I'm eighteen now
and I have never been so selfish
I miss being afraid of things that
could never touch me but now
ballot boxes
and white men wearing suits
with red ties
keep me up at night
because my future is more
than an election
my head is full of
empty rooms where I assumed
you would want to be
and I want to know why I
fall in love with
places not people
wants not needs
words not actions
and you most of all.
I need you to teach me how to say goodbye
to all of the things that
aren't good for me before it's too late
I am only eighteen.
Mar 17, 2016
Mar 17, 2016 at 9:56 AM UTC
where you are a soft hum
in my chest he was a riptide,
a cheese grater swallowed
whole, the fifth sunburn
of the summer. you are
the breeze on a rainy
morning but i can't
love your hands the way
i did his why can't i love
your hands the way i did his
May 7, 2015
May 7, 2015 at 11:43 AM UTC
buried beneath
a deserted tombstone
a defective angel
slowly turning to air
with eyes horribly alive
cradled in the coldness of hell
bitter innocence tangled her skeleton
blinded by the dark inside
rocked by the march of silence
flooding depth concealed her screams
arrested in a fit
always cold, always
death had devoured her
the cold went into her heart
she was such a good child.
Apr 17, 2015
Apr 17, 2015 at 11:31 AM UTC
You asked me if
I was sad on purpose
when I'm just a carving block
and your fingertips blades.
and my flesh is another
layer you could break through
so you did.
I had to find out bed sheets are really just
a veil of innocence when lifted looks
like regret.
I am a shallow grave
that you dug
knowing I could
never dig myself out.
and you asked me if
I was sad on purpose.
Apr 13, 2015
Apr 13, 2015 at 9:09 PM UTC
I am in such a **** mood,
the mountains have no meaning.
Big ******* rocks.
**** you, dad.
**** you, Fox News.
**** you, Indiana.
None of you *******
know what irony is.
Google that ****
Jesus Christ.
There are yellow streams--
that's poetic ****
There are ruby stained sheets--
that's blood, obviously,
and, I dunno,
maybe somebody died on a bed?
Everyone can **** my ****
To be or not to be,
that is the
shut the **** up.
Rapists are disgusting people.
They aren't people.
******* idiots.
Romanticizing everything
you wish you had
because
suicide, mental illness,
and eating disorders
make you cool,
riiiigghhhttt?
**** you.
If you do this,
you aren't interesting.
You're just you.
Get used to it.
There are people
that go through
these issues
and they don't think
it's ******* rad,
*******
I hate 75% of the south.
The south will rise again?
Get the **** out of here.
Stalin was a ****
Most writers are *****
Most of them ****
I don't care.
For the love of "God",
if I read one more poem
about what poetry is
or how to define a poet,
I'll slam my head against
a ************* knife.
Some people are so dumb.
Most ******* people.
******* pseudo-knowledge.
Armchair philosophers.
If you guys wanted
to **** yourself,
you could jump
from your ego
to your IQ.
Something, something, imagery.
Metaphor.
Apr 13, 2015
Apr 13, 2015 at 10:06 AM UTC
In flashes,
her face dances
on top of a
broomstick body.
She refills
coffee cups and
her stomach with
butter pecan ice cream
and lovers' saliva.
But her lovers are
strangers
and her mouth is a
place
where secrets are locked
behind smoke stained teeth.
In flashes,
her ambitions escape
into the jet black night.
Cigarettes dropping like
sputtering fruit flies.
A size seven New Balance
buries a Marlboro corpse,
burning out like the light
in her kiwi eyes.
She returns to the diner.
What echoes reign free.
Apr 13, 2015
Apr 13, 2015 at 10:05 AM UTC
I don't believe in God,
I believe in me.
Because
the only thing
that scares me
more than a God
is myself.
I am
so many people
that I can't even
keep track of
myself.
I am
group-fucked
ideas, personas,
smiles, images;
fractions of a being.
Phantom in plain sight.
I am a joke.
I am ********
I make you laugh,
so you can't hear me.
I sell you someone else
so you don't see me
as I stand before you.
I am the ghost.
So, so many
voices
but none of them
are mine.
**** me
to pieces,
then gather
what fits.
It never does.
It never does.
Apr 2, 2015
Apr 2, 2015 at 1:52 PM UTC
I asked her why she cut herself,
and she said,
"Because death has an edge
and life is pointless."
She asked that I not
write a poem
romanticizing suicide,
just a poem about
how hard it can be
to celebrate life.
Mar 31, 2015
Mar 31, 2015 at 12:58 PM UTC
We used to make paper planes
as flimsy as our confidence.
Nothing ever flew the same,
smothered by the thawing sky.
We counted the seconds
until rain ate their bodies,
"5,6,7,8".
Too afraid to go outside,
mom and dad are gone.
Hovering hips beside
the holes in our walls.
Staring out the window
as foggy breath falls.
Seaweed salad and water
before we sleep.
Thinking about
if the paper graves
are as deep
as the cheap cliches
in our head.
Mar 23, 2015
Mar 23, 2015 at 12:56 PM UTC
You told me not to worry but you never told me how. Somehow I see you even when you aren't here. I understand why you left I just wanted you to tell me why. I still think about what happened and I still think it was my fault. I want to ask you what it felt like to hear me cry and if she's what you thought about when you were holding me. But all I have is Good Bye.
Feb 22, 2015
Feb 22, 2015 at 11:42 PM UTC