The road looks bumpy from down here
I'm sorry that sleepwalking me loves jackhammers
And wondering what else she can mess up
Without a concept to time to tell her when to stop
I'm sorry about my gasoline decisions and my flaming attitude
I burn everything I touch
Nothing near me goes undamaged
Nothing near me stays
I can no longer tell if I'm setting these fires while I'm awake or not
Though I doubt it even makes a difference
Somethings crept it's way under my skin
I haven't been myself for weeks
Every word seems to roll off your tongue in just the wrong way
I'm not saying it your fault
I swear i see a slyness in your eyes
I'm not saying its your fault
My pens have run dry and so I have I
I have said all I can say
I must now be on my way
I wish nothing but the best of you
Oct 11, 2017
Oct 11, 2017 at 8:02 PM UTC
what you need to understand about me is that i am nothing more than misplaced passion and a pair of blindly swinging fists that tremble with unrighteous anger. so allow me to apologize in advance for the fires my subconscious starts. i am a clumsy compilation of ill-suited lines that will never see life in your poetry. at least, not like they used to. you are a book filled with with pictures i never got to take, and every day i am forced to sit idly by while she starts a new roll of film. the missile crisis reincarnate is inside my chest, so forgive me for not being able to control when i shake. forgive me for fumbling with syntax so crassly. i know better than to spew hate and call it poetry. please understand that the endless series of sinking ships in my head makes it difficult to form coherent thought. my thoughts, will **** me, if your absence doesn't first. i think about your hands more than i am proud to admit, and when i picture them reaching for her i feel so sick. i'm sorry. i am so sorry that i haven't yet learned how to moderate the volcano in my throat. i'm so sorry for spitting fire with my eyes closed. forgive me for confusing anger with bravery and burning down too many houses to count. in my misguided thirst for blood i weaponized memories and threw them like daggers in every direction, but the only one being hit is me. i am so tired of bleeding, i am tired of this one-sided war, i am tired of being a war. i tried so hard to be catharsis personified but i have to face the reality that my arms would only hold you like a grave. i loved you like rainwater, and lost you like time. you were never mine. you were never mine. you were never mine. i have to say that to myself every day because it eases the pain of watching you belong to anyone else. but i can't ignore the surplus of "what if's" wreaking havoc in my consciousness. i think that's why i get so angry when i picture you laughing with her instead of me. i am blocking out the memory of the night you told me my laughter could cure your sadness. ******* it. i am trapped in a nightmare where the walls of the home we built are lined with photographs of her. this is why i can't breathe at the thought of her smiling when the flash goes off. they say that nothing good stays; i have never been good at leaving, so i guess that makes sense. you once referred to me as an anxious mess you would spend the rest of your life cleaning up, and i can't get that out of my head. i hope you know, that after everything, i would still sit and collect dust on a shelf in your house forever, if that's what you wanted me to do. but i know it's not, so i'll go back to apologizing. i'm sorry that my rage doesn't have an off switch. i'm sorry for being a literal spitfire. i'm sorry for being an earthquake under her glass slippers. i'm sorry that my mouth is a loaded gun and that i have ****** aim. i swear to god i'm trying not to shoot so often but this is one of the hardest things i have ever done. so until i learn control i will burn in silence with the safety on.
- m.f.
Nov 17, 2015
Nov 17, 2015 at 10:05 PM UTC
Never date a writer
Those ******** will remember everything
Like the way your eyes looked on your first date
Or how you wore your hair
They will store every bit of you in their memory
Like how you like your coffee
Or what kind of soup to buy when you're sick
And when something happens, you know you will become their next piece of writing
They will recall every word said
They will talk about how you lit up in the beginning only resulting in a burnt out match
Your story will become fuel
Your time spent will become hours of trying to capture every ounce of your beauty
Trying to hit every mark of how your face looked when you first heard that she loved you
Never date a writer
Because they will take everything in like vital knowledge
Collecting parts of you like old coins
Putting together the puzzle that will result in their most painful poem
Your story will last forever
You will see the shifts and turning points
From when love was so brand new and shiny
All leading up to the blowout
And there is nothing you can do to stop it
Because you decided to date a writer
So prepare yourself to become their most prized work
Nov 17, 2015
Nov 17, 2015 at 9:42 PM UTC
You can't date a writer.
For lack of a better term, or phrase,
or whatever the writer will have you
believe. He will introduce you to
many artists, some like him, others not,
and that will ultimately build intrigue.
By his side, you will feel as if you're
the apple of his eye, but when alone together
his eye will be fixated on blank pages
or ones filled with the right words.
Don't fret, by the second
month you will know which
words are right and which ones
are wrong. He will tell you to
mind the binding on the books you borrow.
And you will, until the first fight happens.
