you're a love tease
resurfacing when I have
finally forgotten
how you sound,
how you feel-
flashing your smile and
reminding me that I
did not give it to you,
as if I hadn't died trying.
how real can your love be,
could it have been,
if you use the same words-
pair royalty and faith-
with a completely new face?
you will never understand
my ultra-sensitivity,
the pain that's overtaken me.
so deep that I'm lying
where the light has never touched.
I buried you beneath
an oceans worth of sand
too hot to touch, just in case
I thought for a second
that I should try to again.
I hate you so much
but love you even more,
so much so that I can forget
over and over
every knife
that was plunged
through my body
every lie
that made me bleed inside.
perhaps my love is unconditional.
Nov 12, 2017
Nov 12, 2017 at 10:35 PM UTC
I have always been drawn to destruction;
air too thin to breathe-
I carry a pain eyes can't receive.
life and evil are only a letter apart,
and I've come to believe
this was no mistake;
the devil wears sweatpants and a rosary.
he weaves his fingers
through yours tightly
every time he holds you down-
and he shines-
stolen halos line red wrists,
they bang against the drywall-
its four in the morning
and he's come into the room again-
he forever invites himself in
maybe this time God will hear the ringing,
clinging together,
the halos,
the angels
will flee to ****** back
their innocence.
brilliance.
and the motion will cease.
the clouds, close.
claiming "possession"
is out of the question
for he did not seize my soul-
I extracted it, split my skull
all for a taste of the afterlife.
he loves mirrors and other pathways
of reflection;
the evil only seem to love themselves.
I am used to blinding confusion
and bittersweet illusions,
I crave the burn that follows pain.
he likes to leave a mark
beyond scarring the skin,
but I promise,
the worst is within-
life and death are only a day apart
and I've come to believe
I am stuck in between,
and the devil continues,
blissful and free.
Mar 3, 2016
Mar 3, 2016 at 3:57 PM UTC
With every dawn that rises
I find myself
suspended in normality,
scrambling to scavenge some sort
of beauty in the bleakness.
My own past, passes me by.
those who were once called lovers
all love another,
(someone who had always been
desperate to reach the foreground)
So many times have I wished
that I could split myself-
send each piece sailing into the sky
and see which road leads me to destiny.
But- I am whole.
with this, I must decide upon a single path-
accept normalitys cold, clammy palms
gripping my thighs, holding my waist.
The only reason we feel
a way towards something
is because we've been trained to.
it is valid for flowers to be putrid,
and hell to be heavenly,
if we so wish it to be.
the most twisted of things in your mind,
lie in my own morning routine.
You've never met a wanderer like me.
Countless pathways and I remain
barefoot and bleeding along the same trail,
knowing **** well it will **** me;
glass hidden between pebbles,
ghosts kissing my heels,
my own self, blind to the foreground.
Feb 16, 2016
Feb 16, 2016 at 9:59 AM UTC
You often subside from my mind,
Like spring tide;
Ferociously in, suddenly out,
Resistant to the crooning of the moon,
Sheltered in your own lunacy-
Stepping to your own tune.
I long to love you evermore,
But your grasp is not tepid,
Simple motions don’t shelter I
From splitting in the storm.
You seize safety-
But like the tide, you subside.
I feel as if the glow meant
To reside resonates somewhere far,
In two meeting once again-
The sleepy kiss from a listless lover.
We are the waves crushing one another.
Dec 16, 2015
Dec 16, 2015 at 10:55 PM UTC
Upon peeling sheer layers
of ivory flesh
you will find that bones
do not reside.
I have been battered too far
to hold structure.
Fragments may remain,
mend them if you'd like,
although they wont fit right-
see they shall snap,
diffuse into black water blood
receding beneath the surface,
engulfed, once again.
The good die young,
which solves why breath still
twists from my lips,
and is an elegant excuse
to smother my vices.
raunchy palms dwell untouched-
long forgotten the feeling that comes
with passion, yearning,
to press still against anothers.
Kiss me tenderly but do not panic
when I rupture into celestial grime
and dissipate into the sky,
for I am returning home,
where I belong,
solo in the void.
Dec 16, 2015
Dec 16, 2015 at 10:10 PM UTC
good, so good
that's what they say about it-
but when I peer down at the scrawl
led-dragged, so heavily
I know it can never be enough.
bokeh lights and smoke streams
an insignificant metaphor-
just as Love is an understatement.
bullet wounds don't match
how hard You hurt.
discontent gets old
and eight months of displeasure
of dead static psychosis
have rendered me useless;
defined me as dead
to whatever connection I held
with beauty, glory,
understanding.
so good, they say
as the pictures piece together
in the minds hungry eye,
starving to relate,
unknown to the fact
it can never catch the passion;
the poetry is powerless.
Dec 11, 2015
Dec 11, 2015 at 1:00 AM UTC
I used to write about smoking cigarettes
and stealing bottles from shopping centers-
about love that never deserved to exist,
and people who would now not recognize
the shape of my own being.
it's conflicting to constantly know
who you are today cannot compare to tomorrow;
and the thoughts that cause feelings of brilliance
are only echoes of past stupidity.
I'm supposed to hate myself for what I've done.
My bones should snap under the weight
of my own guilt, but there is none.
Perhaps I am incapable of feeling sorry,
even for myself, since no one else ever did.
