yes i know
poetry is for paper
but goodness if i could just burn the inkstains off
these fingers i just want you to
hear
how loud my heart talks
i'm sorry i can't keep
my hands the ink
the blood to myself
words are all i've given away
but for people like you
i think i could never write enough
May 12, 2016
May 12, 2016 at 8:19 AM UTC
it's always just the ink in the end
my fingers are stone and there
is cloud in my blood i think gravity
might have forgotten me
if words could anchor me to
the earth, who would i write for?
Apr 13, 2016
Apr 13, 2016 at 2:12 PM UTC
do not underestimate how
flammable my blood is; i will spill
all over these bridges and you
will ******* forget about me
remember the smoke after, you leave your
PITY on my doorstep and you will
watch how i set the flowers alight
and smear the ashes all over my door
you will not find home here anymore
i am an arsonist to my bones
my heart is the pyre, please just
leave me in the fire
Apr 13, 2016
Apr 13, 2016 at 1:43 PM UTC
i hear her coming before her shadow steps over the door
she smells like silence like rain dragging its *****
fingers down my windows in the dark like waking up
next to your own dead body like watching your
fingers fade when you hold on so tight so tight
you don't notice you've been holding your breath
two months long she comes and she goes; the things
i would do for a lock on this door, the people i will
fall for in the corridors, bleeding fingers leave
graffiti down the staircase it's raining inside, and
she slips in anyway my skin is her resting place i know
it when the quiet is drowning me and my thoughts i know it
when she swallows my pulse i know it when she drags me
down
my gentle little anchor
take me where you will
you know i'll come up for air
when i don't need it anymore
Apr 7, 2016
Apr 7, 2016 at 7:54 AM UTC
your hands are always so cold
and I burn so bright I know I hurt to
touch but I just wanted you to know
that you don't ever have to shiver alone
Apr 7, 2016
Apr 7, 2016 at 7:17 AM UTC
she texted saying she just smoked
seven in a row and all I'm reading
is **** him for me* where does he live
I'll leave his intestines trailing out his
window leave your love letters at the door
oh my god what am i holding back for
Apr 7, 2016
Apr 7, 2016 at 7:16 AM UTC
i think she likes the bad boys
but i'm just a girl not grunge enough
for you and your leather
i've got paper in my pockets instead
of the cigarettes you're craving
i want to rip it out from your mouth
just quit ******* smoking throw the bottles
away tell me your secrets instead
god i know you'll laugh at me for
writing about you but you're such a flame
light one up for me too
i'll let it burn out as i listen to you
tell me if i am mirror to you too
tell me how i can hate everything about me
and love it all when it's you
Apr 2, 2016
Apr 2, 2016 at 5:28 AM UTC
you're so ***** but I'm darker than
your fingers are afterwards
and i'm thinking about you in the bathwater, colors draining our
sounds it's not loud enough I JUST want
the music crashing off the tiles and the walls
you're playing harpstrings down my navel, strum
me with the high notes and I'll sing on my knees for you,
my flute, my trumpet, orchestra
of desire I want to be your muse
natural forms, still life in the sunlight
sketching the motion of it all slow and languid brushstroke beginnings
and then crescendo and fingernails down your back your hands
painting my hips I want every touch in
colour.
every stroke instant in a snapshot
in a frame black and white wildfire
neon when the art is tired
spill the paint all over me bristles
brushing against us oh my god
how do i tell you i want it in my veins
in my lungs
inside
handwriting down my arms scribble over
the mistakes cliff hanging on my collarbone
don't worry
my neck will be your secret, I'll keep your
words safe whisper your stories all over me
I want to wake up poetry I want to wake up novella
canvas symphony love me
like a masterpiece
Apr 1, 2016
Apr 1, 2016 at 2:44 PM UTC
my skin is a casket and
my voice is hoarse from calling
myself back to the ocean shore
*please come home, my forgotten soul
how will a corpse breathe on its own?*
Mar 26, 2016
Mar 26, 2016 at 2:49 PM UTC
ask me about my safe place
and i'll tell you about mirrors
three and a half walls is what i remember
a little cracked because you leave the fear
with your shoes at the door, bow before you step in
eyes closed, breathing in
out
rivaling your reflection and rest assured,
you will be stronger than before
i want to write about uniforms pristine and fists clenched and how proud i was of every little step closer to the front line but the strength is in the moments i can count over my knuckles over and over again :
i. red moon scars bisecting the destiny lines i don't care about but look black belt! look how tight my fists are
ii. walking down the street us three brown brown black mothers suddenly in front of their little ones and HYAA! from every third passerby; downtown is so beautiful
iii. sensei's office: trying not to cry because it takes all i have to crawl to the dojo every monday and by the time i'm standing there hands flat by my side the three strips on my brown just aren't good enough, 'thank you for coming today'
iv. third time i have passed out in the past half hour but you're making me get up get up get up spinning hook kick i nearly pass out again because i DID IT
v. ichi nee san shi it's all japanese translating into 'i bully you because you are strong enough today' snap kick, in your face
vi. coming home comparing the bruises my mother is smiling shaking her head and her own is begging us to please just quit
vii. the living room is our own little battleground I'M TRYING TO WATCH THE NEWS GO BREAK YOUR BACKS IN YOUR OWN ROOMS
viii. i have muscles no you can't make me shut up
ix. the morning after: every limb creaking like abandoned warehouse floors but i'm relishing the burning with every turn of my head, stretch of my legs because it aches sweet like valour sweet like brave
x. just the stairs we used to choose the elevator over because yellow belts what do you want from us, just the dread of mondays and thursdays dissolving into bliss in meditation, just my legs dragging me back to war when the rest of me would very much rather be back in bed but it's been an entire week without punching bags and i miss the victory when you hit and the nobility when you miss miss miss and just the burning pride watching my baby brother punch so hard my little sister and her leg flying well above her ahead and just
knowing that i will never ever be afraid
Mar 18, 2016
Mar 18, 2016 at 4:28 AM UTC