my books were stacked
neatly, and yet--
i hope this is in my future
my dreams have been filled with
bruised knees and guitar solos
grating voices and surprise visits
i've been dreaming about my future
people disappear and
reappear without a sound
i'll bring all my friends to town
i'm excited about my future
high rise buildings
wall to floor glass
i hope this is in my future
thick tapestries &
old oil paintings
looking forward to my future
my dreams have been filled with
boys with buns and coffee mornings
smooth voices and planned visits
i've been thinking about my future
people are almost permanent
i know when they will go down
i'll see all my friends in town
i'm real anxious about my future
i'm confused about my future
i've been thinking about my future
looking forward to my future
i'm excited about my future
i've been dreaming about my future
i hope you are in my future
Dec 28, 2014
Dec 28, 2014 at 4:31 AM UTC
i've been rocked
i constantly feel like i am about to ***** up the food i hardly eat
i've been rocked
i cannot sleep at night and my fear of the witching hour is slowly returning
i've been rocked
i found a weird mark on my toe and i'm almost convinced it's melanoma
i've been rocked
i don't know how i feel about you
i've been rocked
i don't know how i feel about you
i've been rocked
i've been rocked
i've been rocked
Dec 22, 2014
Dec 22, 2014 at 3:05 AM UTC
my lips have cracked
and are crackling with spit
it is 12:20 AM and i've been home less than an hour
i saw a movie with my best friend
ate two cinnamon buns
but the pounding in my head will not subside
soon i will supernova
turn into a black hole
my gravity so strong that no light is let out from the inside--
has it already happened?
Nov 27, 2014
Nov 27, 2014 at 12:23 AM UTC
the visiting boy has lost something- a figure in his life
ten years have gone by and the boy considered this man a father
(though the last few years a ***** one)
and now that man is gone
the man is nothing more than a robe on a door, a stain on a floor, a lie of what happened to his three children
the visiting boy's siblings are confused but will recover- they are young
he, however, knows that the story of 'an accident' isn't true
his eyes search mine for answers i am unwilling to give
i don't want him to imagine
what a bullet going through
brain matter sounds like
Nov 13, 2014
Nov 13, 2014 at 1:17 AM UTC