wounded - Hello Poetry

endlessly, again & again. overflowing, a fountain of heartache, desire. words erupt like lava from lips, soft as petals: these words are beautiful. simply said, elegantly whispered, unassuming as snow. they are as paper before ink. it is only once we think that they start to sting: spider bites, bee stings, a mosquito ******* blood as a lover may suckle on your ******* i do not need to be filled with warm coffee, with soups, salads & sustenance, with your tongue & your fingers. i do not need to be fulfilled by anything save your gaze: a moonbeam that shatters my freckled skin. i simply crave your words of adoration, and your sleepy, contented smile.

0

Apr 14, 2014

Apr 14, 2014 at 7:22 AM UTC

to be filled //

endlessly, again & again. overflowing, a fountain of heartache, desire. words erupt like lava from lips, soft as petals: these words are beautiful. simply said, elegantly whispered, unassuming as snow. they are as paper before ink. it is only once we think that they start to sting: spider bites, bee stings, a mosquito ******* blood as a lover may suckle on your ******* i do not need to be filled with warm coffee, with soups, salads & sustenance, with your tongue & your fingers. i do not need to be fulfilled by anything save your gaze: a moonbeam that shatters my freckled skin. i simply crave your words of adoration, and your sleepy, contented smile.

22

call me in the empty of night call me in the selective mutism of light call me in the secrets of locked rooms call me call me in the candlelight of long soaks call me in the freeze of your greatest scare call me in the grace of your effortless achievement call me call me what you like, what you want to, need to call me in the full stops of the dead ends that meet you call me call me in the eyes of a close friend call me when you think you see the end call me when you're ready to begin again call me call me in the woods of love's mystery call me in the darkness of the wondering call me from the cliff edge, blind to the sea call me call me in the eulogy of your youth call me in the last words you're holding back; the truth call me call me in your favourite dress call me unclothed call me in the mirror when the world looks over your shoulder call me call me in the photographs you left me call me in the dream figures waiting to embrace call me in the first line you wrote to me call me call me in the aching of the distance call me in the bird short by starting pistols, raining feathers call me in the ****** hands of trying the frothing mouth of drowning if you call me always i will listen

0

Feb 24, 2014

Feb 24, 2014 at 8:17 AM UTC

call me //

call me in the empty of night call me in the selective mutism of light call me in the secrets of locked rooms call me call me in the candlelight of long soaks call me in the freeze of your greatest scare call me in the grace of your effortless achievement call me call me what you like, what you want to, need to call me in the full stops of the dead ends that meet you call me call me in the eyes of a close friend call me when you think you see the end call me when you're ready to begin again call me call me in the woods of love's mystery call me in the darkness of the wondering call me from the cliff edge, blind to the sea call me call me in the eulogy of your youth call me in the last words you're holding back; the truth call me call me in your favourite dress call me unclothed call me in the mirror when the world looks over your shoulder call me call me in the photographs you left me call me in the dream figures waiting to embrace call me in the first line you wrote to me call me call me in the aching of the distance call me in the bird short by starting pistols, raining feathers call me in the ****** hands of trying the frothing mouth of drowning if you call me always i will listen

38

don't dream while life snores don't skip the words for pictures don't believe that every rise of a wave will deliver you to the sky don't think of her like that when she says she's back in town don't believe that every ride will take you closer to the exit so much in fact that you cut across the oncoming traffic don't fall while hills rise don't cry all through the summer don't ignore the warning signs and write your own while doing 90 in the fast lane taking photos of the same setting sun for the billionth time don't follow your heart into dark caves don't destroy or devour or test the resilience of every good person in your life don't count every change of direction as a diversion from your future but always do what a don't do sign person or poem tells you to do

0

Feb 24, 2014

Feb 24, 2014 at 8:10 AM UTC

don't be like me //

don't dream while life snores don't skip the words for pictures don't believe that every rise of a wave will deliver you to the sky don't think of her like that when she says she's back in town don't believe that every ride will take you closer to the exit so much in fact that you cut across the oncoming traffic don't fall while hills rise don't cry all through the summer don't ignore the warning signs and write your own while doing 90 in the fast lane taking photos of the same setting sun for the billionth time don't follow your heart into dark caves don't destroy or devour or test the resilience of every good person in your life don't count every change of direction as a diversion from your future but always do what a don't do sign person or poem tells you to do

