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unwritten Jun 2014
i. before

everything about her was light,
soft,
inviting.
her voice was gentle,
her eyes calm.
she walked
as if she was floating,
and her lips
were always curved
into a sweet smile.
she often wondered
how anything could go wrong.

ii. after**

everything about her was dark,
broken,
toxic.
her voice was venomous,
her eyes piercing.
she walked
as if she'd had a bit too much to drink
and her lips
were always curved
into a sour scowl.
she often wondered
how she lost herself.

(a.m.)
so i wrote this a few days ago, and i wanted to show how one experience or one event can change someone drastically. the first part was inspired by a waitress that i met in Montreal. weird, i know.
unwritten Sep 2014
don't dress like a *****,
                                            but remember: your success is based upon how much of your *** they see.

stand up for yourself,
                                            but remember: use the wrong tone, and your husband will beat you.

have fun,
                                            but remember: going out alone and drinking will only end up with you in a stranger's bed the next morning.

make sure you never have to rely on your man for money,
                                            but remember: someone will probably steal your purse while you're out alone.

"no" means "no,"
                                            but remember: you always have to give him what he wants.

**** isn't the victim's fault,
                                            but remember: you were asking for it.

it's your life. it's your body.
                                            but remember:
                                                      ­           it's not.


                                                        ­                                                               (a.m.)
Hi. Please be sure to read the poem in its entirety before commenting, thank you. And just so we're clear: this poem is not in any way meant to degrade women, but rather to point out how society often sends women and girls mixed messages. We tell them not to act like "*****" or "******," and yet everywhere you look there's another song or music video that sexualizes women, and then we blame the victims when **** occurs. We tell them to be independent and stand up for themselves, but then automatically assume they must have done something wrong if they get beaten by their spouses or significant others. We tell them to take control of their lives and bodies, and yet the very next moment, we tell them the exact opposite.

Every two minutes, an American is sexually assaulted. 1 in 4 women will experience domestic abuse in their lifetime.

It's 2014, and I am still a long way off from being a parent. But I wouldn't want my future daughter living in a world like this.

She shouldn't have to.
unwritten Sep 2014
i remember those days when we would walk for hours and hours under the hot, beating sun with no destination in mind. nowhere to go, no one to see. just you, me, and the sun.

our bones were brittle, our cheeks were flushed, our bodies were sore. but we didn’t care. we had stopped caring about the little things.

we would laugh until our lungs burned and wake up every day thinking, “god, this really is a beautiful world if you make it one.”

we would smile until our cheeks hurt and pray that it would rain so we could dance in it.

we would sing until our throats were like sandpaper and lie down in the grass at night and look up at the stars.

we were wild.

we were beautiful.

we were free.

we were lost, but god, we were free.

one day you woke up and something shifted inside your heart and you said that you didn’t believe this was a beautiful world. you didn’t believe in you, or me, or us.

you didn’t want to laugh until your lungs burned or smile until your cheeks hurt or sing until your throat was like sandpaper.

you didn’t want to dance in the rain or look up at the stars.

one day i woke up and you were gone.

no note. no explanation. no goodbye. just gone.

you are gone, and i am still here.

i am still here, but now i wake up every morning wondering how i could have ever seen this world as beautiful.

i only like the rain now because it makes the sun a little more bearable (i’ve stopped dancing in it).

i don’t pay much attention to the stars anymore. all i know is that they make me feel just a bit less lonely.

it’s just me and the sun now, though sometimes i can feel you lying next to me and i reach over to grab your hand or look at you or say something but all i have is the sun.

not you.

we were never lost, you know. we just didn’t want to accept that we had always been found.

(a.m.)
.
unwritten May 2014
she said,
"don't grow up,"
and i replied,
"my darling,
it's a bit too late for that.
the fun and games
have ended.
the curtains
are closing.
the adrenaline
is fading.
the smiles
are dying.
the hearts
are breaking.
and i feel
i have lived
a thousand lifetimes,
each one lacking
a childhood."

(a.m.)
welcome to reality. enjoy your stay.
unwritten Mar 2016
for a moment i couldn’t remember your last name.
for a moment it started with a different letter,
was spoken in a different tongue.
for a moment i had forgotten it — that is, if i ever knew it at all.

you used to be so clear to me.
you were, at a time, tangible —
so much more than a memory.
i loved you then and i could say that i love you now but
you cannot love a memory.
not in the same way, no.
you cannot talk to a memory,
nor laugh with a memory,
nor live with a memory.

and so i keep you
frozen in time,
a fragment of the past.

like ashes in an urn i put you on the shelf,
never to be disturbed,
only to be put on display.
i thought you’d be safe there.
i thought that the ashes in an urn don’t disappear because
what more can ash crumble down to?

but today,
for just a moment,
i couldn’t remember your last name.
today,
for just a moment,
you slipped away.

and now i wonder if i ever had you at all.

(a.m.)
it's nearly 6 AM and i'm sentimental and i haven't posted on here in far too long so here's a short, spur of the moment poem. hope you enjoy **.
unwritten Aug 2015
simply put,
i want to hold you in that evanescent moment
during the formation of a thought, of an utterance;
the moment between not knowing what to say or think
and expressing it in perfect clarity.
the moment when, despite the words still being tangled up,
hidden in a fog,
the thought is still clear.
the moment when the words are forming, bubbling, exploding into life on the tip of your tongue,
but you have not yet set them free.

i want to hold you in this moment of beautiful silence,
of unspoken understanding,
of connecting through thoughts not yet complete,
and words not yet said.

a timeless instant,
a short-lived forever.

(a.m.)
2:59 a.m. // i know the wording in this is a bit confusing, but i tried my best. it feels right somehow. hope you enjoy. **
unwritten May 2014
10:17 p.m.

And still,
I couldn't bring myself
To tell her I loved her,
Because of fear of what had happened
The last time I loved someone.

Because of fear
That the part of me
That was whispering,
Shouting,
Screaming,
To stay away,
To not fall in love
Might be right.

Because of fear
That I would break her heart
And she'd break mine,
And we'd both go back to being broken
Just as quickly as we had taped ourselves back together,
Piece by piece.

Because of fear
That she wouldn't
Feel the same way.

Because of fear
That my feelings
Wouldn't be genuine.

Because of fear
Of repeating the past.

