They say lots of things about love,
They make it seem it is the ultimate desire,
Wanton and wilder than the known universe,
An cataclysmic explosion of two personalities,
Born separate, reborn together,
And yet...
I have loved worse men,
And lost better women than I deserve,
And now my convex chest is as vast and devastated as abbey ruins,
sanctuary,
sacred,
crooked,
ruined,
beautiful,
still here,
After hundreds of years.
Maybe I will live on in my memories,
For there are graveyards in my bones,
Eulogies imprinted on my arteries,
Long lost love letters scarred on my very marrow
For those that I drowned,
And those I saved.
My faith is a moorland hillside war memorial,
An obelisk to reach the very gods,
Your love is but a squall,
My hope is a trickle, a stream, a reservoir, in the deepest steepest canyon and Valley,
Your love is but a rain drop,
My clarity is at the bottom of a whiskey bottle,
Your love is but an ice cube.
Do not ask me brazenly to die for you,
When ******* me is your finest hour,
And I am but a pleasure boat ride for your masculinity to take a trip in,
We are not divine here;
My expectations are as low as your esteem:
A water you paddle in, a toe dipped perhaps,
but you wouldn't swim through, dare to at least,
And yet,
I am a rushing beautiful rainbow of a waterfall on a sunburn induced day,
The haze in the corner of your eye,
When you begin to question,
"is this too good to be true?".
Yes.
We are all but fallacies.
Dip your fingers and cross yourself,
As you wish for clemency.
But still,
Be still,
And know,
That,
I am,
God.
Am I?
Or am I just divine on your tongue?
Apr 23, 2018
Apr 23, 2018 at 4:24 PM UTC
I don't find limiting myself with a title,
There are no boxes left for me to fit in,
Or burst out of....
I find it's excitingly horrifying to be,
This lost.
There's a similar difference between identity and persona,
I am what I am, am I?
What am I?
Do you think the men I have only half loved,
But stroked their meek egos of,
And the woman I have cowered at,
As they screamed my name,
Know what I am,
Is not who I am?
There is a solace to be found in being wanted;
Are you the one they fall to on a late night,
When they are alone and drunk?
What about when their beds are cold?
When they cannot see you because, they are blinded,
By their quest to find themselves more, and you,
And you,
My dear,
Oh my sweet you,
Who is no one in this world,
Are a literally stepping stone in under their feet,
As you wish to be a moon in their stars.
What they don't tell you,
About surviving trauma when your brain is developing,
Is that your world turns to opposites,
Chaos is home
Drugs are home
Hate is home
Fear, is home;
Here secreted beneath my pallid skin,
I try to find them all a home,
Knowing I'll never find mine.
If self care and therapy was literal exercise,
I could bench press all of you, and more,
And save you all;
My motivation to not be broken is stronger than my will to die,
And they'll never know that,
As they try to break me,
Over and over, and over,
And over again.
Everyone's broken.
No sorry, everyone has cracked edges,
Worn
Rusty
Mishandled a few times
Repainted
Cracked
Not broken, slightly damaged.
We, the ones filled with gilded light, and songbirds,
We know the ******* difference between depression,
And eternal internal sadness,
From not understanding love, to
Loving EVERYONE
From seeking solace in the extreme,
To running away from arms that seek to confine.
Where for art ******* thou?
We are not here for your pleasure.
But we are.
How could we be, but anything else?
I tired.
Sorry...
I tried.
Men.
Women.
Whisky.
*******
Driving too fast.
Telling them.
Saving them.
Being everything.
Hating.
Fighting.
Drowning.
Breathing.
Exalting.
Crying.
Pain.
Pleasure.
Writing
This isn't a shopping list.
It's. Not a bucket list.
It's what we do to survive,
When you're born without love.
Apr 21, 2018
Apr 21, 2018 at 7:57 AM UTC
I sat
Across from the face of death,
He wasn't smiling,
He was tired and,
Frustrated.
His skin shone a pallor of crying,
And exhaustion,
And the irises of his eyes,
Held fear,
And trauma.
"Why?" He asked.
"I am not here, I replied.
I have tried, I have, tried so hard
I am not of this life,
I am not broken, but I am not fixed,
And I am ashamed to say,
Love is not real."
He took my hand, I could see
The bones of his fingers
Take mine.
He held up my fingernails,
Peering at the blood and the blisters,
And gently set them down.
His eyes took in my face,
An actors delight,
Some would say.
I could see he was confused,
I was not scared.
But then he stared in my soul,
And sighed.
