Let's defy gravity, baby.

Let's defy that *****
until her forceful hands shake us
back to reality.

We'll rise above this dreary world
and play leap frog among the stars.

We'll smoke one with the moon
while he
spills secrets about the Sun.

We'll get drunk off faith
and throw a prayer or two up ahead
for the Man Upstairs.

When the magic fades,
We'll hold one another as the law comes back into effect
and we slowly drift through the clouds
claiming lazily
that the moon prefers Southern Comfort.

You are the razor's glistening edge.
Slits across fingertips.
Yes, there will be bloodshed.
Blood from tips to wrists dripping and spilling from my veins.
It is not poetic.
So I'll clean up my own mess.
No nerves left to damage with the memory of you hardened, turned to stone,
stored in nails and soft hairs.
Locked away. No key in sight.
I have tried to unfurl these fists,
only to fumble around with the essence, the innocence, of lovers after.
These hands are cracked, wrinkled,
disintegrating.
Their untold stories turned to dust.
My palms no longer hold signs of a future.
They can do nothing.
Paralyzed by your pride.
Paralyzed by your edge.
Glistening.
A razor's edge.

I have no wisdom tonight.

Maybe it's this bright orange pen.

Like it's ******* all of the energy

From my mind

Into the color of its ink.

Anything's possible, right?

Right?

to you,
I was but a shadow
in the night.


invisible.

May your eyes never forget
the taste of me-
taken in,
devoured,
in the humid evenings
of late July.

May your lips never forget
the smell of me-
pink skin catching
every glisten of sweat
condensing under
the hot sun.

May your ears never forget
the sight of your name
escaping in a gasp
from my pink lips,
my eyes wide open
never missing a second
of your perfection.

Photographs sure carry a weight, don't they? The black and white and sepia tones speak with a voice that has known sorrow.

They tell the story of fifteen minutes between small talk and bad news.
      Of a motorcycle, a truck, and a bottle.

They inform wary viewers of a Saturday funeral.
       Only six sunsets after a Saturday marriage.

They advise a newlywed widow to let go, to open her heart to love once more.
        Although they know she can now only live in fifteen minute increments.

"But maybe," they say, "she will never take 900 seconds for granted again."

go
ahead.
shimmy along.
i'll lace
up
my chucks
and
watch you
*******
dance
while I
walk
back into
the nothing
from
which
I
came.

The clouds roll over
and over
and over
until it is only
clouds we see.

Lost.
We're lost, and
it's raining.
The road is wet
and it is soaking
our pant legs through.

Riders on the storm.
That's us.
The bass thumps,
the drums beat,
and that's us.
Riders on the storm.

I aspire to awaken hearts

I want the souls encompassing me to flourish.

To dance and sing and create a rhythm.

So when their spirits fly through those Pearly Gates, the fluttering of their wings will create a melody so sweet, even Van Morrison says it sounds free.

There it was,
written so plainly
on your delicate face.

I could see it in your eyes,
wide eyes, intent on driving me mad.

I could see it everywhere,
in lips slightly parted, and
in ragged breaths never fully taking shape.

But above all else,
I could see it in your eyes.

Orbs deep brown,
dripping,
shifting,
over every curve of me.

Months had passed,
but there it was,
that heartbroken, blind desire
alive, again.

Living and breathing
in those deep,
brown,
eyes.

"Come alive..." he urged.

Those whispered words ached in my heart
night after night. I could never seem
to make sense of the request,
and he could never see that he was
the only thing keeping me strung together.
To him, I was miles away from
the look in his eyes. Except he refused to
reach out for me, and I was incapable
of crawling back on my own.

So many people wander
this earth aimlessly,

finding no peace
in the places they have been.

But in my travels,
I stumbled upon
the blue of your eyes,
the taste of your kiss,
and the warmth of your embrace.

I have wandered,
and I have found my home.

In the glow of an intransigent moon,
she looked up at dull stars with a twinkling bitterness.

All she wanted was the sun.
She wanted endless yellows and reds.
Blues.
Greens.
Light to be shed upon her world.

But she was stuck under a film of grey.

And the night would not relent.

I love you.
To all of the stars
and back.
Because to the moon
is not far enough.

I love you.
To the dawn of creation
around God
and back.
Twice.

I love you.
More than any quantitative
or qualitative measurement,
I love you.