(a.m.)
unwritten Jul 2014
i.
i am not angry,
and i won't be.
how someone could stay mad at you
is a ******* mystery to me.

ii.
maybe
you were right,
and not everyone
is an enigma.
but i believe that you are.
i believe that we are.

iii.
i still have all your letters.

iv.
speaking of letters,
i've tried writing you one before.
but words and humans
do not often cooperate.

v.
i hope you start a new york jar again.
you won't.
but i hope you do.

vi.
i will not forget you.
i will think of you,
and i hope you think of me, too,
on those days when the sky is a shade too dark
and your soul feels a little bit too empty.

vii.
i know now
that i do not
have to do anything.

viii.
i love you.
past.
present.
future tense.
i love you.
and i know you love me.

ix.
i hope you see this.
someday.

x.
shakespeare once said
that life's but a walking shadow.
but i believe --
i know --
that you are destined for something greater.
you
are going to make it.

xi.
if, by some miracle,
i can find a word,
a song,
a quote,
anything,
to describe you,
to do you justice,
i will let you know.
i hope you'll do the same for me.

xii.
i'm sorry.
for everything.
i wish it didn't end up this way,
but it did,
and so i won't waste time complaining.
but truly,
i am sorry.

xiii.
someday
you'll find happiness.

xiv.**
and maybe,
if the stars align,
and the water's calm,
someday you'll find me, too.

(a.m.)
i love you.
goodbye.
unwritten Jul 2014
i.

they say that when you drown,
it's nothing like in the movies;
it's silent.
there's no splashing,
no screaming,
no kicking or crying for help.

just
silence.

and i guess it's true,
for i am drowning --
there is water in my lungs,
pouring into my heart,
filling my veins and escaping from my eyes --
yet i cannot speak.

i am rendered speechless
by you.

ii.

i'm not so sure if it's
the smooth white sand
ingrained in your skin,

or the intricate seashells
that are your daintily painted
fingernails.

maybe it's the pulsing red
of a moon during high tide
that shines through
your scarlet lips,

or maybe
it's the crashing waves
filling the ocean in your eyes.

maybe it's the way you sweep me up
and pull me under,
stealing my breath,
invading my thoughts.

or maybe it's how you
are unpredictable.
you are in alliance with the erratic skies
and fickle moon,
and yet,
no one can control you,
no one can predict your next move.

iii.

i find it fascinatingly beautiful
how easy it is
for you to destroy yourself,
how you hide within raging whirlpools
and tear yourself apart from the inside.

people are afraid of the ocean,
but the ocean is a part of you.
who knows, though?
maybe you're scared of the ocean too.

iv.*

beware the girl with the ocean eyes,
for a heart that is eaten away by the sea
can never be whole again.*

(a.m.)
idk.
unwritten Jun 2016
sometimes i think
that if, perhaps,
i could shrink myself down into something a bit more beautiful,
then maybe you would love me.

in the ugly, unafraid, truth-telling part of my mind,
the part i seldom dare to visit,
i know this is not true,
know that you could never love me,
not now.

i can make myself,
as much as i like,
into wood to be whittled,
but i cannot make you crave those carvings.

you can lead a horse to water,
or whatever it is that they say.

but i fear i will always be a well run dry in your eyes
(or perhaps one that never had water to begin with).

so i combat this fear in the only way i know how:
by turning away from it,
pretending it does not exist.

by shrinking.

and sometimes,
sometimes,
when you don't seem as far away,
i think that if, perhaps,
i could shrink myself down into something a bit more beautiful,
then maybe you would love me.

(a.m.)
written june 11th, 2016. hope you enjoy. xoxo.
unwritten May 2014
the skies are shifting.

the brightest stars are over your head now, aren't they?

and here i sit,
with a cluster of crestfallen storm clouds
and extinguished stars
dancing above my head,
mocking me,
telling me
screaming at me
that i should have done it
while i had the chance.

but it's too late now.

because the skies are shifting,
and you are a million miles
above me
with the brightest of stars
and lightest of clouds,
clinking champagne glasses
and toasting
to a bright future.

you're moving on.

i guess it's time i do, too.

but it's hard.

because you
were the person who i always trusted
to brush the storm clouds away
and, in their place,
paint luscious streaks of white
with the patterns of your soul.

but you're moving on.

the skies are shifting,
and here i will sit
with a cluster of crestfallen storm clouds
and extinguished stars
dancing above my head,
mocking me,
telling me
screaming at me
that i should have done it
while i had the chance.

(a.m.)
i kinda like this and kinda don't
thoughts?
unwritten Aug 2015
tonight, darkness engulfs,
as it usually does.
the sun hides its shame behind the light of the moon,
only to rise with renewed power in the morning.

i find myself wishing i could speak to the sun.

if i could,
i'd ask it to stay down,
to linger in its dormancy,
to grant me the luscious solitude of the night
for just a little while longer.

because for once i am okay.

for once, i find my mind quiet --
knowing all the things that are painful to know,
and yet not holding too tight to them.

and i enjoy it,
this silence -- of mind and of world.
but i am not naive,
and i know that the sun will not spare me,
will not spare anyone,
nor will it give so much as a whisper
in response to all my feeble wishes.

so for tonight,
all i have is tonight.

all i have are the few sunken hours before dawn
when i can be at least somewhat free --
freer than i've been for a long while.

and that, though momentary,
is enough.

(a.m.)
late night thoughts. i had an amazing day today & this positivity also managed to slip into my night & early morning. i hope you all had great days as well. **
unwritten May 2014
clocks
ticking,
minutes dripping away
like soft syrup.

and yet,
we all say
to live in the moment,
live in the moment,
consume it,
be consumed by it,
waste no time.

so why is it then,
that here we still are,
having done nothing?

nothing good,
nothing bad,
nothing worthwhile.

time stops for no one, darling.

the clocks
are still there,
ticking,
minutes dripping away
like soft syrup.

funny,
how you must think
you've got all the time in the world.

(a.m.)
idk. i wrote this just now. kinda random, actually.
unwritten Jul 2014
i can never really organize my thoughts,
so much to the point that
at one moment
i might be thinking that nothing could be worse
than it already is,
but at the next,
i might be admiring the beauty of life,
and how everything is grand,
and how i can almost see the sparkles that emerge from the stardust in your veins.

i can never really stick to one thing,
so much to the point that,
at one moment
i might be writing lines of poetry about veins brimming with stardust,
but at the next,
i may be considering what an utter cliché
that line is.

i can never really make up my mind,
so much to the point that,
at one moment
i might be intent on the idea that stardust as a whole
is a cliché, cliché, cliché,
but at the next,
i may not care at all.

who gives a ****?

it's not about what's cliché and what's not.

it's simply about the thoughts,
the words,
the beauty.

all at once.

but the problem with me is,
i can never really organize my thoughts,
so much to the point that
at one moment
i might be pouring my thoughts into this poem,
but at the next,
my mind might be frozen.
e m p t y .
bare.

sometimes my mind
doesn't like to cooperate.
but as of now,
it is.

and i've decided
that stardust
is a total cliché.

i do not doubt, though,
that it is one hell of a beautiful cliché,
perhaps much like my mind.