Maybe I can't control my own demons,
because I never kept them in chains,
and it's only a matter of time
before karma catches me.
You will never understand what it took
to love You again,
and I will never comprehend why
It all left it in the first place.
We hold a thousand memories,
but the hundred I have molded on my own
burn and singe-
the sounds of your unanswered calls-
over and over-
releasing myself from a speeding car window,
losing myself in the bed that was never mine.
What would you say
if you could see the looks
on all of their faces?
Contorted and blurry by my own incoherence
and their inability to understand:
"Who are you, now?"
But I know myself.
I know I hold the anger of my father,
"You're pathetic" and "burning bridges"-
The loveless love of my mother.
The ability to disconnect from my own mind,
that has hindered me useless for so long...
You don't know me, and if you did,
these petal like lips would lay untouched, You
wouldn't believe in love
that the truth that created
the depiction of me,
would **** you.
And so I sit in silence.
Dec 4, 2015
Dec 4, 2015 at 2:54 PM UTC
I've written too many poems for too many people. something about you, I know, is different. even the image of your cold eyes skipping across the words I'm creating is nothing short of a miracle. the thought of your distant mind holding a blurred depiction of me seems impossible. you deserve more than a poem- more than standing up on some balcony thinking, just for a second, you loved some girl you never met. and maybe you loved her because you saw the best of her. but, she loved you because she saw some of the worst in you. and you made her see it in herself.
how can I miss someone I've never met? someday, you'll just become another insect weaving along the streets. a heavy look, yet somehow empty, stained on your face. it will age even further than your mind already has. it will flash on TV screens and billboards who advertise a man they think they can define. just know, I'll refuse to say your name- and I'll still miss you.
this is not a poem. it's not a sonnet, nor a song, nor a love note. this is something to remember on the subway. something to hold on to when the sting of fluorescent lights loses its luster, and the smell of the city is deemed no longer potent. it's easy for me to believe in a years time, I will still be the face you never laid eyes on and the body you never touched. it's harder for me to percieve this as truth.
wherever it is that you go, I know it will be with confidence. I don't have to worry about your success or stability. I will worry I have been forgotten, just as swiftly as the thoughts I've told you when you're the only one keeping me up deep into the pit of night. you teach me more than I have ever learned in a textbook; sometimes, even more than I have learned as I walk amongst the pests inside this anthill. I cant make you feel: I can't make you miss me and I can't make you love me; I don't want you to. I can't make you touch me, and you shouldn't. I can't make you accept the warm embrace I'd willingly give you, hell, I can't even make you give me the chance to try.
I can't make you do anything, but wherever you go, whatever you do, I will always think highly of you. I'm sure you'll live wearing gold along your knuckles thats worth more than my life, and chatting with strangers I can only read about in novels. maybe someday, you'll reach back and taste just a hint of nostalgia from some scrap of me that flickers in your mind. maybe someday, you'll long for endless nights of voiceless conversation. and maybe, someday, you'll miss me too.
Dec 2, 2014
Dec 2, 2014 at 9:20 PM UTC
this is about the boy
who wrote a girl a poem
she never got to read,
who sang to her before he kissed her,
and loved her before he touched her.
a beautiful boy made of constellations.
with a chipped tooth
from kissing concrete
and a head full of curls,
spirals strewn across her pillows,
stars in a sea of satin.
this girl he loved wrote poems too,
and he never knew that she also has
a cracked tooth tucked behind
her lips (that he liked to call thin)
pale pink against porcelain.
she, like him, had thoughts that twisted;
the Devils fingers knotted in her hair-
this is the story of two lovers:
one sailing a foreign sea,
and one who knew each inch of the ocean.
Nov 9, 2014
Nov 9, 2014 at 8:55 PM UTC
we were all born crying.
wailing, raw pink lungs
gasping,
choking, on new filtered air.
but maybe, we cry not because
of a cold chill
and fluorescent state of confusion,
but simply because we've been born once again.
maybe we cry because our past lives
will never repeat themselves-
no more grandkids, the splintered back porch with the hissing screen door,
no more ten day vacations at the spare house in Spain,
no more dates at a drive in, the 1981 firebird where the windows would always steam,
no handprints along glass,
footprints on the subway.
no more
"welcome home" kisses from your dog,
"goodnight" kisses from your wife.
when we are born,
maybe we cry because
in that simple movement toward new light
our hand lingers along the wall behind us,
and flips off the switch.
every painful lesson,
heartbreak,
first times,
failiure.
all of it recycled;
repetition that never comes to end.
maybe, we cry because
we have forgotten the words
of the song we know we've heard.
the one you once danced to
at your wedding;
the one they cried to, at your funeral.
maybe we cry because
we have forgotten the color of the ink
scratched on our past suicide notes.
maybe, because
we think the gunshot did not take us
to heaven.
but there are angels
and they don't wear halos and stroke harps-
they roam the earth.
instead of showing you the light,
they teach how to form the flame inside yourself.
we were all born crying.
and it is not from loss or fear itself;
not because our soul is homesick
for the house it can't recall-
we cry for the warmth of our mothers worn hands.
the new rhythm slow in her chest,
amber hair falling
from the foreign slope of her shoulder;
we are just one soul on this journey
body to body, heart to heart.
maybe we cry because
in that moment, we ourselves realize
that each life is, a miracle.
Aug 22, 2014
Aug 22, 2014 at 2:21 AM UTC