Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
It's only 11:30 when I plug it in and go bed,
Screaming at myself, tears in my eyes
It had only been five days
and I didn't love her Monday,
I grew into it
and I thought she had too,
until those three words came from her tongue-


"I have someone"

my world shouldn't have shattered
I shouldn't have stayed up all night
screaming at myself and writhing in pain,
clutching my aching stomach.
I should have rolled over and gone to sleep
unsurprised.

I should be used to it
Used to spending nights like this
Used to being dissapointed
To having to turn the thermostat up to 75°
so I'm not cold at night.
To having to get on facebook and talk
so I don't fall asleep completely lonely.
To having to write so I can say
"I love you"
at the end of a poem
just to get those words out of my system.
 Mar 2013 Lendon Partain
Ugo
Skyscrapers and mango trees wearing boxer briefs.

The tantalizing wind blows caressing paperclips and mortuary signs—
turning them indigo red for we all know that dead bodies are nothing but dead.

Hymns of love and soliloquies of the unconscious ego—
Id of our time but men of the past be our hero.
Leaving to wonder, if king Nebuchadnezzar was a crack-feign
would Coca Cola still educate penguins on the importance of Lesbian Existence?

For in this war of life, cockroaches are the real winners,
and the taste of excellence is only reserved for fire extinguishers —

so if nuclear clouds persist,
let the fire burn with love and you lay on the bed of oblivion
cuddling the moral that capitalism leads to schizophrenia.

So insure your sanity for free 99, this, with warm regards from yours truly,

                                                               ­              Rhizome of Golgotha.
Poet, live melancholically as
A man with one eye and full vision.
Ambition but no depth
Perception.

Poet, live longingly as
A child in the corner.
Watching mother's wrist.

Poet, live remiscingly as
A bird crossing the street
Via sidewalk as a ghost.

Poet, live unconsciously as
A murderer, staring down at
A floorboard. Not blood but—ink
On your hands.
Poet, live sadly.
Poet, sadly alive.
Somewhere,
                                                      ­  a Christian is crying
                    on their Honeymoon
                                                       ­ because they were lied to,
                                                             ­                        'Coulda had a lot more fun
                                                        when they were young.

                                                 Why'd you have to tell
                                             Her that Hell was a swell
                                                           ­                       Of fire and flames,
         Desire and aims
on the claims that

                                                         "Yeah, there'll be
                                                        firewo­rks."


                                

                                                          ­                                                                 ­                            Behind, the Devil lurks
                                                           ­ with a wedding ring,



                                                        ­                                                          Yeah,
 ­                                                       There'll be some perks.
Hospital bracelet, she owned.
Called from the payphone.


She was all I've ever known and




She scratched her veins out.


Little girls thrown around on a trampoline
We were thirteen year old lovers, in one or two bodies/
I was King and you were Queen


The Monarch, she,
She scratched her veins out
And I was the one who bled.

I sparked a lighter at her grave
Inhaled royal air.

Suicide bracelet, she sent to me
I poured ink onto her headstone.
 Mar 2013 Lendon Partain
Sophia
I wonder how one who lives by the sea
can ever truly believe that love doesn’t exist.
Do you not see the desperation in the way
the waves pound endlessly to the shore?
They crash deliriously on the rocks,
and it reminds me of how I want you:
infintely, eternally, like the stars.

I am so tired of this sick, dysphoric feeling I get in the pit of me,
a dull ache in my bones.
I keep going:
I purse my lips and choke on my flowery words.
I won’t pretend to be a poet anymore.

I’m sorry, but I don’t want you to just love me ironically,
or kiss me sarcastically,
or undress me metaphorically.
I want this to be honest and pure.

I don’t need a love song sung at dawn,
or towers built in my honor.
Sunsets and moonlight are not for you, I understand.
I just want to feel you breathe against me in timed rhythms.
Rise, peak, fall.
I need this.
i need this
Next page