katherine-paist - Hello Poetry

I fall in love quite frequently, in glances with those I’ll never know. To exchange awkward advances while predicting this too will plateau

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Jan 27, 2013

Jan 27, 2013 at 6:29 PM UTC

It Always Ends a Flatline

I fall in love quite frequently, in glances with those I’ll never know. To exchange awkward advances while predicting this too will plateau

6

I long to act, to lack discernment, to take, not earn it and not care to explain, because my bones are rigid matrices, growing brittle from empty inertia. I wish I wrote the way I used to before professors slashed new line breaks through my stanzas for the sake of aesthetics. The voice my tongue used to carry now resides in my head, fragmented but organized to the eye. I can’t fix this.

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Jan 27, 2013

Jan 27, 2013 at 6:28 PM UTC

Conditioned by Degree

I long to act, to lack discernment, to take, not earn it and not care to explain, because my bones are rigid matrices, growing brittle from empty inertia. I wish I wrote the way I used to before professors slashed new line breaks through my stanzas for the sake of aesthetics. The voice my tongue used to carry now resides in my head, fragmented but organized to the eye. I can’t fix this.

18

So long as there’s society there’s much to haunt and hate. So long as the world has its cages and everything has proper place the future is no option until the streets are dressed in flames with torn pavement roaring as loud as the voices dancing where nothing’s left empty–their bodies, the buildings– all glowing, negating the inert night. And when the walls turn to ashes, they’ll dance in a flurry to kiss the ground as if smudging their past lives off surviving maps.

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Jan 27, 2013

Jan 27, 2013 at 6:27 PM UTC

Bonfire

So long as there’s society there’s much to haunt and hate. So long as the world has its cages and everything has proper place the future is no option until the streets are dressed in flames with torn pavement roaring as loud as the voices dancing where nothing’s left empty–their bodies, the buildings– all glowing, negating the inert night. And when the walls turn to ashes, they’ll dance in a flurry to kiss the ground as if smudging their past lives off surviving maps.

10

I’m no longer looking forward (to anything, anymore) and for the past twenty days I’ve spent most of my time engaged in staring contests with tabletops and ceilings. But I’m smiling at the cracks in the sidewalks—the sidewalks we share, where I’m too distracted finding beauty in the destruction and the life that grows from it to ever notice your ghost haunting or your shoulder brushing mine. I am amused how we can still inadvertently share the same path, it's similar to the sickness I feel towards sharing roads with cops.

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Jan 24, 2013

Jan 24, 2013 at 3:05 PM UTC

24 Days in Passing

I’m no longer looking forward (to anything, anymore) and for the past twenty days I’ve spent most of my time engaged in staring contests with tabletops and ceilings. But I’m smiling at the cracks in the sidewalks—the sidewalks we share, where I’m too distracted finding beauty in the destruction and the life that grows from it to ever notice your ghost haunting or your shoulder brushing mine. I am amused how we can still inadvertently share the same path, it's similar to the sickness I feel towards sharing roads with cops.

18

apparitions and how they’re haunting: because I feel like I am scattered across plains as if my cortex was tossed into a disposal and shredded so all could have a piece of me to pick

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Jan 9, 2013

Jan 9, 2013 at 2:09 AM UTC

My Friend Was Stabbed

apparitions and how they’re haunting: because I feel like I am scattered across plains as if my cortex was tossed into a disposal and shredded so all could have a piece of me to pick

8

I hope when the end of the world comes, I do too.

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Dec 20, 2012

Dec 20, 2012 at 10:23 AM UTC

End

I hope when the end of the world comes, I do too.

3

What I would give to be a lone grain within a Sahara sandstorm a fragment of drought scattering itself across nowhere, singing with the slow erosion. I long to be this, to be loved despite it. You’ll always drag your fingers through me how many grains can the gusts steal before a dune is gone? There’s no such thing as a static state: Everything dies still nothing rests.

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Dec 19, 2012

Dec 19, 2012 at 7:00 AM UTC

In fear of settling

What I would give to be a lone grain within a Sahara sandstorm a fragment of drought scattering itself across nowhere, singing with the slow erosion. I long to be this, to be loved despite it. You’ll always drag your fingers through me how many grains can the gusts steal before a dune is gone? There’s no such thing as a static state: Everything dies still nothing rests.

17

I swear on all the gods that don’t exist: whatever is haunting you will always breathe down the back of your neck. You will never outrun yourself. Go travel this entire ****** and ****** up world. You'll come back a ghost.

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Dec 17, 2012

Dec 17, 2012 at 5:53 AM UTC

Martyrs Don't Give Lovers Ultimatums

I swear on all the gods that don’t exist: whatever is haunting you will always breathe down the back of your neck. You will never outrun yourself. Go travel this entire ****** and ****** up world. You'll come back a ghost.

9

When I am around you, I’m confused like the way cars curtsey at one another at four way stop signs when no one’s really sure who got there first, or if it’s their chance to go next And then before anyone has a chance to blink, some will say **** it and the curtsey contorts into a slow motion collision that leaves people crying, saying sorry, and momentarily their lives pause for each other as they evaluate their damages

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Dec 17, 2012

Dec 17, 2012 at 5:47 AM UTC

On Wylie Street

When I am around you, I’m confused like the way cars curtsey at one another at four way stop signs when no one’s really sure who got there first, or if it’s their chance to go next And then before anyone has a chance to blink, some will say **** it and the curtsey contorts into a slow motion collision that leaves people crying, saying sorry, and momentarily their lives pause for each other as they evaluate their damages

18

Before Mom got sick, Sundays always taught me to Be still and know that I am God. I tried to look my best when asking the sanctuary’s chandeliers for forgiveness. Six feet deep and seven months later, I got my first job changing oil and on Sundays I would work double shifts to pay for my sins, and I’d roll them up and smoke them and they made me Be still, and know that I was God. Now I’m a ghost wallowing throughout this city’s shell, haunting streets and raising hell—I’m broke like a wallet and nervous like first days, but I am adapting to the side effects of motion sickness, the way my stomach overthrows my mind and liberates my insides—defying gravity, flowing upstream through my esophagus, they bellow out like cigarette smoke or the sounds of my vocal chords. And slowly I’m forgiving myself for being still for all the things that don’t exist: I’ve found a strange heaven in staying ceaseless.

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Dec 9, 2012

Dec 9, 2012 at 9:45 PM UTC

Word ***** A Sermon

Before Mom got sick, Sundays always taught me to Be still and know that I am God. I tried to look my best when asking the sanctuary’s chandeliers for forgiveness. Six feet deep and seven months later, I got my first job changing oil and on Sundays I would work double shifts to pay for my sins, and I’d roll them up and smoke them and they made me Be still, and know that I was God. Now I’m a ghost wallowing throughout this city’s shell, haunting streets and raising hell—I’m broke like a wallet and nervous like first days, but I am adapting to the side effects of motion sickness, the way my stomach overthrows my mind and liberates my insides—defying gravity, flowing upstream through my esophagus, they bellow out like cigarette smoke or the sounds of my vocal chords. And slowly I’m forgiving myself for being still for all the things that don’t exist: I’ve found a strange heaven in staying ceaseless.

20