i’m made of sidewalk cracks and moments i should’ve taken
i’m made of broken rings and the wrong girls i put my trust in.
because i didn’t know what love was until i kissed a girl made of thorns
and i didn’t know what happiness was until fear started sleeping without locking the door.
i’m no where near what the world makes me out to be
what it expects from me
and maybe that’s okay.
i’m made of ****** coffee and the constant pressure of being something else
i'm made of holes in the foundation and girls that kiss me just to watch me melt.
because i didn't know what lust was until i touched skin made of broken glass
and i didn't know what hope was until i fell a little too fast.
my story ends before it even starts
because forever is only real if you look like art
but i look like broken promises in an empty hallway
and maybe that's okay.
May 11, 2018
May 11, 2018 at 12:11 AM UTC
my home
is not
the room
where i sleep
fitfully.
or the house,
broken memories
and walls
the color
of
****
my home
is the
off-key
singing
with my sister
in her car.
the buttered popcorn
from the movie theater
that we ate together,
her and my brother and i.
the spring air
as we ran with her dog.
the monotone
of teachers droning on,
the bright laughter
of my friends.
home is made
of the little
bits of joy
that
we’ve left
scattered
behind
us.
May 8, 2018
May 8, 2018 at 11:41 PM UTC
It takes a sad soul to be able to write poetry.
Someone who has been through hell.
It takes a person with so much emotion,
To be able to understand poetry.
For it to really reach them.
Poets write to feel.
Poets write to find people who understand.
And more than anything,
Poets write,
In Hope's that their words,
Will reach someone just like themselves.
Poets write to feel less alone.
And to let others know they aren't alone either.
I see all of you.
Right down to your hearts.
I wish I had the chance to know all of you.
Your beautiful souls.
Please don't ever stop writing.
I need you.
All of you. ♡
May 8, 2018
May 8, 2018 at 11:37 AM UTC
Nothing feels right anymore.
My hours have turned sour and days bitter,
time spent pondering meaningless meanings
instead of succumbing to easy smiles.
My laughs have become gilded,
my giggles stifled and my once upbeat demeanor
now hushed and hidden behind cracked lips.
I have lost my voice to a void
and in its place has risen a numbness
to coat my senses in cotton
and fill my skull with fear.
My reality has melted into dreamscape
and still further to a realm of nightmare,
desolate and grey and screeching with anxiety.
I crave an embrace far from this dusty plane
where I might find more than hollowed shells
and a grainy sand beach
extending into foggy nothingness.
May 4, 2018
May 4, 2018 at 3:32 PM UTC
S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse
A persona che mai tornasse al mondo
Questa fiamma staria senza più scosse.
Ma perciocchè giammai di questo fondo
Non tornò vivo alcun, s’i'odo il vero,
Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo.
Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherised upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question…
Oh, do not ask, ‘What is it?’
Let us go and make our visit.
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.
The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.
And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to ****** and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.
And indeed there will be time
To wonder, ‘Do I dare?’ and, ‘Do I dare?’
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—
(They will say: ‘How his hair is growing thin!’)
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—
(They will say: ‘But how his arms and legs are thin!’)
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.
For I have known them all already, known them all—
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?
And I have known the eyes already, known them all—
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?
And I have known the arms already, known them all—
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
(But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!)
Is it perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?
. . . . .
Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? …
I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
. . . . .
And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep … tired … or it malingers,
Stretched on on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in
upon a platter,
I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.
And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: ‘I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all’—
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say: ‘That is not what I meant at all;
That is not it, at all.’
And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail
along the floor—
And this, and so much more?—
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
‘That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all.’
. . . . .
No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.
I grow old … I grow old …
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.
Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.
I do not think that they will sing to me.
I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.
We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.
May 1, 2018
May 1, 2018 at 1:10 AM UTC
If I was a witch
I’d make
lavender soup,
with milky eyes,
basil leaves,
wide pink rose petals,
crystal shards,
and a touch of lapis lazuli.
Forget toad warts
or salamander tails,
burned sage,
obsidian talismans,
stolen hairs,
rusted earth
or the eyes of newts
and tongues of dogs.
If I was a witch
I’d make
love potions,
luck potions,
and everything in between.
Take fools gold
and make it gleam
brighter than a diamond.
Forget curses.
If I was a witch
I’d take the blackened grimoires,
drown them in their
bloodied words
and keep the poor
old frogs
as friends.
Feb 22, 2018
Feb 22, 2018 at 10:38 PM UTC
The upbeat tune backs a million journies
It comes from a battered piano and
The fingers of an old eccentric man
Who's smile lights the biggest room
Passersby share this magic with him
Their business paused for just a moment
They let the rhythm dance inside of them
Lit up from the happy notes
Tonight they will share folk tales
Of the smiling silver wonder
Tommorow he will return
To again colour the keys of the piano
Jan 31, 2018
Jan 31, 2018 at 8:52 PM UTC