I never once looked away,
But his eyes found it hard to find me
And his voice cracked, dry and weak,
"Wise choices come from hard decisions,
Strong people are made by tough experiences,
But,
I have seen more broken wings than I have bones,
More fallen tears than fallen leaves,
(Can I tell you about the leaves?)
More storms than calm seas,
(can I tell you about those sailors?)
And now I see you, more death than life.
I see black holes where there should be stars in your eyes,
No-one is born to survive hell alive,
And no-one is to die to feel free."
I sat uncomfortably, ashamed.
"No don't" he said.
"Many more than you die without warning,
This is your why."
"There is more," I replied,
"But I cannot give you more,
It's wasteful;
I do not hope on wishes hanging from stars,
I learnt that,
A long time ago,
That this hurts too much,
To much for me, anyways.
Existence is pain...
Who said that again?"
He then turned his head to the side,
He returned his hands
To his body.
"To die is not a negotiation,
Or resignation,
But it is a destiny,
What is yours?
Is now your destiny?
I have seen too much,
And only those who sit with me,
Know they have to answer
That question."
"The only question I ponder,"
I replied,
"How many people will be at my funeral?"
He smiled and turned back to me,
"Then you already know,
What you need to do
Do not be jealous of the dying,
They have so much to live for,
It's the living who have to think,
Shall I see what happens?"
So I sat with death,
And I closed my eyes
Jan 21, 2018
Jan 21, 2018 at 8:27 AM UTC
There is an edge.
To me.
Where the lines meet the air, where I am a juxtaposition between the earth and the sky.
Where I am black or white,
Never grey.
There is an edge,
Folded in half, into quarters, into eighths,
Into infinity edges are folded
To fit, to puzzle, to contain
A box, a boat, a decision.
There is an edge,
There is the stopping point,
There is a long way down,
A line I cannot cross
A place I have dared to venture,
And died a thousand times.
There is an edge,
And here I sit on the precipice,
Here I contemplate the fall,
Contemplate the sky holding the air,
Sharp to the tongue, and whipped into the ears
Here is the edge
Where the mind and the heart,
Do not cross,
Multiple edges, of juxtaposition,
Of falling, of dying, of breaking,
Between the earth and the sky,
The black and the white,
The heart and the break.....
There is an edge,
Where I sit and contemplate,
The line between life and death,
The edge between safety and chaos,
Between fear and bliss.
There is an edge,
to me,
Where my edges met yours,
Where lines were crossed,
Where bliss met fear,
Where the edges of my heart,
Thawed,
Where my edges met yours,
Between the earth and the sky.
And I'm here on this edge,
And in tears I wonder why.
Jan 21, 2018
Jan 21, 2018 at 8:25 AM UTC
Do you think the night sky knows it's dark,
That it's invisible purely because of the sun,
The lacking of the light.
Do you think it knows that it's part of a unfathomable universe,
Do the stars know how important they are?
Does a tree understand they're breathing for us?
Have you ever stood by a tree and looked up,
Held its bark, marvelled at its roots and reasoned with your body,
That this connection is imperative to your survival,
As are the stars?
If you had more capacity to use your unconscious brain would you understand shame? Or Love?
Would you understand, the feeling of shame is so powerful it is a deathly toll, a weight, a pit and a maze.
It fills you up, every crevice,
Every knot, in every pumping noise,
Every heartbeat.
Is it love that survives, in all these things?
In the dark, in the oxygen, in the bad places,
Was it true to feel all these feelings, and not understand them?
Are we motivated now by adulation, or adoration,
When did we become such beings of instant gratification, from simply stars and budding trees?
When did survival become a face we needed to utter words of safety, or strong hands to hold,
Do you think we know how dark we are?
Do you think we are stars, or the wind, or love?
Are we unadulterated in our obsession with fear?
Are we hedonistic in our shame?
How we were simple beings in a place without light; at times, we thrive in the dark
How we have convinced ourselves we are bones to be broken, minds to be shattered and hearts to be disillusioned beyond disillusionment.
Do you think we know we are alive, enough?
Do you think the trees know when the wind stops blowing?
Do you think the sky knows it's dark?
Sep 22, 2017
Sep 22, 2017 at 6:13 PM UTC
I'll still be there in the morning,
Cold hard sweat clinging to my bones,
A smell I'll remember to my earthly grave,
That holds my skin like a dark cloak that you gave me,
When the moon was light that we read each other by.
I'll still be there, even when the bell tolls,
Rolling over in creased sheets that we ironed with our legs,
And the heart is still there, not sure where I expected it to go -
To be let in as the sun rises, I'll still be surprised to feel your heat.
Everything will be just fine
Mother said.
Mother said, "you're worth more than ironing sheets and giving freedom to caged birds"
How far would you go to wake up?