(a.m.)
late night thoughts. forgive me if this makes no sense.
unwritten Aug 2014
i believe
that you can tell a lot about a person
by the number of email drafts in their inbox;

the number of times they had words to say but soon thought better of it
and retreated back into the silence;

the number of times their heart and soul were screaming,
begging to be heard,
but were soon vanquished with the click of one shiny "X"
or a backspace button;

the number of times they opened the closet
to pull out a skeleton,
only to come to their senses
and shut it back in again.

i believe that you can tell a lot about a person
by the number of email drafts in their inbox.

but maybe that's just me.

i tend to dwell on unsaid words.

(a.m.)
i was logged into my email and saw that a lot of my drafts were new messages with nothing in them. i had thought of something to send, then thought better of it, and i began to wonder what i had wanted to say at those moments.
unwritten Jul 2014
i hope you see this.

i don't know what i would want you to feel if you did see this.

anger?

sadness?

pain?

would you even know it was for you?

look,
i don't want to dwell
on the unimportant details,
like who's fault it was,
or who left first.

maybe it was you,
maybe it was me,
maybe it was both of us.

i don't care much.

the important part is that you're gone.

i am gone.

we are gone.

i am not the person i once was, and i doubt you are the person you once were.

whether that's a good or bad thing,
i don't know.

what i do know is that everything is falling.

but whether it's falling into or out of place?

well,
i don't know that either.

(a.m.)
eh, idk.
unwritten Aug 2014
some people don't believe in ghosts,
but i am not one of those people,
because you are a ghost
in every sense of the word.

//

i am sorry
for breaking you,
and i know
that i can say "i'm sorry"
until my lungs run dry
and my heart slows to a stop,
and even then
it will not be enough.

how can you apologize
for tearing someone's heart apart,
and walking away
as the tattered strings litter the ground?

how can you apologize
for bringing someone up
out of the murky depths
only to, just as quickly, loosen your grip
and let them fall back under
once more?

how can you apologize
for carving your name into the core of someone's heart
with a knife,
then leaving,
with that aching carving being the only lingering trace?

how can i apologize
for what i've done?

//

some people don't believe in ghosts,
but i stabbed you in the heart
and left you to bleed out
as i walked away and turned a blind eye
to your sorrow.

some people don't believe in ghosts,
but i know i deserve this haunting.

(a.m.)
1 a.m. thoughts
i'm sorry
unwritten May 2014
hey
Delivered 10:36 p.m.

we haven’t talked in a while
Delivered 10:36 p.m.

weeks
Delivered 10:36 p.m.

maybe even months, actually
Delivered 10:37 p.m.

truth is, i can’t remember the last time we talked
Delivered 10:37 p.m.

and, wow this going to sound crazy, but
Delivered 10:38 p.m.

i saved our last conversation. i keep reading over it, trying to figure out where i went wrong
Delivered 10:38 p.m.

but i can never find it
Delivered 10:38 p.m.

i can never find that one place where i ******* up, where i said something wrong, where i did something to tear us apart, or make you hate me.
Delivered 10:39 p.m.

and it *****, it really does.
Delivered 10:39 p.m.

matter of fact, “*****” isn’t a strong enough word to describe how awful it is
Delivered 10:40 p.m.

or how awful i feel
Delivered 10:40 p.m.

hurt
Delivered 10:40 p.m.

betrayed
Delivered 10:40 p.m.

used
Delivered 10:40 p.m.

and do you want to know what the worst part is?
Delivered 10:41 p.m.

the worst part, aside from the fact that i can’t figure out where i went wrong, is that, even after all of this
Delivered 10:41 p.m.

i still love you
Delivered 10:42 p.m.

i have loved you, i love you now, and i’m pretty **** sure i will love you in the future.
Delivered 10:43 p.m.

and i guess that’s half of what i came here to say.
Delivered 10:43 p.m.

but it’s obvious that you don’t feel the same.
Delivered 10:44 p.m.

and so i suppose that the other half of what i came here to say
Delivered 10:44 p.m.

is goodbye.
Delivered 10:44 p.m.

and though i’m sure that all your love for me has faded
Delivered 10:44 p.m.

and that my name hasn’t slipped off your ******* long time
Delivered 10:45 p.m.

all i ask of you is one thing
Delivered 10:45 p.m.

just don’t forget me.
**Delivered 10:46 p.m.
okay so i've wanted to do a poem like this for a while now, and i absolutely love how it turned out. thoughts or feedback?
unwritten Sep 2015
i don't get so sad anymore, you know.
and sometimes i wish i could go back and do things better,
do things right,
but something in me knows it was supposed to end when it did.

you've changed, anyway.

i don't want to say that you're not the person i once knew,
because i'm sure that deep down, somewhere in there, you are,
but i'm a tired person,
and i lack the energy required
to dig down so deep through skin and bone
trying to find the worn out shards of a memory;
the last pieces of the first person to make me feel so terribly alive.

//

i hope you're happy.
i have always hoped that you would be happy.

but i don't get so sad anymore,
and i don't want to linger on the past.

(still i write poems about you, simply for the sake of writing).

//

every now and again,
i'll think about you,
you and everything and everyone else who shaped me.

and it's hard to believe it's been two years.

and it's hard to believe that i have grown,
but i have,
and the truth is that i don't need you anymore.

//

i don't get so sad anymore, you know.
things have gotten better.
you're gone and you don't care and i sometimes wonder if you ever did, but i'm telling you anyway that things have gotten better because i want to prove to myself that it was right to let you go,
that i needed to let you go to finally be free.

you made me feel alive in a way that tugged at my heart with a surprising aggression,
but i deserve better than that.

(a.m.)
for a.r., two years later.
unwritten Apr 2016
i would be lying if i said that i desired dormancy from you.

more accurate would be to say that i simply came to expect it.

i am raindrops when you least expect them,
and yet i have found that you are always dressed
in raincoats.
so why answer me now?

i am pond water too still even for my own good,
and yet i have found that stillness is not a cause for concern when you are looking the other way.
so why answer me now?

i am a river nearly overflowing with words i wish i could have said to you.
and you put your hand to my quivering mouth and ask me, in a language you don't understand, to open up,
to let forth my second-guessed whirlpools,
my unspoken swells,
my half-formed waves -- thoughts with solemn crests but no trough to match.
but no.
i keep quiet.
i keep calm.
i let forth only a dribble, and then a steady flow.

you want to bathe in old times' sake,
and i let you.

i am a river
but i was building a dam for myself before you came back around,
and now?

and now?

my ebb and flow keep time with the movements of your lips and the curling of your smile.

the fish i hold are showpieces, my oysters child-bearers that lift their most beautiful pearls up to the sun so that you might see them.

the path i follow is marked solely by your footsteps.

i never really understood the concept of manmade rivers until now.

but you,
harvest moon high,
you fall and rise without even the slightest inkling
that i fall and rise right with you.

i keep quiet.
i keep calm.
i let forth only a dribble, and then a steady flow.

but sooner or later i will be empty all the same.

