read the poetry i write,
and tell me you do not love me.
see the words that pour out of me,
and tell me i am not the most powerful force you've felt on this earth.
feel the emotion inside of me,
and tell me that you do not want to gaze inside of my soul and swim in the beauty, the purity, the divination and be drowned alive - worth it for the cause.
tell me i am not magic. i dare you.
i have experienced ethereal, other-worldly connection.
and here i am. standing. in spite of it all.
i am a living, breathing enchantment of metaphysics.
look me in the eye, engage with my mind and tell me that i am not a force to be reckoned with. feel me, and tell me that i am not everything. taste me, and tell me you are not starving.
Nov 29, 2016
Nov 29, 2016 at 7:32 AM UTC
I look up to the sky and realise how large this universe is and how endless the possibilities are and how minuscule I am in comparison, and I am dehydrated. I am dehydrated with a thirst for life that no man could ever quench.
Apr 12, 2016
Apr 12, 2016 at 8:49 AM UTC
I never want to have my feet so firmly on the ground that I am worried about trivial humanly things, that will disperse along with my body in this shell upon my time here on this earth.
Apr 12, 2016
Apr 12, 2016 at 8:46 AM UTC
They say home is where the heart is and they couldn't be more correct.
You see, I ripped my heart out and handed it to you whilst it layed beating in your open palm, and that is where it remained - in your clutch for eternity, and that's why you will always be where I belong.
You will always be my destination.
You will always be my journey, my route. My souls compass and GPS system will always direct me to you - through backstreets and alley ways and sidewalks, across continents and oceans - my path will always lead back to you. My mind will always have your existence mentally stored as my address. Your name will always be my street, my road. I don't remember any prior location before you. You will always be the place I go to rest, you will always be the place I lay my head. and for that, you are home.
Home is not made of plaster and paint, or bricks and mortar. Home is the look you give me when our souls communicate via the emotion in the dilated pupils of our eyes, like portals to another realm where it's only us that exist; without having to exchange a single word, without having to part our mouth even a centimetre, without having to exhale or breathe.
Home is feeling our fingertips draw together in perfect unison as though they are polar opposites, possessing a magnetic force after being apart for so long.
Home is the way your body slides effortlessly into the shape of mine so perfectly like fate intended us to complete the other half of another like the universes favourite jigsaw puzzle and we knew we were missing pieces before we met but we had no idea we were pieces.
Home is the warm feeling of fulfilment and content that fills my fragile heart entirely at 6am when we are climbing upstairs to bed together with sleepy slanted eyes, greeted by the light of the world waking and the birds tweeting, as we are only now just laying to rest. Because that's how it works doesn't it? you and me. it's us and our world, on different terms to the rest. the sun and the moon dancing around the planet of our love.
Feb 4, 2015
Feb 4, 2015 at 10:29 PM UTC
it's 5am and my bruised and tender ribs are crushing down on my even more-so bruised heart like they are aware of the feelings I possess and are attempting to compress them all and keep them caged inside of my soul to refrain them from making their escape and ending up into the wrong hands, hands who would rip them to pieces and make me choke on them six months down the line.
I feel them dig into me heavily like they know what's best for me, like they are saying "we know we are hurting you right now and we know you can't breathe but we're doing this to save you - to save you you from even worse pain in time to come when you'd stop breathing altogether and your tears become such a permanent imprint into your cheeks that people ask who your tattoo artist is and if he would do similar work on them, but you would look them in the eye and tell them they don't need needles scratched into the surface of their skin to attain the permanent scarification you do and instead you'll pass them the number of the boy who did this to you."
Dec 9, 2014
Dec 9, 2014 at 12:29 AM UTC
If all you seek is a release for your testosterone and a hiding place for your hormones then leave me in peace, for I'd much rather wrap myself around the words of greater men like Bukowski, or Hemingway, or Poe, Wilde, Cummings or Nietzsche.
They'd write about the words that slip from my lips and the way in which they somehow all of a sudden take them back to their childhood when they were three years old again, standing in the kitchen doorway, observing the verbal missiles being shot during the bitter separation of the parents marriage.
They'd write about my eyes and the way they glisten with hope, brown orbs lit up like a fire, only to be dampened out again with realisation and truth and disappointment.
