Benevolent, blurred and undefined:
cocooned within eloquent dispositions
linen nightmares
threaded fingertips
escape to dizzier stars
tightened, suspended,
a constellation of misplaced stars
burrowing for warmer skin,
slack.
Mar 15, 2015
Mar 15, 2015 at 8:22 PM UTC
Have mercy on this body,
it is learning to bend and shape,
but creaks and occasionally splits,
releases sighs from spinal aches,
the vertebrae laying lifeless, loving you so,
whispering of lip marks but no teeth,
sunsets but no rises, a bed but no you.
These aches are old, I know,
these aches are tired, I'm sorry,
this skin is a poem and
I leave unedited drafts of myself
in every bed
that has ever held me,
ever fractured me with metaphor,
abandoned with a half-cocked heart.
Take my bullets out.
Have mercy.
Jan 19, 2015
Jan 19, 2015 at 3:35 PM UTC
My fingertips bruise
Whenever I touch him,
Ribcages tighten and confine
Me to what I am to be;
Pavement cracked and crippled
Under the weight of word.
Lungs expand to accommodate him,
But he just complains about
The noise of my heartbeat.
I am sanctioned under a law of silence,
Forbidden by growth and loss,
Entrusted in splinters and expected
To heal
Jan 15, 2015
Jan 15, 2015 at 10:08 AM UTC
Head tilted upwardly opened. Eyes closed.
Ceiling desired and lulled.
He is the silhouette of a dream,
Ashes and dust,
Smoke and smoke and smoke,
Carcinogenic and mine.
He opens his mouth to speak,
Smoke,
Shrouded in carbon and yearning.
He is the reason I drift,
He is forgetting who's air I am breathing
and remembering the flames I used to be.
Jan 15, 2015
Jan 15, 2015 at 10:07 AM UTC
Collapsed beautiful,
undefined and sharpened,
collated in the fatality of eyes;
yours.
I am slipping underneath
your eyelids, dust
trapped in kaleidoscope dreams,
Our words match, do we? Do we?
My joints mix between the blue and greys
of your optic landscape,
strengthened enough to resurrect
sunken ships. Submerge thought.
Fallen perfection, put the maps away.
Escape. Blink me out.
Jan 4, 2015
Jan 4, 2015 at 1:12 PM UTC
My hands entire in splits
from the broken fences
you managed to escape from.
Old memories soak tendons,
douse fingertips; ignite.
Suns set and the metals
in my blood
no longer act as a magnetic
means of reeling in our stars.
My palms are a midnight prism,
encaging bruised hearts
below broken darkness,
under thickening skin.
I no longer expect you to return.
Yet these 27 bones
still manage to remember you.
Jan 3, 2015
Jan 3, 2015 at 12:39 PM UTC
It snowed that morning,
scarring the end of something
forgotten,
pitied lost repression,
buried with each shy snowflake.
Uncontested petals from the
formerly statuesque tress, fell,
sundered,
dancing their merry little
way to the vacant ground.
And a feather dropped from
an outcast swan, alone it
forlornly
surrendered to the frigid
incapability of the terra firma.
On that Saturday morning,
nothing could have fallen,
plummeted
as sporadically as I did,
for each of your rays.
Jan 1, 2015
Jan 1, 2015 at 12:46 PM UTC
That year I dug up too much,
wore rose quartz memories
and stared down too many
sunsets,
felt my edges soften
and become sharp again,
the continuum of freezing
and thawing,
in someone else's hands.
That year I realised that
a name itself
can be a poem,
or a will,
or a sentence,
that mirrors assess damage,
scars resemble time,
and bones are just splintered
pieces of those I miss.
That year I was an opportunity,
a calendar choking on rotting number,
a recycled version of events,
already breathed by someone luckier.
Dec 31, 2014
Dec 31, 2014 at 5:37 AM UTC
strictness ruled down,
ruled out, cursive,
signposted in Times New Roman,
the ninth letter of an alphabet
I struggle to breathe within,
the marker for my psyche,
the superlative, objective,
somewhat subjective and lost in ego,
twisted between tibia, fibula,
the pronoun scarred across
the canvas of my skin,
the myriad,
in want of you,
always needing less,
or more, or less,
an apology,
a last kiss
a hesitation;
I.
Dec 27, 2014
Dec 27, 2014 at 3:32 PM UTC
I have tied heart strings around my neck
and hoped the blurred vision of my
somewhat self destructive nature
would take away the optic curses
that disallow me to see what I cannot heal.
Sharpened question marks
hook into the aged rings in my flesh.
Left out for too long; forgotten.
He tries not to cry as
suspended interrogatives pull at limbs
and hang body over a myriad of "who?" or "why?"
(I forget which).
I am both the antique puppet and the
incandescent hole in the puppet master's chest,
taught to love my wooden creators
and fall in love with anything
that helps me forget about the skeletons
within my bloodstream.
Pull my strings.
Watch me come undone.
Dec 27, 2014
Dec 27, 2014 at 5:38 AM UTC