(a.m.)
wrote this over the course of last night & today, really happy with it. hope you enjoy (:
her
unwritten May 2014
her
All it took
Was one phrase,
Three words,
Seventeen letters
To realize
She was more broken
Than I thought.

(a.m.)
i doubt anyone will understand this, but it isn't meant to be understood.
unwritten May 2016
step one:
do not look at their mouth,
for you will expect to see rivers flowing from it,
poetry slipping through the space between their lips
in the same way that the wind slips through the space underneath a door,
but instead you will only see spit and saliva
and a tongue too big for its home.

step two:
do not look at their hands,
for you will expect them to craft cities from marble right before your very eyes,
but instead it will be just the thumbs,
the twiddling of thumbs,
the aimlessness, the senselessness,
the lack of experience with building empires.

step three:
do not look at their eyes,
for they say that the eyes are the windows to the soul,
and when you see that the curtains have been drawn,
you will feel so very alone.

step four:
i did not love you.
you have to repeat it.
i did not love you.
i did not love you.
i did not love you;
i loved what i thought you would be.
i thought you would be eden,
but you were only the apple.

step five:
i suppose i am to blame here
for digging holes too big to fill,
for crafting shoes too big to fit in.
and for that i am sorry.
i am sorry that i expected more from you
than i even expect from myself.

step six:
human.
human.
let the word roll off and around your tongue,
let it cover every inch of the inside of your mouth.
say it. over and over again.
say it. like it is foreign and you need to know what it means.
say it.
and when you have said it enough times and it feels
dull, old,
disappointing,
you will know that we are nothing more than flesh and bone,
and that as much as we wish there were gods among us,
flesh always rots in the end.
this is the beast of truth that we cannot outrun.
hands cannot craft cities from marble
if only given clay.

step seven:**
do not let this frighten you.
clay, after all,
was meant for molding.

(a.m.)
written may 11th & 12th. i've found recently that there are a lot of people i used to idolize and look up to who i now see were really just ordinary people all along. it's disappointing, but there is also some reassurance in coming back to reality.
unwritten Jul 2014
but i will.
i will write it and it may take me
five minutes
or it may take me fifty.
and neither of the two is an absurdly long amount of time,
unless you really think about it.
because five measly minutes
is just the same
as three hundred seconds.
and three hundred seconds
is just the same
as three hundred thousand milliseconds.

we've only just covered one-tenth of an entire fifty minutes,
yet already we have before us
three hundred thousand intricate units of time,
each lasting for the blink of an eye -- no, less --
then vanishing,
like the evanescent remains of a flame
that has been reduced
to first sparks,
then dull embers,
then ashes.

the funny part about it is that you never know
what each tiny little bubble of time might hold,
what might happen when it forms,
or when it pops.

a millisecond is incredibly short,
almost unfairly so.

but three hundred thousand milliseconds?

it can't be said what could happen as those fleeting fractions
slip away.

we may try to grab hold of them,
to catch them in our palms.

but time stops for no one.

so you may find yourself
with empty, bleeding palms,
as a reminder that time is harsh, cruel,
tyrannical.

and as you wrap bandages around your wounds
(or maybe not),
those fleeting milliseconds
will laugh with sudden bursts of cynicism,
like fireworks,
deafeningly silent.

they will laugh
at what a fool you were,
thinking you could catch time
in the palms of your hands.


(a.m.)
okay so this is also just a bunch of scrambled thoughts but i kinda like it? idk.
unwritten Jul 2014
i don't know if you remember it. those times when i was in love with you. maybe they're shoved in the back of your brain, in a cabinet marked 'useless.' you might never meet me, anyway. why should you care?
i don't know if you know that you broke me. but you did. i don't blame you, though. why would you want me, anyway?
i don't know if you still bring a blade to your precious skin because you think you're worthless. but you aren't. you're so incredible. your mind still amazes me. and i love you. i may not be in love with you, but i love you. and i want to be in love with you.
i don't know if you still think of me. i know you probably don't.
but, god, i hope you do.

dearly,
a.m.
i try to say what needs to be said.
unwritten Jun 2014
the way that alcohol
f  l  o  o  d  e  d
her veins
was almost like
the way in which
stars
flood a night sky.

and her eyes,
were black holes:
empty
and dark.

she left all her cares behind
a long time ago,
on a shelf
in a jar,
sitting right next to two others, labeled
"happiness"
and
"trust."

you might ask what happened to her love.

she left that with me,
and said,
"do with it what you wish,"
for she hadn't the trust
to expect me to keep it safe,
nor the happiness
to keep it for herself.

i never saw her again after that,
but i still have her love.

and to this day,
here it sits.

on a shelf,
in a jar,
right next to two others, labeled
"memories of you"
and
"hope for the future."

though i must say,
each of these jars
is growing emptier
each day.

(a.m.)
okay so i don't really know what inspired me to write this so yeah it's really random but i kinda like it.
unwritten May 2016
this is an alphabet of all the people
who have dug holes in me,
and of all the people
who are still digging.

this is a gardening guide
for would-be lovers and pretty faces
who do not even realize
that they are carrying shovels.

this is a weather forecast written
from past experience,
a reminder that winter
is not kind on crops,
no matter how firmly you pack the dirt.

this is me,
reflecting on seeds planted.

this is me,
reflecting on seeds left to die.

A,
i suppose it is fitting that the first letter
is also the first person to show me what it is like
to have seedlings sprouting up from inside you,
the first person to show me just how deep you really have to dig
to make the sting last.
you never came back to water what you planted.

H,
i’d like to say to that i ripped out your roots with my own two hands;
i’d like to give myself some credit in all this.
you don’t look as lovely as you used to.
you say i’ve grown distant.
i’m sorry.

J,
you always feel like being on the verge of something big.
you feel like summer, like a deep purple,
a bath of darkness.
you are everywhere that plants do not grow well.
and i have always felt — and still do feel — 
that that is such a grave injustice.
still, though you cannot speak the word “devotion,”
i beckon for more seeds.

P,
my greatest heartbreak.
heartbreak, though, is but a flesh wound when seen from afar.
and so i thank god for the miles between us.
i can feign forgetfulness when you are far away.
after all, what is a shovel in your hands if those hands cannot reach me?

S,
you are but a bud waiting to bloom.
and yet again i find myself so very afraid of growth.