I love you
more than you
will ever know.

If love could speak,
its sly voice would slither
up your spine,
promise tomorrow's sunrise,
and gently cut off your blood supply.

Tainted havoc ensue
from our imminent destruction.

We befoul each other's affinity
with the ruin of our past lives.

Together we spoil, destroy, and infect the air that devours us.

Coexisting is not an option
between

You,

Me,

and

Sympathy.

Walking on the
rough concrete,
I had the
sudden realization
of what I was.

I was never
fully formed.
No hand found
mine to hold,
nor could
my own
ever rest still
at my sides.

I was created only
to free fall
through
the breath of tomorrow,
from day
to sunny day-
a mirage of freedom
to my acquaintances.

Perhaps the truth
turned oblivious.

And the boy
knew to whisper
persuasion
softly.

Dark shoulders
urged
a moist
smile.

You are not perfect, darling.
Far from it, actually.
Your aura is lined with jagged edges.

I know it.
You know it.
God knows it.

But that is what makes us so extraordinary.
Your jagged edges expertly fill my empty spaces.

No one is formulated quite like you.
Never has there been.
Never will there be.

You are you, made imperfectly just for me.

I know it.
You know it.
God knows it.

I wish you were here with me.
Your arm around my shoulder,
fingertips tracing nonsense
across my skin.
My head on your chest,
knowing that the monsters
dreamt by the moving pictures
could not possibly reach us
because we have created
a fortress of oblivion
within the confines
of the blankets keeping us warm.

Keeping us together.

Poets/Writers/Artists! I have started a literary journal called 'Sun and Moon' and submissions are OPEN. This is a space for new and emerging writers. Send your poems, short stories, and/or visual art to sunandmoonliterary@gmail.com. Feel free to inbox for more information!

It's hard to imagine
that one day
we will be nothing
more than fossils.

Our only remnant
a dent in the dirt.
The people who find us
will know nothing,
only that our bones
have survived
millions
of years.

This night is you.
Radiant.

Your eyes,
under this moon
and these stars,
brighter
than the sun
on its warmest day.

This night is us.

Our fingers
intertwined
tell the moon a story
of how to fill
the empty space between.

This night is me.

My heart pounding
as all the little stars
gather together
in my stomach
while you run your fingers
down my arm.

Time continues,
but we are here,
now,

Effulgent

shining brilliantly forth
into our night.

Two ears, two eyes
A nose
A mouth
A chin

Billions of combinations,
Not always showing what's within.

More than a face,
your soul shines through.
You're too busy to notice,
being so utterly you.

So mark my words, in your special way,
You will see your own beauty one wonderful day.

I remember our first kiss.
How I was so embarrassed,
So reluctant,
to let my lips to find yours.

And now I chuckle
at the handprints revealed
in my car's
foggy windows.

When I die,
write me a lullaby.
Sing me to sleep,
with a breathtaking melody.

When I am ready to fly,
let me go and do not cry.
Just let me flutter my wings to the beat
of your awe-inspiring harmony.

So, when I die,
please write me a lullaby.
Play it aloud, gently,
then everyone will have known the sound of me.

I am young.
I have plenty of life left to live.
They why, when I wake up every day,
do I feel it coming to an end?

Like you go back to those **** cigarettes,
I go back to you.
So go ahead, take a drag.

Watch me be consumed
with every inhale

and forgotten
with every

exhale

...

Love me spineless.

Not spinelessly,
without will or integrity.

But love me so hard and so fiercely
there are no bones left in my body.

Love me to where my vertebrae know no home,
where my limbs tremble when you're near.

Love me senseless.

I miss you. I miss you so. ****. much.

I miss you with every step and breath I take.
But no.
I miss you more than that. So much more.

I miss your fingers entwined with mine, your thumb doodling patterns across my knuckles.

I miss your voice, the inflection and emphasis of your carefully chosen words, hearing you laugh when I laugh.

I miss your breath tickling my neck at 2 AM, and waking you at 3. Kisses, love, and challenges to follow.

I miss once-in-a-while 4 AM kitchen dances. Aaliyah serenading our modest rendezvous.

We believed it was the perfect time for a dance. Not quite morning, not quite night. But for us, it was just right. The essential in-between moment of blurred clarity.

I miss our blurred clarity.

Our oxymoron.

