I always forget
Just how heavy
Water really is

pearls
powder
and lipstick with the perfect shade of pink

"It's important to look your best when you feel your worst," I recite as I get ready for another day without him.

skirt
scarf
and chanel number five

"Just for a minute," I whisper as I slip the ring on before heading out the door.

coffee
coat
and black pumps

"Goodbye, my love," I accidentally yell through the screen door.

terror
tears
and falling to the ground

“******,” I scream because I actually forgot he's gone

{bcg}

I lift syllables to plant
They will ripen in your mind
Like wheat of the ancient fields

Where our ancestors ate language
And leisure, like we have never known
We who labour like machines
As slaves might, while our lives
Is as a poem where the trees incandescent

Must watch themselves wither
As sheets of paper gone to waste
I lift houses of sound

To your legendary fracture of silence
These vacant lots of night-time
Where a pale puddle of your
Grip upon reality suddenly blazes
With figures of your once dreams

The summer has oxidized mornings, sunsets
A weightless winter awaits, as scattered
Pages are left to turn, each one

Words in the shape of a cloud of dust
As white as snow, as lingering
As the cold, and the murmur of a million
Leaves that once were, but are now only
The idea of color, the texture of earth.

some say we should keep personal remorse from the
poem,
stay abstract, and there is some reason in this,
but jezus;
twelve poems gone and I don't keep carbons and you have
my
paintings too, my best ones; its stifling:
are you trying to crush me out like the rest of them?
why didn't you take my money? they usually do
from the sleeping drunken pants sick in the corner.
next time take my left arm or a fifty
but not my poems:
I'm not Shakespeare
but sometime simply
there won't be any more, abstract or otherwise;
there'll always be mony and ****** and drunkards
down to the last bomb,
but as God said,
crossing his legs,
I see where I have made plenty of poets
but not so very much
poetry.

I hate eating I honestly do.
It makes me fat, it's all the food.
It's my only friend, or enemy?
I eat it because it listens to me.
Is it that, or the fact that I eat my feelings out?
And now, I'm gaining weight. Pound by pound.
I disgust myself, and even my dad.
I'm such a failure, look I'm so fat.
My family repeating those words
"Are you eating again?"
Then I look at the food, and realize .
This is just the beginning.

you, (1)
yeah you, (2)
Is it just me (4)
or is he a *******? (6)
but yet... im addicted to him... (8)