(a.m.)
written may 24th, 2016. pretty proud of how this came out. hope you enjoy. **
unwritten Aug 2016
you are leaving again.
i find myself saddened without tangible reason.
and i know that with my sadness should come some joy,
and if not joy, 
then relief,
because when you are half the world away,
it becomes just a bit easier
to forget the times when you were so painfully closer.
i can look up at the moon — a pale phantom sliver —
and know that you do not gaze upon it at that same time.
in that moment,
the moon is mine.
i do not mind that the sun rises for you
so long as i cannot see it.
so i should breathe easy;
your absence gives me a little more room to love myself.

and yet —
there is always an “and yet” with you — 
when the easier breathing begs for entrance to my lungs,
i turn it away.
to forget you would mean to forgo grieving,
and god knows i live for a good ache.

so i think of you,
faultless in the dim yellow glow.
images i shouldn't call upon.
small, soft moments when you seemed to see me.
i remember the time when you crowned me with a halo, deemed me an angel.
i imagine that you are the only one who could ever make me believe that i fit the part.

glowing.
i don't know if you were but i was.
glowing.
if we have to share the moon, then so be it.

i find myself saddened without tangible reason.
this is the part where you come in.

but you are leaving again.
i could ask myself if you were ever truly "here,"
but it always hurts the most to ask the questions i already know the answers to.
so i think, instead,
of you,
faultless in the dim yellow glow.
the pain is a little bit more bearable.
i imagine that maybe you were glowing, too.

(a.m.)
written 8.5.16 & 8.6.16. sorry for my brief absence. i hope you enjoy. xoxo.
unwritten Jul 2014
i wish my words could reach you
because maybe then
you would open your eyes
and see
that you deserve every compliment you get,
and that you are a product of the gods;
that the sun's gentle kisses have seeped into your bones,
and that stardust is in your veins;
that your blood is divine and oceanborn,
and that your skin is the sand of that very same ocean;
that your eyes are vortexes of mystery and desire,
and that your smile is the planets aligning;
that your mind is a beautiful enigma;
and that you are simply
miraculous.

but i don't think my words reach you,
and, honestly,
i'm not sure they ever will.

but in the meantime,
just remember that your skin is the sand,
and that the blood of the ocean doesn't deserve to be spilled.

just remember that your eyes are vortexes,
and that they don't deserve the tears that so often fill them.

and,
if you will,
just remember that i love you.

(a.m.)
so i kind of made up a word i guess. oceanborn. i like it.
unwritten Sep 2016
my psychiatrist tells me i have holes in me.
she says it as though it is something
i should already know.
and when she says it,
the shift inside me is something i wish i could compare
to the grinding of tectonic plates,
if only i were strong enough to bring about an earthquake.

but since i am a stranger even to aftershocks,
i keep quiet.
my earthquake is stillborn,
expressed instead as a nod,
as a chewing of the lip,
as a silent, compliant “mhm.”
and the urge that nestles itself at the pit of my stomach
is not an urge to disagree;
it is an urge to forget.

because my psychiatrist tells me i have holes in me.
she says it as though it is something i should already know,
and she says it in a way that is not meant to make me feel incomplete,
but it is a way that still does,
and if i can forget this,
even for a moment,
i can forget that i am not okay.

i do not like not being okay;
i do not like having problems,
and my psychiatrist,
she tells me i have holes in me and she says it
as though it is a problem.

and so begins a slow disintegration:
i become but a bearer of problems,
a garden growing only weeds —
something in need of fixing.
i see myself a war-torn landscape,
dry and cracked and lacking life.
i see myself the kind of ground you step on and say,
“remember when things used to grow here?
remember when it used to be green?”

i am still trying to be green,
always trying to be green,
but my psychiatrist tells me
i have holes in me,
and suddenly green becomes a color i will never know how to paint.

outside my psychiatrist’s office,
on the wall of the waiting room,
there is a painting of flowers —
irises and a geranium —
and the leaves, i know, are supposed to be green,
but the paint is old and faded
and they don’t look it.

and for a moment,
i think
that maybe,
whether iris
or geranium
or boy riddled with holes,
maybe it is possible to bloom
even if you are not green.

(a.m.)
sorry for my absence. here's a poem i wrote periodically over the last month or so, from 7/18 to 8/30. hope you enjoy. **
unwritten Jun 2016
from miles away i can see you erasing me.
you might not feel it, but i do.
i know you are.
it always goes this way.

from miles away i can see you erasing me,
and i want to shout at you, to tell you to stop,
but i have always been quiet in the moments when it would matter most to be loud.

i wish i could go long without love.

i will never ask for a second chance because you would then ask when you ever gave me a first one.
because you would break me down.
so erase me.

this is burning bridges still being built;
this is the familiar taste.
i wish i could go long without love. i wish it could have been different.

are you content watching the flames?

this is being sorry.
this is not knowing what to say.
i never know what to say.
i wish i could go long without love but i can't.

from miles away i can see you erasing me.
i am sorry that my desires never manifest themselves into something beautiful.

i wish i could
                    love.

i
        long.

from miles away i can see you erasing me,
so erase.
perhaps it will be better for the both of us.

(a.m.)
i don't really know if i like how this came out. but oh well. june 21, 2016.
unwritten Jun 2016
i am not one to glamorize smoking,
but there is something recklessly beautiful about new york
and the way each cloud of smoke on every city street rolls
with a detached aggression
from cherry onwards —
like a demon knowingly conjured.

it is a slow suicide so defiant it is almost admirable.

almost.

but like most things called admirable at first glance
and detestable
at second,
there is an ugly side.

new york, though,
doesn’t know ugly — never has, never will —
and even when it does it is a
“between the lines” kind of ugly:
the spitting up of blood bright and red —
cherry —
at home, behind closed doors,
not cool and casual on the city streets.

new york doesn’t know ugly.
and so slow suicides become
park bench pastimes and
throats filled with smokes become synonymous with:
“living life to the fullest in the heart of new york city”
and the way each cloud of smoke on every city street rolls
with a detached aggression
from cherry onwards becomes
almost admirable.

almost.

(a.m.)
i was walking through new york city and, unsurprisingly, passed by a bunch of smokers, which got me thinking about the ways in which smoking is glorified & made out to look "cool," which then inspired this poem. hope you enjoy. xoxo
unwritten Jun 2015
it's hard to pinpoint the exact time and place at which i messed up,
at which i suddenly shrunk in appeal,
at least in your eyes.

but it's somewhere.
somewhere in those 26 weeks,
maybe towards the middle,
perhaps near the end.

i don't know if this is the part where i apologize;
as a matter of fact, i don't even know if this is the type of thing you apologize for.
but either way, i will.
i'm sorry.
that we didn't work out.
that you've likely forgotten my face, forgotten my voice.
that i haven't forgotten yours.
that i couldn't be what you wanted.

i've been wanting to ask you how you feel about change.
i want to know all your regrets,
all your deepest fears, darkest memories.
but i know you wouldn't answer.

i've been wanting to ask you how you feel about change,
and if you were to ask me the same question,
i might give another apology.
because endings come so soon and i know i could've been better.
i wanted to be better.

//

on some days i know i was enough.
on other days i hope i was enough.
and on the rest of the days, i can't bring myself to care even when i should.

we forget people too quickly, i think.
and yet, at the same time, not quickly enough.

maybe i'll find some comfort in the fact that we'll both become ghosts to the people that we were too afraid to disappoint.

but even then you'll walk right through me.