You'll think that the fight is over,
but don't think that the words shouted at each other
weren't written down.
The day you find these words, the oh-so-familiar
words will start the next fight.
And be prepared to tighten up once more,
because this next fight will be just as embellished as the first.
Before the third fight he will buy you a journal,
possibly lend you a pen,
lend being the keyword,
because he will expect it back.
He will ask to read what you've written,
as he saves his work on his laptop and closes
the top, because it locks right away.
If and when you open his laptop it will bring
you to a home screen.
If you're lucky your name will appear under his,
if not you have his permission to log on as a guest.
This will eventually become the pebble
that rolls down the mountain,
albeit those pebbles don't necessarily
mean that an avalanche is on its way.
Only time will tell.
Or breaking into his laptop might.
But right now his eyes are on you,
because he would like to read...you.
And isn't that the reason you wanted
him to begin with?
To read you like one of his books?
Or maybe it's your fascination with artists,
because who doesn't want to be
drawn like a French girl.
Nov 17, 2015
Nov 17, 2015 at 9:41 PM UTC
dating a writer
is like guessing the weather.
you think you know what you'll get,
but you never do.
you never know
because
she'll create a hero
from your weaknesses
and she'll write a great character,
from every last flaw.
she'll create a thousand plots
from your worst nightmares.
she'll take every last thing you hate
and create something you'll love.
she'll turn your anger
into confessions of adoration,
and she'll make you,
everything you're not.
but worst of all,
she'll leave you wondering-
is it you she's in love with,
or things she's created from you?
but here's the beauty of it:
if you date a writer,
you'll never die.
Nov 17, 2015
Nov 17, 2015 at 9:38 PM UTC
It's hard to write a poem
When there's nothing going on
It's hard to think of what to say
When you've given most of it away
As poets we never scratch the surface
We delve within, disclose our deepest sin
We crave our pain, declare it's for our art
Yet more often than not have no idea where to start
But start we do and start we must
A deep desire in all of us
To spill out on the written page
What little bit we have tried to save
Ink now is the poets blood
Fragments of self pour from within
Silence is our safety net
To stop us from bleeding out
Although it's hard to write a poem
With nothing going on
We still find words to form a verse
From deep within our marrow bone
Work © Mike Hauser & © Sia Jane
Nov 7, 2015
Nov 7, 2015 at 3:28 PM UTC
You are just Pandora's box
Something I stumbled upon
Something I kept for too long
I wondered what I could get out of you
I thought I wanted to open you up and see what treasures you have to offer, my hopes shouldn't have been so high
Aug 12, 2015
Aug 12, 2015 at 4:06 AM UTC
I thought I knew you, but I now know I don't. You are just a name. Just a face. Just tarnished memories.
You made me so happy, but that wasn't really you was it?
Your soul engulfed mine everyday for a long time. The warmth of you lips is what kept me warm through these long winter nights.
The thought of your voice was powerful enough to fight gravity and lift the corners of my mouth. You made me smile.
Now I know the truth, you lied to me.
I don't think you're a bad person, but you did a bad thing.
You hurt me.
I thought I knew you, but I now know I don't. You are just a name. Just a face. Just a voice.
I see your face everyday and wonder what you're really thinking.
What did I mean to you?
Questions I wouldn't let slip past my lips until I have tight grip on my heart, I wouldn't want you dropping it. You've already broken it enough.
I have questions I won't ask.
I am afraid the answers will cause an earthquake throughout my body and a tsunami in my eyes, and I don't know if I can survive anymore natural disasters.
When I heard you were still with her it was like a switch in my heart was turned off, it was like my emotions were all snapped in half.
I felt nothing and everything at the same time.
I wanted to f*cking punch you in the face.
You are not who I thought you were.
You were different.
I didn't know you, I do now.
Aug 12, 2015
Aug 12, 2015 at 3:58 AM UTC
They warned me about crossing streets.
I was taught to look both ways.
To make sure there was no oncoming traffic so I would not get hit by a car because they did not want to see me hurt.
But they never warned me about boys with sweet words and soft hands. They never warned me that words as delicate as feathers that tickle me in the moment can feel like knives later. They never warned me that the oils seeping through the pores on his hands would burn like acid when I think of him at 2 in the morning.
They taught us to look both ways before crossing the street incase a car came out of nowhere, they never taught us to look both ways when it came to boys.
You came out of nowhere and I didn't think to look both ways.
I didn't even think "could this go good or bad?" I just stepped forward and oh boy you left your mark on me.
It was a hit and run.
You came from a blind spot, I never saw you coming, you never even checked to see if I was okay you just sped off.
Some nights I can still hear your voice calling my name, and sometimes I swear I can feel your bumper against my skin.
Aug 12, 2015
Aug 12, 2015 at 3:50 AM UTC