Do you still feel him on your skin,
Do your bones still ache slightly, for that touch.
Mother said "graves don't dig themselves, stop carrying that pickaxe"
Mother said.
But where else will you find diamonds except in the deepest mines?
And I'll always carry the cold sweat of coal in the morning,
My handprints will touch everywhere, and all you feel is silk,
All I will see is embers, from my burnt hands
And you'll let me touch the sun a thousand times before i get to touch you.
Mother said "stop thinking, stop crying, stop doing. Stop trying so hard"
Mother said "no-one will like you as you are, be better, be harder, be tougher, every single time"
Mother said.
So as you lay there in your sheets, wondering who I am, remember these things,
I am ash, I am bone, I am heat, and I am fear. I am a million things that have been extinguished before you met me,
And if you don't like charcoal,
I for sure can't forge you a diamond.
Sep 20, 2017
Sep 20, 2017 at 4:05 AM UTC
Sometimes, i think,
'if i died, how long would it take for someone to miss me?'
And that's a true thought.
It lays heavy on my soul.
Because life is heavy.
It is suffocating,
Like someone is sitting on my chest,
not an elephant, that's silly,
No,
an actual human being,
one that i love,
but is content
with watching me die,
and probably being busy with, "something",
whilst i struggle to live.
So,
Let's talk about that heaviness,
how it creeps in,
sometimes you don't know it has a pulse,
that it's something actually living,
a parasite that you grow to love,
stockholm syndrome.
Oh man,
people,
are,
heavy.
They think their weight on a scale
bares their true worth,
not knowing that their
wearied shoulders carry the burden of truth.
The heaviness that you bring with you,
through life,
that you carry with you like a dead body,
dragging by the ankle,
behind you,
for who you think you should have been,
and a boulder you push in front of you,
with your other hand,
for everything you're trying to be,
whilst struggling, choking for air,
whilst dragging your legs through invisible tar,
whilst trying to keep your eyes from drowning in sand,
and all the while your heart
covered in lead,
your **** beautiful, ****** heart,
keeps beating.
Oh, man,
The anxiety of living through this,
the beautiful exquisite torture,
the utter privilege,
of living a heavy life.
Oh man,
how,
heavy,
people,
are,
and how they do not know how to stop
looking,
at the numbers,
on the scale.
Nov 18, 2016
Nov 18, 2016 at 5:52 PM UTC
Sometimes I find love,
where love is not wanting to be found -
How beautiful it is to find treasure in you,
Where you find only dirt.
Exquisite sadness.
A tragedy that only my heart knows how to break for,
Over and over
A swell of boom or bust.
Where X marks the spot,
But x means stop,
Means unknown
Means incorrect
Means keep out.
I wonder if anyone will find the love in me,
If I stop giving out free maps.
"The stars live here"
Maybe if I just wrote "home"
Underneath my skin
I would be more easy to find
When you touch me,
Before you leave.
Oct 3, 2016
Oct 3, 2016 at 6:52 PM UTC
I took a picture on my phone,
of a man who was in front of me
who smelt of my fathers cologne,
just so that i could see if it was him
and so that you can understand
what it means to be scared
of someone who is supposed to unconditionally love me.
So when i tell you that
i don't believe in love,
don't try to make me see something
i cannot comprehend,
because God is an easier construct
for me to even entertain
than being told i am loved.
May 18, 2016
May 18, 2016 at 3:25 PM UTC
She said to me I tasted like a overripe cherry,
I told her she tasted like dust.
I told her she tasted like a storm, an electrical one,
I told her it wasn't good weather for setting off,
But she still smiled and unfurled a sail.
She told me I didn't listen and I sounded like the ocean,
I told her, her words were like a black hole
And I didn't have an airlock,
I told her she was the tears after a hurricane,
And her words were like dead leaves on the ground,
But still she talked like she was the universe.
She told me I loved like i like always letting go,
I told her I'm not a lifeboat,
I told her I'm an anchor that hasn't be winched up,
And I dragged along the murky bottom of her love,
And I was too strong to keep going,
And still she said she loved me when I'm weak.
She said I ****** like it was going out of style,
I told her that this wasn't the trend,
That I was old-fashioned and sonnets cried in bed,
Are worthless as the air they're written on,
I told her that ******* wasn't the problem,
And still she laid there bare and pen in mouth.
I said I am not a conditional type of person,
And she said I'm not a red pen waiting to mark your wrongs,
She said I wasn't good enough to waste the time on,
Trying to put together in her mind,
Because love should be easy.
So I said no, but it shouldn't be this hard.
Nov 11, 2015
Nov 11, 2015 at 6:04 PM UTC