(a.m.)
hope you like it. sorry i'm not v active.
**
unwritten Oct 2015
i hold on to pieces of people
long after they've let go of all of me.

i never know when enough is enough,
never know when optimistic hope turns into desperate denial.
or perhaps a better way to put it
is that i never want to know.

i could've let you go earlier,
at a point when it wouldn't have caused me as much pain,
when i wouldn't have spent countless nights up late thinking about you.
i could've let you go when you still meant nothing to me.
after all,
that seemed to work for you.

but no.
i clung on, like i always do.
digging my nails in and planting my feet into the ground,
thinking that i was holding onto you.
i wasn't, though.
i can see now that the only thing i ever had a grip on was my own foolishness,
my own desire to create something from nothing.
not you.
i never had you.

but i'll tell myself that at some point,
i did.
because after all the lies you told me, what's one more lie i tell to myself?

(a.m.)
comments would be appreciated. (:
unwritten Jun 2016
it is a bit past 3 AM and i am waiting for you to see me.
see me, see me.

you told me to write you a poem so here it is.

i am invisible and i am waiting for you to see me.
i cannot make myself seen, i cannot make you look.
so i wait. i wait, for it is all i can do and i cannot live with the feeling of doing
nothing.
powerlessness, in its all its bitter comfort, cradles me like an old friend.

a reconnection.

right now i am putting on the record we both like and i am pretending that you and i are the only ones who have ever heard it.
in a brighter moment i might sing.
in a brighter moment you might see me.

but for now, invisible,
i dance. my feet kiss the floor and my fingers kiss these keys and i am writing you the poem you wanted and waiting, waiting, always waiting.

you may not see me but i will write as if you do.

(a.m.)
good night all. sending peace. xoxo.
unwritten Jan 2017
on tuesday,
dylann roof was sentenced to his death.
on tuesday we tried
to make one body feel like nine.
to make one body feel like justice.
on tuesday we said
there has got to be some price to pay
for entering the house of god
with a sinful tongue
and a handgun.

today,
six days later,
we remembered the rev. dr. martin luther king, jr.
we looked at the world,
called it a place with potential for change,
called it that because there has to be some softer way
to look at bloodshed,
for sanity’s sake.
if not then
all that remains is a solitary image of dr. king rolling in his grave because he knows,
knows that breathless black bodies
are a constant,
are transcenders of time,
whether sunken in rivers,
hung from taut ropes,
or bathing in blood on historic church floors,
singing, singing, screaming, shrill
for some messiah bringing mercy, mercy, mercy.

felicia sanders wants mercy:
prays for it, wills it down from up above,
unfolded from the hands of god
so that it might fall upon the head and in the eyes
and within the very being
of the man who killed her son.


it takes a certain grace —
one so foreign to me i can hardly write of it —
to see god in such men who deliberately defy Him,
to ask that heaven’s gates
be so indiscriminate and overt.
i would want him to burn for this.
but it is not my say,
not my life,
not my long, resounding, unflinching “hallelujah!”
not my certain type of grace.

breathless black bodies
are a constant,
are transcenders of time, a recurring motif.
but so too, then, is the black body full
of breath,
that inhales and exhales faith
without ceasing.

such is the black body
that sees a little bit of god in dylann roof,
that prays that he prays for forgiveness,
that thinks there to be but one kingdom,
and he, too,
a worthy subject.

the solitary image of dr. king rolling in his grave
is not a surprise.
the black body has always known
so well
how to die.

but felicia sanders hopes her son’s killer finds mercy.
perhaps the one thing the black body has always known better
is how to love.

(a.m.)
written 1.16.17 in honor of MLK day, and of the charleston church shooting victims. #blacklivesmatter, today, tomorrow, and always
unwritten Jan 2015
long before the tides came in
and swept away our crippled romance;
long before the sun
burned up the technicolor veil on our monochrome love;
long before the heavens shook so hard
that the stars in our eyes had no choice but to fall back to the earth,
i believe we might've had something real.

and i say "might" because,
as you know,
i hate saying things with certainty.
too often,
it just ends in disappointment.

so yes,
i believe we might've had something real because,
despite all of the warning signs
forecasting our untimely demise,
you never once called me on the phone without a voice full of hope.

despite all of the monsters dragging us down
(you know the ones;
they'd hide behind my eyes
and in the corner of your brain),
you never once looked at me without a gaze of euphoria.

(i'm not a drug, though, and perhaps i should've realized that a bit sooner. maybe i could have left the battlefield without tripping over so many corpses).

to this day,
i don't really know what you saw in me
(or if you saw anything at all).
all i know is that whatever blissful light floated in the empty space between us
was bound to become corrupted by darkness,
even from the start.

still,
i stayed.
i let you feed me adoration in heavy spoonfuls,
as though i was the last lively flower in a barren field,
and you the lucky honeybee.

(i forgot, however, about the sting).

i was tired,
but i could see in your face that you never would be.

(i could also see what you'd become were i to leave -- an empty, sad shadow. nothing but carrion in a world of vultures).

i want you to know that,
at times,
i did love you.
on some days, i'd see your face and my aching heart would spring to life.
on some days, i thought i might actually be happy spending an eternity with you.

(perhaps, in a sense, i did. maybe ours was just an eternity shorter than most).

sometimes i regret not trying harder.
not for my sake, but for yours.
there are times when i try to convince myself
that you're doing just fine on your own,
that you don't need me,
that you found bigger, brighter flowers
in a field not so barren.

but then i remember the look in your eyes
on that gray afternoon in september
when you saw me packing my things
and it hit you,
like an oncoming train,
that i was leaving.

(i imagine that we both looked very much like ghosts that day,
drained of all the life once inside us).

i remember how,
for a while,
you didn't speak,
too choked up by tears.

(when you finally did say something, the voice wasn't yours. it was small and defeated and terribly confused).

i remember seeing the monsters take over again,
viciously seizing control in a manner very similar to how i imagine they had before we met.

and now, whenever i find myself thinking about you,
the first thought is always the same.

i wonder if, were i to see you walking down the street, i would recognize you, or if maybe the monsters have already made you into something else -- a man unrecognizable.

so i try not to think about you.
not too much, anyway.

every now and then, though,
your memory creeps in,
right behind my eyes,
where my monsters used to be.

and i can't help but imagine that when you think of me,
my memory climbs out from the corner of your brain,
where your monsters were.

i realize now, with certainty, that what we had was real.

but just because something is real doesn't mean it's beautiful.

