You carry me down the hill with the moon
nestled deep within your pockets.
Your warmth resounds deep into my hollow
aura, smoldering in a sweet smoke.
You inject your daily embalming love deep
under my skin, the rivers running white.
You tuck my chin under the railroad tracks
with the careful delicacy of a skilled taxidermist.
There was nothing romantic in the way I faded
to amber, nor in the way your hands
folded into crescents and pulled down a
tiered curtain of blackness, speckled with
the eyes of your descendants.
Oct 6, 2013
Oct 6, 2013 at 7:17 PM UTC
You never realize the presence of solitude
until the wind ceases its tirade.
Slow kisses against your skin, raising ideas
and conceiving love in the forms of
dilated pupils and reaching hands.
The comfort in knowing the forces of
the Earth keep our souls breathing
and our hearts teeming, doubled in the
expectation of a solid hand pushing us to
brighter beginnings and sunset endings.
When the wind dies down, all expectations
fall with rotting trees that will never know the
touch of flesh, the warmth of blood dancing
just below the surface of their calloused shields.
Solitude seeks company,
but death seeks us all.
Oct 6, 2013
Oct 6, 2013 at 7:08 PM UTC
The jagged rocks flow through the air like daggers laced with the most toxic of poisons. Adverted eyes avoid the abyss of spewing lava for fear of being burned. Those in the path of destruction, they are the unluckiest of victims. Monosyllabic stones of hopelessness find their way to the scarred skin, bloodying the bloodied, breaking the broken. The volcanoes are worthy of repugnant titles, sharp like their tongues or decaying like their souls. The victims should run, should cry, should lash out against the lava, protect themselves. But everyone says that if you choose to live at the bottom of a volcanic body, you are already dead. The lava will only harden you, despite attempts to remain cool in your passivity. Lava burns, and no amount of composure or preparation can protect you from the overwhelming presence of hatred and intolerance; the hating fire fueled only by oxygen.
Oct 6, 2013
Oct 6, 2013 at 7:02 PM UTC
Losing touch without the warmth and life of guiding light,
slow tendrils beckoning your every whisper and sigh of bliss,
coupled hope, unsolitary solitude.
We danced beneath the moon and sang with wolves,
the ancient songs of blackened souls and immortal love,
we felt, but we did not feel.
The moon doesn't burn the way your sun swallows matter,
I exhale only useless thoughts, unable to feed your flames,
windless breathing, shallow thinking.
I can't pry my mouth open with clouded eyes and empty veins,
my stars weren't your sun and I never burnt long enough,
charred eyes and dark memories,
burning brighter than the sun.
Oct 6, 2013
Oct 6, 2013 at 6:53 PM UTC
I want to watch your lips turn blue,
paint elegies in your flesh with the
purple pumping of your native mind and
crystalline blue depths of your shattered sight.
I want to feel my love constrict your heart,
see the way my words dance beneath your skin
and the morse messages of ardor, true, displayed
in rigid bumps and sunken eyes.
I want to hear your raspy breaths go short,
constrict your airways with my flames and
steal your oxygen, slowly, how lovely, your
cries sound when you can't sigh my name.
I need to touch your icy soul with my
reaching grasp of molten hate, burn love notes
on your ribs of hollow promises and captive
thoughts I'd held so slightly, tightly, won't let go.
Oct 6, 2013
Oct 6, 2013 at 6:48 PM UTC
Your hands have seen the inside
of a carborator. You took apart a
hard drive and called it procreation.
They've been blackened by grease and
bloodied in your desperate attempts
to clear the clouds out of your head.
Seattle is our ocean, water all around
to drown away bad memories and forget
the sunshine of our conception.
Rain can cover up scars, hurt, and spilled
ideas, take them far away to different oceans.
But never our own foreign lake, somewhere
close to Mount St. Helens, or so we thought.
Could our hands ever touch such a pure,
uncorrupted pool as holy as the depths
of your eyes? Would it wipe clean the
slate, dirtied over years of poor decisions?
Your cloudy eyes tell me different.
Oct 5, 2013
Oct 5, 2013 at 6:32 PM UTC
It's something about the way my breath
gets just a little deeper when I'm near you.
It's something about the way my eyes
open just a little wider when I see you.
I am happy
to be alive,
I accept life with open arms,
open eyes, and an open heart.
Because I have you;
Because you have me.
And together, I have no fears
and nothing stopping me
from being happy,
nothing stopping me
from loving you or being loved.
Nothing stopping me
from taking on this world,
with your hand in my hand,
and your love in my soul.
With you as my king
and me as your queen,
we will live in the kingdom of our love,
together, endlessly.
Oct 5, 2013
Oct 5, 2013 at 6:17 PM UTC
i could say a lot of words
but they'd never mean as much as your three do to me
a lot of syllables strung together
with pretty punctuation
like the golden flecks embedded in your eyes
and rhythmic lilts and twirls
like the way we sway together to no music
i could list the reasons
why i stay up too late to talk to you
why i think in terms of 'we' not 'me'
why i would give up a million words for your three
or why i find myself smiling at the mere stupidity i succumbed to
but you know the answer
you know why without need for any words
you know why without need for those three
Jun 28, 2013
Jun 28, 2013 at 12:35 AM UTC
am i
blackness, shrouding, crowding
darkness, coldness
breathless pouting
am i
lost, goneness, wrongness
searching, urging
always missed
am i
ever, ending, pending
lovelessly
beseeched to rending
am i
hell, cloudless, doubtless
doomed fortune
eternal kiss
am i
fending, slowly, bending
timeless, fightless
vilipending
i am
blackened, shrouded, crowded
breathlessly
divulge the clouded
am i, i am
i won’t know.
Jun 18, 2013
Jun 18, 2013 at 12:42 AM UTC
have you ever thought
why does the wind howl like wolves-
they have both lost their sanity
why does the sun shine like your eyes-
i'm beginning to think you are the sun itself
why does love feel like dying-
a slow, pleasurable death
and why
why do these words fly from my fingertips
i am not apt
i am not an exclusive fool whose life
can only be defined as study, breathe, listen
i am no poetic monstrosity
i am no ocean dwelling mirage
i am a fickle existence-
one of billions
and my thoughts on the wind
and the sun
and love
they are not new
they are recycled, unneeded
elusive-
at least i tell myself that as i cry to the moon
and see your eyes in the sun
and feel the stabs of love
attack me from all sides
i hear the whispers in my mind
'this is alright'
and i feel
godly
in my own sufferings.
Jun 13, 2013
Jun 13, 2013 at 2:25 AM UTC