43

each morning brings nothing; this is good. a gift often overlooked. in this quiet i am neither here nor there; dead, alive; have never existed, never wanted made movement whatsoever, let alone lifelong mistakes. until it wakes, makes it move and as if forgotten in morning's thoughtless air; how easily silence, like a ribbon, slips from fingers, unspoken hope to the floor. and all of the everything, giant-high as the space between blanket-lain bodies and a starry vast sky, is louder than the knife of goodbye, as fatefully simple as the universe apart by paper cut.

0

Feb 24, 2014

Feb 24, 2014 at 8:02 AM UTC

the tear //

each morning brings nothing; this is good. a gift often overlooked. in this quiet i am neither here nor there; dead, alive; have never existed, never wanted made movement whatsoever, let alone lifelong mistakes. until it wakes, makes it move and as if forgotten in morning's thoughtless air; how easily silence, like a ribbon, slips from fingers, unspoken hope to the floor. and all of the everything, giant-high as the space between blanket-lain bodies and a starry vast sky, is louder than the knife of goodbye, as fatefully simple as the universe apart by paper cut.

24

i had a dream we were holding hands in a blockbuster video store. everything was made of wood. i had a dream we drove across country and stopped at a bridge to stare at the sky. your hair was brown. your hair was draped over the passenger seat. you held my hand again like you meant it. i was a window for your fingers. i was something else while you pointed at an airplane and stretched your body to it. you thought you’d never get so far. i hung out in a mall parking lot while you became the stars. when i woke up the longing still wasn’t gone.

0

Feb 10, 2014

Feb 10, 2014 at 7:31 PM UTC

you //

i had a dream we were holding hands in a blockbuster video store. everything was made of wood. i had a dream we drove across country and stopped at a bridge to stare at the sky. your hair was brown. your hair was draped over the passenger seat. you held my hand again like you meant it. i was a window for your fingers. i was something else while you pointed at an airplane and stretched your body to it. you thought you’d never get so far. i hung out in a mall parking lot while you became the stars. when i woke up the longing still wasn’t gone.

12

you open your eyes and the next twenty-four hours are building into a cluster of storm clouds above your head and all day you are convinced tiny pellets of the coldest rain are falling from the ceiling, the sky, from anywhere really but the weather forecast proves you wrong still, you know it is coming, looming in the distance and you would sooner believe your heart as a mechanical machine than deny the inevitable onslaught of the malevolent future. the mirror is chanting of your insanity, your eyes of your deterioration and you aren’t blind, you know what they’re seeing and you aren’t deaf, you hear what they’re saying but you swear the world is melting all around you, colors drooling and dissipating in a matter of seconds and each inhale is a pinprick and with each exhale you are deflating but nothing is noticeably different, not really, at least, except today, all of your ghosts left their graves and are standing on your doorstep, ringing the doorbell, incessantly, and today, you are expected to spend quality time with them, face to face.

0

Feb 8, 2014

Feb 8, 2014 at 6:34 PM UTC

untitled //

you open your eyes and the next twenty-four hours are building into a cluster of storm clouds above your head and all day you are convinced tiny pellets of the coldest rain are falling from the ceiling, the sky, from anywhere really but the weather forecast proves you wrong still, you know it is coming, looming in the distance and you would sooner believe your heart as a mechanical machine than deny the inevitable onslaught of the malevolent future. the mirror is chanting of your insanity, your eyes of your deterioration and you aren’t blind, you know what they’re seeing and you aren’t deaf, you hear what they’re saying but you swear the world is melting all around you, colors drooling and dissipating in a matter of seconds and each inhale is a pinprick and with each exhale you are deflating but nothing is noticeably different, not really, at least, except today, all of your ghosts left their graves and are standing on your doorstep, ringing the doorbell, incessantly, and today, you are expected to spend quality time with them, face to face.