(a.m.)
hi, i haven't written in a while, so here's a poem. it isn't a personal poem; it's written from the POV of a woman who was in an unhappy relationship and is inspired by a short story i recently read. so yeah, hope you guys like it
unwritten Nov 2016
in the early morning hum,
in the beat of the drum of the white noise and the misplaced light, i
treasure you.
the sole familiar thing.

an old, cloying taste
clings to my mouth.
i think you are sleeping.
i know? you are sleeping.
i awoke to silence filled by your silence.
i know you are sleeping;
i felt loved by your silence, still.

i know this is love i imagine for myself in the ways i need it most;
i know how this goes.

in the early morning hum,
in the beat of the drum of the white noise and the misplaced light,
i allow myself to feel a very real fear that you
will be everything i needed
and almost everything i want.

and so in preparation,
a separation:
i shift and twitch and shiver until i am at once here
and not,
until i am at once here
and in the moment,
some way down the line,
that old, cloying taste magnified,
when all comes to pass as i knew it would and i can say
“i knew it would.”
i know how this goes.

you take the morning bus to secaucus,
and i, the one to new york.
when sleep greets me and leans my head
gently
against the window pane,
i will let it come.
i will let it try to fill your absence
in ways i know to be short-lived, for naught,
but i will let it try.

i will miss you when i wake up,
miss the silence that i thought you crafted for me,
but which was really just
silence.
i will miss you when i wake up as i miss you when you are next to me.
i want, for us, something infinite:
that which we cannot have and which you do not want,
hard as i wish you did.

but.
the sun rises —
i know how this goes —
and the misplaced light finds its place again.
the silence i thought you crafted for me, which was really just
silence,
becomes noise.
hectic. colorful without order.
i will miss you when i wake up,
but what ache is strong enough to pull something personal
from all that noise?

you take the morning bus to secaucus,
and somewhere in new york i try to live a life as though you have already left me.
if i had my way,
hopeful, futile grasps towards the infinite would not hold ample weight for a haunting.

and yet,
that old, cloying taste.

still.

(a.m.)
hi all. it's been a while since i posted on here. i hope you're all well. here's a piece inspired by 2 a.m. loneliness. i hope it's okay. **.

(for a.c.)
unwritten Jun 2014
how can i possibly tell you
*all i need to?
first 10w poem. kinda *****.
unwritten May 2014
this
is my first poem
with no capital letters.

and i don't know
why it matters so much,
because the height
or shape
of a letter
has nothing at all to do
with what you are trying to say
or how you feel,
if, of course,
you are one of those lucky few
who feels anything at all.

(a.m.)
unwritten Dec 2014
i.
i feel you in my bones sometimes,
on those nights when the silence screams almost as loud as your lingering words,
when the portrait of you is stitched onto my aching eyelids,
thrown together in a mass of lazy brushstrokes from a dark palette.

ii.
i light cigarettes,
but i don't smoke them.
i just watch them burn out.
fade.
crumble.
like we did, endless eons ago.

iii.
it's clear to me now that,
like the land and the sky,
you and i were simply never meant to meet,
never destined to touch.

iv.
sometimes,
i can bring myself not to feel so hollow,
if i think of the better days,
when your smile wasn't a façade
and your love for me was a looming oak
in this great big forest of daft, dying weeds.

v.
but it's not worth much, anyway,
because the truth
is that your smile shines
just about as bright as the stars in the big city,
and your love for me
snaps
like a silly little twig.

vi.
in all honesty,
we never were,
we just tried to be.

vii.
you know,
i walk endless roads trying to forget you.

viii.**
it doesn't work.

(a.m.)
i haven't written anything in a while, so here's a quick poem with just about every cliché you could ever think of. enjoy.
unwritten Oct 2014
you always complained
that you were a dandelion
in a garden of roses,
a pest, a **** --
something unlovable.

and maybe you weren't perfect.
maybe you were a bit
rough around the edges
with a crack
here or there.
maybe your seams had come undone
and, if you still insist on being a flower,
maybe you had lost a petal or two.

but what you failed to realize
is that every rose
has thorns.

so maybe they didn't have
as many cracks as you,
as many tears as you,
as many rough edges
as you did,
but god,
they were nowhere near as pure,
nowhere near as lovely
as you were.

we wish on dandelions, dear,
because we trust them.
nobody's ever wished
on a rose,
now have they?
no.
they're too afraid
they'll get pricked,
stabbed,
betrayed.

so maybe you were
the dandelion
hidden in a garden of roses.
maybe you were the outcast,
the misfit,
the odd one out.
maybe you were just a little bit unloved,
and unfairly forgotten.

but what you failed to realize
is that i would have gladly picked you
over the brightest rose
in that silly little garden.

(a.m.)
for a.r.
unwritten Nov 2016
no taste.

still, though,
cool and crisp enough
to bring about a smile.

and what a relief,
what a change of pace
to write a poem
about something that don’t deserve no poetry,

for once.

i feel a little bubble of anger,
of bitterness
at the knowledge that the words come easier when my mouth is on fire.

what the hell.
for a few seconds the cool seeds slide down easy.

no taste.

(a.m.)
written 11.25.16. inspired by eating cucumber. i hope this makes sense.
unwritten Oct 2015
some people say
that to be alive
is to hear yourself breathing,
feel your heart beating incessantly,
taking blood, vessel by vessel, from each vein.

sometimes
i lie awake at night
and i hear myself breathing.
i hear myself breathing and i feel my heart beating,
taking blood, vessel by vessel, from each vein.

i look up at the moon and its pale white face,
in stark contrast with the blackened cloak of night.
i cannot hear its soft, subtle breath.
i cannot hear its heartbeat.

but still, it shines —
shines with a greatness i could never reach,
never conquer.
it shines because it wants to be,
wants to exist.

some might say that the moon could never want.
but i know that brightness.
it does not come unless first there is a longing.

i never hear the moon breathing,
but i see it shine.
and somehow, in that shine,
it is more alive than i will ever be.

(a.m.)
written 10.23.15
going to continue this series periodically. please leave thoughts & comments if you can. love you all. **
unwritten Jul 2014
i had a friend once,
and she taught me
not to say "i love you too,"
because it sounds false and inauthentic,
and little white lies are worse than the cold, hard
truth.

i had a friend once,
and she taught me
that you don't have to do anything;
it's simply a matter of whether you should
or shouldn't.

i had a friend once,
and she lived in a small, boring town
with small boring people.

i had a friend once,
and she was not a small, boring person.

i had a friend once,
and she hated herself,
every last inch of her,
but she still always knew
how to make me smile.

i had a friend once,
and she would always reference books
or music
or movies,
because to her,
the real world just wasn't as appealing.

i had a friend once,
and i left her.

she stayed.

she waited.

i'm sure her hope wavered at times,
but she waited still.

and i came back,
only to leave again.

she didn't stick around this time, though.

so, you see,
i had a friend once,
and she taught me
to think deeply,
to live freely,
and to love truly.

i had a friend once.

she's gone now.