But, these boys, they don’t bother trying to find out exactly what, or who, I am. yet their concerns regarding me lie within more trivial areas.
They don’t know the map of green and blue that my veins depict. they don’t know the emotion that washes over me and grabs a choke of me, leaving me decomposed and gasping for breath. they don’t know the way the mechanics of my mind work. stop ******* disregarding my soul, my PERSON.
I am more than a body, i am more than a body, i am more than a body, i am more th-
in the words of Sylvia Plath, “kiss me and you will see how important i am.”
Dec 6, 2014
Dec 6, 2014 at 11:44 PM UTC
"You have to prepare yourself for her,
I could never just stand still and greet her;
it was too much at once
her eyes are like magnetic portals,
just waiting to teleport your soul
into a completely different realm of paradise
anything and everything is the greatest time of your life
when you have the moon with you
feeling her veins is my favourite sport,
it's intense...
like when your father lets you walk to school by yourself
for the first time
and you are desperately looking for the road sign
you finally see it and your entire body state changes,
you feel safe and relieved;
that feeling times by 33 thousand."
- G.M
Dec 5, 2014
Dec 5, 2014 at 11:39 PM UTC
My god, I'm sick of belonging
I'm sick of being owned
I'm sick of being limited to what ever the **** it is that some ***** decides is fitting to define me as
you don't know me
I don't even know me
what the **** makes you think that you,
with your cookie-cutter shape, stereotype inducing, boxed-into-labels mentality of thinking is going to understand me?
I am a planet in my own right;
as a result of my own entity,
my own ******* thoughts and claims and efforts and achievements,
rather than as an assosciate of another or a product of someone else
I am a ******* constellation of thoughts that your mind
could not even begin to fathom
once glance of my mind would send yours sideways
a one minute preview of what wraps itself around the deep,
bottomless, abyssal interrior of my skull
would entise you to smash your own
inside of me there are a thousand words, stirring
arranging the perfect sequence within their placement of my being
in order to concoct a storm worth being read;
not skimmed and mistaken as a light drizzle
but instead,
thoroughly scanned and recognised
as the tornados, the blizzards that they are,
kicking up a fuss and wiping out everything in their way
I possess an entire novels worth
including a sequel and trilogy
I am a story in my own right;
a book that you believe to have conquered and completed
a vaguely transparent, generic tale in which you believe to have mastered and defeated
but little do you know
that you have ventured barely as far as the first page
what lies within me is far beyond the reach
of the dainty intermediate level
in which you consistently surround yourself in
as though it is your safety blanket or comforter
as though you are a child with anxiety and mediocrity is your prozac
I am more than a brick in the wall of the kingdom
that you box your entire tiny, narrow universe into
and confine yourself within
in seek of refuge from a great perhaps
Dec 5, 2014
Dec 5, 2014 at 11:29 PM UTC
A boy
not a boy, but a soul;
an entity
a field of energy
positive energy
but hidden energy also
he was scared
or sad
or lonely
perhaps simultaneously all
you could see it in his eyes;
eyes as blue and wavering as the ******* sea, and his emotions
they betrayed him in a sense of portraying his deepest of feelings
even when he made feeble attempts to fight otherwise
one glimpse into them and you were graced
with a show reel preview
of his entire life
childhood memories
christmas with the entire family
brokenness and disputes
as unsettling as his beauty when he caught you off-guard
his features were as strong
and dark
as the chaos that stirred within him
a jawline sculpted like no other
hand-crafted for his individual attriibutes
thick, shapely brows and lashes the colour of coal;
a statement within themselves against the lightest of ivory skin
there's a saying "you look like you've seen a ghost"
in reference to someone looking ghoulishly pale
and whilst that is fitting of his porcelain complexion,
he wouldn't have seen the ghost: he was the ghost
that's just how he was
he was never the sub-heading
or the sypnosis
he was the entire story
he was it
everything
something within him was magnetic
and in each person he came acoss
there was metal tucked away
within them that they were unaware of
drawing them to him
Dec 5, 2014
Dec 5, 2014 at 11:16 PM UTC
Your teeth sunk into my skin
in the same way that your words infiltrate my brain
and soak into my mind
letting themselves print repeatedly
like a student writing lines
Dec 5, 2014
Dec 5, 2014 at 11:02 PM UTC