Morning spent lying, gazing

turn into afternoons
snuggled in sheets
of lazy radiance.

Hands rest on skin
with languorous delight,

traveling amorously
with nowhere to be,

only knowing
where they want to go.

She looked into his damp, brown eyes and realized in an instant the beast she really was. At one time, his body was still a body. Now, it was just a shell. She was tearing out his insides piece by piece and displaying them to the world. Any outsider could see he was stained red.

She looked into his eyes and saw a monster glistening in her reflection. She knew what she was doing to this poor boy. She saw the harm she was causing to his sweet soul. But she enjoyed every minute of it. She was selfish, and she would not stop.

Touch awake the
disturbing
nights.

Her outgrown,
innocent
masquerade:






                   faded.

It's not difficult, dear.
Just slip under the covers,
and let me love you until your sadness escapes through the open window
above our bed.

Forgive the night, my dear.
She thinks herself a romantic as she extinguishes your flame, believing her own stars and moon can reignite your stolen fire.

Forgive the night... For she knows not what she does.
She is unaware that her moon's light is not its own, and her stars that burn are slowly dying.

There is neither here,
nor there,

Only nothing.

There is not then or now,
what was or what will be.

Only nothing
and the space between.

Surrounding me, dying souls.
Infested souls.
Sunken souls.
Souls that are drifting, floating.
Souls trapped by the grip of the enemy.
Innocent, handcrafted souls.

They're coming home.

I'm being suffocated by the weight of this mad, mad world.
I am weeping, adding salt and water to the flood of my children returning from the battle raging beneath my Heavenly sanctuary.

All because of a declaration.
An act of malice guiding unfit soldiers into the strangling hands of war.

Souls that never had a chance to live out the lives I set before them,
now stand before me.

The only thing I can say to their questioning eyes is this:

beauty is born from destruction. styles and rhythms and words will emerge from these malevolent years.

Lives that were stolen by signatures
and trenches
and gas
and bacteria ridden bugs
and all things not made by my gentle hands,
Will be replaced by a stronger Lost Generation,
Who will turn this world, page by page, nearer to the world I intended for my children.

Occasionally,
I will discover
a patch of
my blanket
that smells
like you.

I let my nose
linger there,
inhaling your scent
until the aroma
fades
and the memories
wash over me

and my heart
can no longer
stay above
water.

Words disappeared,
and we were left with nothing
but the electricity.
It, too, fizzled into oblivion.

I want this. Yes, I want this.
God knows how bad.
Do you? Do you want this?
I would claw out my heart
and give it to you with a smile.
Do you see that?
Do you see me?
****.
Do you even ******* see me?!
Do you see me wasting away
with the effort of loving you?
Do you see these fingernails?
Cracked.
******.
Raw.
Do you see my ******* chest?
Do you see how empty I am?

Firm years cannot find her kneading heart

Oh, gently, times stood staring

Figures, handsome and graceful, moving.

Faded.

In a dream, unable to awake,
An insidious haze threatening to overtake.

Foreign invaders infesting the brain,
Corrupting the blood coursing through veins

The descent into madness
Maliciously surpasses

Disintegrating sanity.

Forgive me, for my years.
Perhaps I am just nine short of knowing the rhythm to which your heart beats and having the ability to match it.

Forgive me, for my legs.
I did not have, and still have yet to find, the strength I need to run to you.

Forgive me, for my words.
They were deceitful. I believed they could keep you close to me. But in reality, you have always been hundreds of miles away.

Forgive me, for my heart.
The poor thing loves too quickly. It did not see the big picture. For months, it's gaze was fixed solely upon your scorching glow, which was mistaken for a beacon of hope.

When the
machine
takes over
and grinds
your bones,
skin, and
organs
into
useless, insignificant,
easily forgotten
pieces of
organic matter,
that's it.

That's exactly it.  

You find yourself.

Distance is a funny thing, isn't it?
You're there.
I'm here.

I can pace,
and pace,
and I can gather miles in my soles
pacing these halls,
             these stairs,
             these empty rooms.

But my footsteps
can only burn holes
in ***** carpet.

They can not
carry me
to you.

In the end
when our bodies
are weathered,
flesh decayed,
when we are
mixed with soil
and bugs and
roots of plants
still living,
I pray,
it is your bones
resting
beside mine.