i write poetry in fifty seconds or less
sometimes the words taste like salt
and sometimes like maraschino cherries
i wonder if my blood is red or if it's purple
because pain no longer feels like the color red,
it feels like numbness, cold unsaturated color.
red is diamond and fire and volcano
and it doesn't seem fair to call myself eruption.
it would be more accurate to say that i'm sand dune
and flood
and hurricane,
something that doesn't burn painfully
but slowly sinks into your skin
like water
until you breathe in what you thought was air,
but really it's not oxygen anymore,
it's me.
this one tasted like salt.
(a.m.c.)
Dec 12, 2014
Dec 12, 2014 at 10:58 PM UTC
If I'm the guy who waits,
is there some way?
Cause here I am,
I was, I remain.
The aging clocks face,
ticks out each second passed,
and here I am regardless.
Caught up in fairy tale nostalgia,
forgiven all the wrongs,
hurt endured,
selecting only the best
and cherished
fleeting
flickers of glimpses
at night
just as I fade
to the place where you still come
there too, not always pleasant.
Sometimes I wake and ache so bad
but the cause of that is you
Will I ever turn you out,
face away?
Is this time squandered,
wasted, fruitless?
Or one day are we going to be, again?
Am I okay with no love unless,
unless...
if nothing changes,
distance remains,
who to blame
but my own cowardice.
Some day,
. . . . . . . . . one day,
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . maybe,
hearts can change
Dec 8, 2014
Dec 8, 2014 at 8:46 PM UTC
The little old house on the hill
with cracking floors
and withered flowers
Grey skies hang
like chandeliers
from century old ****** mansions
Romance and rot
in the panels of wood
secrets and stories
hidden in bed springs
that still ring the sound of our laughter
Yellowed curtains
once white with glow
fly outside the window
some people fear places like these
but I seak comfort
In dancing with the ghosts
who once left their print
In the little old house on the hill.
May 16, 2014
May 16, 2014 at 6:01 PM UTC
Ideas, ideas,
Scribbled ink.
Ideas, ideas,
Ideas of you.
Cursive letters
on burnt edged paper
the blood from my rose
staining your name
What's love without life?
or life without love?
But what am I,
without you?
Engrave your name
on my lonely heart,
and pray that i'll see you soon.
Close my eyes,
and listen,
listen to the hushes of wind,
luring me deeper, and deeper,
and deeper....
All the way past,
the presence of sleep.
Nov 29, 2013
Nov 29, 2013 at 8:43 PM UTC
I am filled with death.
Disease courses through my veins
I swim deep down into depression
Each breath feels like drowning
Fourteen days, 1209600 seconds
Until I can sink down to the bottom
An endless drop to God knows where.
I'll watch the azure sky fly further away.
Where am I going?
Where do I belong?
Hold me close
When I die.
Nov 11, 2013
Nov 11, 2013 at 8:41 PM UTC
You can't be strong
When you've loved him forever
And with the blink of an eye
He sails away to fast
"To serve and protect"
"I'll come back soon"
He promises.
The guns are pointed.
Positions. " Salute."
What happened to the boy I once knew?
That minute,
My heart sinks.
That bullet wasn't meant for you.
I hear the doorbell.
What do I do?
That bullet couldn't have been for you.
I remember your words.
"I'll come back soon I promise"
What do I do?
I'll keep our memories on replay til I die.
Please don't leave me here.
That bullet wasn't meant for you.
Nov 11, 2013
Nov 11, 2013 at 8:08 PM UTC
When I was six
I looked up to you
Such love in my voice,
"I want to fly daddy."
So I glued a few feathers
To one of your shirts
I swung my arms as hard as I could,
"Get away from me child."
When I was thirteen
I started to fear you
"I have to fly daddy."
So I took a few pills
My boyfriend slipped me
"These will make you high"
But they didn't daddy.
You just called me a failure and drank with Jack
But now I'm fifteen dad.
And I'm tired of you.
So I stand at the top of this precipice
And swing my arms like a six year old
" Hey Daddy.
I can fly"
Nov 10, 2013
Nov 10, 2013 at 9:22 PM UTC
I wonder about the boy on the park bench
He sit's on the left- I on the right,
We sit in silence waiting for our rides to arrive.
I worry that he won't be there one morning
I've developed an attachment to him.
I've noticed his scrapes and scars
and I think he's noticed mine.
It was Sunday morning,
we sat together,
no buses to take or
time to keep
But closer than usual
Our breath clouds the freezing air around us
We sip alcohol from our coffee mugs
Our lips locked, bodies steamed.
I think I am in love with
The boy on the park bench.
Nov 9, 2013
Nov 9, 2013 at 10:19 PM UTC
She isn't the girl she used to be
The sparkle is gone from her eyes
She plasters on a smile each morning
and let's lose so she can cry every night
Her voice is still smooth and beautiful
But the words that sings to drift herself to sleep
are deep and painful.
Sometimes I swear I hear her
voice picked picked up by the wind
Whispering apologies through my window
I'll never understand why she left me
But I know she's been sending me glimpses of heaven
every time I remember her.
When I think of the moments that we shared
I start to feel like I have her back in my arms
But now the memories start to fade and so do I.
Without her
I am
Nothing.
Nov 9, 2013
Nov 9, 2013 at 10:01 PM UTC