19

i speak to the night and she always speaks back lending me whispers and words to rend my weaving thoughts in that moment between dreaming and sleep; the one that lasts a life age near the precipice, the one that undesirably breaks you free ever so slightly and then suddenly (maybe) rips you away from the world that melds the real and unreal the true and the false the dream and those harsh undreamt realities that exist in all times, but never seem real when you’re free of their clutches. we are one, we are all connected our synapses are linked, our electrons shared, our every thought a memory, shooting through space like lightning and written in the stars on our darkest of days

0

Jan 17, 2014

Jan 17, 2014 at 9:43 AM UTC

look up, look up //

i speak to the night and she always speaks back lending me whispers and words to rend my weaving thoughts in that moment between dreaming and sleep; the one that lasts a life age near the precipice, the one that undesirably breaks you free ever so slightly and then suddenly (maybe) rips you away from the world that melds the real and unreal the true and the false the dream and those harsh undreamt realities that exist in all times, but never seem real when you’re free of their clutches. we are one, we are all connected our synapses are linked, our electrons shared, our every thought a memory, shooting through space like lightning and written in the stars on our darkest of days

17

we are not the embodiment of beauty, despite the way your quips dance with my vagary, or how our bones are trophies built from the same bits of shrapnel from explosions, forged by hands who never learned how to fashion empires out of anything but fragments, no, we are much more than beautiful, we are isotopic, enigmatic, we’re magnetic and eclectic, we are the sum of all things, a compilation, a mosaic, we are a memoir of the universe, we are fate, we’re algebraic, we’re the intersection of two lines without a destination, but when i follow the trail of freckles up your spine, i find the root of my elation

0

Nov 20, 2013

Nov 20, 2013 at 3:05 PM UTC

compendium //

we are not the embodiment of beauty, despite the way your quips dance with my vagary, or how our bones are trophies built from the same bits of shrapnel from explosions, forged by hands who never learned how to fashion empires out of anything but fragments, no, we are much more than beautiful, we are isotopic, enigmatic, we’re magnetic and eclectic, we are the sum of all things, a compilation, a mosaic, we are a memoir of the universe, we are fate, we’re algebraic, we’re the intersection of two lines without a destination, but when i follow the trail of freckles up your spine, i find the root of my elation

40

what are you doing to me? these marble figures crashing at my feet like chips of flint begging to catch fire, to catch a breath of air but my god, my lungs heaving, I ask you what are you doing to me? permeating stone and teaching me what it is to bend, when I once stood my ground and said, you cannot move me and what are you doing to me? your feet are padding around in the dark tunnels of my temporal lobe, hanging lanterns where lights went out in storms of crazed chaos, and don’t you know that I am often a ghost, ( don’t you? ) what are you doing to me? I feel the sun’s light as it shines into my rib cage, and I find I am drunk from this warmth, and I ask, what are you doing to me?

0

Nov 20, 2013

Nov 20, 2013 at 2:49 PM UTC

what are you doing //

what are you doing to me? these marble figures crashing at my feet like chips of flint begging to catch fire, to catch a breath of air but my god, my lungs heaving, I ask you what are you doing to me? permeating stone and teaching me what it is to bend, when I once stood my ground and said, you cannot move me and what are you doing to me? your feet are padding around in the dark tunnels of my temporal lobe, hanging lanterns where lights went out in storms of crazed chaos, and don’t you know that I am often a ghost, ( don’t you? ) what are you doing to me? I feel the sun’s light as it shines into my rib cage, and I find I am drunk from this warmth, and I ask, what are you doing to me?

45

she was freckled, laughing morning when the years were still beyond a stretch of the imagination. she was winking, beaming daylight when the moment was held by the gaze of an eye. she was melancholy evenings when forever had passed, slipped through her fingers.

0

Nov 1, 2013

Nov 1, 2013 at 6:43 PM UTC

she was //

she was freckled, laughing morning when the years were still beyond a stretch of the imagination. she was winking, beaming daylight when the moment was held by the gaze of an eye. she was melancholy evenings when forever had passed, slipped through her fingers.

12