(a.m.)
idk.
unwritten Aug 2014
one day
i hope i will be able
to light a match in my brain
and with that fire
reduce all those painful memories
to ash and smoke.

one day
i hope i will be able
to look back upon us --
upon what we were --
and accept that it simply
wasn't meant to be.

one day
i hope i will be able
to pick myself up
and walk away
instead of waiting for your
unlikely return.

for so long,
you have been the ocean,
and i have been the helpless boat --
tormented and battered by your ruthless waves.

for so long,
you were the siren
and i was the foolish sailor,
being drawn in
again and again
by your songs.

for so long,
i was a naive dreamer
and you were the stars
that i hoped would grace me with their presence.

for so long,
i was holding on
to something that was never real.

one day
i hope i will be able
to get rid of you.

and one day
i will.

(a.m.)
unwritten Jun 2016
my father carries his grandmother's wisdom with him
like a satchel upon his back,
like a palm print;
his own father’s teachings tug like strings
and read like a map worn but never wrong —
one that transcends.

my father knows how to live for himself
for the sake of others.
a hidden art form —
secretive to his son
who only knows how to live for others
for the sake of himself.

i could ask him how he does it,
but he tells me first that i will live and learn and hurt and grow,
and so i know, instead, that i will come to know.

my father carries me in his arms as though i am still one day old,
as though i am still taking my first few tiny gasps of air from this great big world
(the world he built for me),
as though my eyes have not yet become accustomed to the light.

my father’s arms never tire and i know why.
they are satchel and palm print,
strings and map.

i am one day old and sure that my father has lived a thousand lifetimes.
he speaks in bloodlines, holds heritage in his hands and then brings it to his head when it whispers.
like a child holding a shell to his ear, listening to the ocean.
my father knows where to find right answers.

i could ask him how he does it,
but he is already answering.

he has always been answering.

(a.m.)
written june 21 & 22, 2016. hope you enjoy. xoxo.
unwritten Mar 2016
sometimes,
often times,
i am cold.
there is snow within me and wild winds outside my door,
and i watch from the window while my crops wither.

i silence the sun.

he stands at my gate with nimble fingers and begs to be let in,
but i have always been a grove of shadows,
and he knows there is no space for him.

sometimes,
often times,
i am cold.

but other times,
spring finds me.
it lifts me up into its gentle arms and suddenly i am a field of clovers,
lucky,
rising up.
suddenly i am baby’s breath, i am pure,
i am a blooming hyacinth.

i am warm.

i know what a change in season feels like.

and i try to be loving.
but on the days when i have gotten up
and planted my seeds,
you are still tangled in thick black weeds and roots.
on the days when i am a rose,
you are the thorns,
and on the days when i grant the sun a chance to speak,
you take his tongue.

i know your pain; i have lived it.
but i will not give up my songbirds just because you are only left with crows.

i know what a change in season feels like,
but you are always winter.
and sometimes, i am spring.

so i will flourish.
and i am sorry.

(a.m.)
a poem about savoring your moments of happiness, and a poem about knowing how to live with people who don't have very many of those. mostly, a poem on preserving positivity (when it comes) even when surrounded by the opposite. hope you guys enjoy it. **
unwritten Jul 2014
you write poems
about lost love,
broken hearts,
and failed redemption.

you write tragedies
about lonely nights,
crying minds,
and bleeding gashes of regret.

you write monologues
about voiceless mouths,
venomous words,
and inevitable decay.

you write autobiographies
about faded dreams,
unheard whispers,
and vanishing memories.

you write
about what once was.

and i do, too.

though i doubt your poems are about me
like mine are about you.


(a.m.)
idk.
unwritten Oct 2014
i wish i could write like you,
the poster child of poetry.
i wish i could tear apart my brain,
seek out all the words worthy of writing,
and paint them onto paper
like an artist in his prime.

i wish i could change lives,
mend hearts,
and enlighten minds,
simply with my words.

i wish i could breathe new life,
new meaning,
into a tragically meaningless string
of twenty-six letters.

i wish i could be like you,
the poster child of poetry.

but i'm not.

in fact,
as we speak,
i am questioning
where to go with this poem,
or whether i should go through with it at all.

as we speak,
my mind is racing,
and yet i can't get a single **** thought down.

as we speak,
life is continuing in its endlessness;
words are being spoken and prayers are being answered and changes are being made;
breaths are being stolen and smiles are being formed and happiness is being spread.


as we speak,
wars are being waged and injustices are being overlooked and hatred is being endorsed;
trees are being burned and rivers are being drained and death is being glorified.


as we speak,
the world is turning;
the clock is ticking;
the world is changing.

and yet

as we speak,
all i can think about
is you.

(a.m.)
this is bad sorry.
unwritten Jan 2018
Train 85 leaves the station and bursts into the blinding sunlight with a surreal suddenness. Below, to the left of the tracks, a field of wheat sways as though still under a summer sun. Golden-brown and lively in spite of the snow resting at its roots. The blinding sun hangs high, glimmering on the water. It gives me a headache. I try to ignore it.

Ahead of me, the laughter of two young people fills the car. I wonder if they are strangers, engaged in conversation just minutes after meeting. I wonder if they have the same destination, if they are each equally happy to be heading towards it.

To my right, across the aisle, a woman no older than fifty talks loudly on the phone about her father’s tumor and the biopsy that will soon determine if it is cancer. She sounds optimistic, and I am happy for her. I tread lightly on the thought that maybe her loud optimism is a front. I want to be happy for her. But in an hour I will get off this train, and if her father dies, I will never know.

The woman sitting next to me returns from the café car with a Dunkin' Donuts coffee and takes out her laptop. I turn down my brightness so that she can’t see that I am writing about her. Even though I write nothing bad, it feels like some sick invasion of privacy.

My fingers feel heavy. This train feels heavy.

I want to be outside, before the sun sets, while the golden-brown wheat is still bathed in light. The sun is going to set without me. I try to be okay with that.

The last time I ever wrote on an Amtrak — the last time I can remember —, it was a song about loneliness and self-destruction. It was more than two years ago. I want to be able to say that I have changed more than I actually have. But even as the world rushes past me, snow and wheat and house and sun, I still feel impossibly lonely. The heaviness from my fingers is in all of me now. I can’t shake it.

The young people ahead of me, the woman across the aisle, and the woman next to me all begin talking at once now, and I feel hot. Their words bounce back and forth off the walls, and I need to get off of this train. Receiving these airborne snippets of other lives feels wrong, feels overwhelming.

Anyone who reads this piece will think I’m insane.

The woman next to me stops speaking. The young people ahead of me quiet down. The woman across the aisle is engaged in some other conversation that I can’t exactly make out. It’s quieter. I might still break the windows of this train if I could, but it is quieter. My fingers feel a little less heavy. It is quieter. At least the insanity is in words now.
this is something a little different, but i hope you all enjoy. 12.14.17
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