she
is what she is meant to be,
she is the sensuality
of her femininity,
she
seeks beauty in all
she sees,
her essence is complex simplicity,
she
is contradictory,
she is all
that's satisfactory,
in her days
and in her dreams,
she
is lovely,
loving me,
she
is everything,
woman,
perfectly
a precious, priceless,
part of
me
that is
she.
_
Femininity
http://beautyineverything.com/4618419981

i write about what i know because
ive got nothing better to say
and i try to fit the length of a thought
onto a single page
because i just hate it when
ive got an entire poem or whatever
almost finished,
only a few words left,
and  they just wont fit

and plus who am i to waste
a slip of paper
on a phrase or two
that doesnt make sense alone
and that (who
am i kidding)
no one is going to read anyway?

unless there is someone
out there
that has always wanted to know
about what its like
to watch a person

transform from
water to ice crystals
in a matter of minutes

or how it feels to hate your
father and then weep at the thought
and then hate yourself for weeping

to blindly step with
bare feet
on a baby bird
and feel its naked skull crumble beneath
your heel      

to dance alone, throwing yourself
into frenzied spirals, smashing
against the walls and breaking
apart like a tired old star
to collapse then
letting the light drain from you

letting the               light
drain
from you
and reaching up to touch it with quiet hands...

I am not a poet
Because I don't have the
Vast vocabulary of most
And I can't tell you the
Difference
Between haikus and acrostics  
And I don't know
How many stanzas make up
A "good write"

I am not a poet
Because I'm a psychopath
And I sip my coffee
From the wrong side of the mug
And I open my banana
Upside-down
And I tangle my heart
Into knots on purpose
Despite it's resilience

I am not a poet
No, I'd like to think
That I'm the poem
But I'm not that either
I'm more of a chaperon
For life's chaos
I watch over the panic attacks
And I coddle the over doses

No, no,
I am not a poet
How can I be?
When I've been tipping
And tapping
My shoes in the hall
Just waiting for doomsday
I've just been hoping
Praying
For this to be simple
For the sky to come crashing down
Because then I can say
That the bills
The rent
The schooling
The mainstream *******
Was all meaningless

I am not a poet
Because I can't make a good
Rhyme
And I'm not as clever
As I used to be

I am not a poet
Because I often succumb to the
******* of others' words
Because I know that
They said it better
Than I ever could

And I am not a poet
Because I'd rather quote
Those before me
Than find strength in my own
Broken syllables

I am not a poet
But I am the raw
And deep
Bleeding sore on the side
Of your mouth
That you can't help but chew at
That you could never possibly
Ignore

I'm not a poet
Because these words
Really belong
To the wind
And my pulse rests
In the Earth's crust
And my emotions
Connect in the sky
And my fingertips
Are made from stardust

No,
I am not a poet


*Every atom in your body came from a star that exploded. And, the atoms in your left hand probably came from a different star than your right hand. It really is the most poetic thing I know about physics: You are all stardust. You couldn’t be here if stars hadn’t exploded, because the elements - the carbon, nitrogen, oxygen, iron, all the things that matter for evolution and for life - weren’t created at the beginning of time. They were created in the nuclear furnaces of stars, and the only way for them to get into your body is if those stars were kind enough to explode. So, forget Jesus. The stars died so that you could be here today.
—Lawrence M. Krauss

he sighs,
lights up another cigarette.
this time he knows something is different.
he waits patiently,
coffee in one hand and nicotine in the other,
staring aimlessly at his phone.
he had lived through another silent day.
there really was no surprise in that.
it had been days since she disappeared again.


the routine was so consistent that her
absent nature was almost as secondhand
as the smoke she used to inhale when she
cuddled against his shoulder.
he was weary now,
because he tired of not knowing
what she was consuming,
or who she may be *******.
he was wary,
not knowing if she was lying in a gutter
or just lying on her back,
legs spread in an invitation to a myriad of catastrophe.
at one time,
he was the one spreading those legs.
but he was also the one tucking her in at night.

but one day,
something clicked;
she woke up one morning cold and indifferent.
her summer smile had faded,
her eyes grew frigid.
he remained patiently by her side,
until she stopped coming home.
until she started drinking herself into oblivion
with people who did only god knows what to her fragile frame.
this time,
he was ready to give up hope.
this time,
they had fought so terribly
that he knew she wasn't coming back.
he knew it wasn't easy to hear
someone you trusted say things like,
"*******, you filthy ****"
and
"i hope to god you choke on the next pill you pop."
he wished he could take the words back,
but his heart was so broken.
she was so distant,
he wanted to make sure he reached her.
and apparently,
he did.
she had shaken her black hair,
blinked tears out of her gray eyes,
and turned on her heel.
that was the last he had heard from her,
and even now he yearned to hear
her voice on that phone;
the phone lying in front of him.
any words at all,
to know she was alive.
maybe, even, that she still loved him.

because, after all,
isn't that what he wanted?
isn't that why he picked her up,
****** on roadsides,
and dried her tears on his sleeve?
isn't that why he allowed her to
hide from the world in his bed;
kept safe somewhere between box springs,
his comforter,
his arms?
he would do anything to help her,
but she was a tragedy:
a life doomed to fronts of indifference
and too deep of cuts on wrists,
thighs,
hips.
and she wouldn't let anyone help her.
any gentle touch caused her to run,
and she never wanted to come back.
and this boy,
he just kept running after her.


he takes a sip and sighs.
he ashes his cigarette,
studies it,
puts it out.
he studies the bottom of his coffee cup
and carries it to the sink.
as he rinses it,
he hears small footsteps,
and an equally small pair of hands
snake their way around his waist.
"i'm home," she breathes into his ear.
this night wasn't so different than any other,
except that she came home
sober
yet warm.
he had been wrong.
so he turns and looks at her,
takes her hand,
and leads her to bed.

I can't touch my face because my hands smell like popcorn
and I can't paint my nails because the smell is too strong.
I keep dancing with my arms and my head while I sit in my chair,
and I keep thinking it's okay, but I know it's not.
I want to paint a picture and tape a cats head onto a humans body,
and I want to light it on fire and take a picture of you naked and send it as a postcard to my best friend, (that I sort of have a thing with).
I'm not sure how many times I've called you this past week,
probably none, considering I don't like talking to you, (especially on the phone).
I'm not even sure if I remember your phone number or not, the numbers just keep mixing up in my head and then I end up calling my hair dresser or the pizza place down the street, (you know the one, with the salad bar that we never eat from).
I don't want to have to keep this up any more, I just want to put white out on those things I said and write over it with something funny or beautiful.
I don't want to have to worry about making the bed either, because it's really hard when you do it by yourself.
So please don't make me leave another message,
pick up the phone and tell me you love me already,
wait,
I don't want you to say it unless you mean it,
so just,
call me back.

it lifts like silk from the skin:
soft and slow, extremely sensual,
and gives goosebumps
that shiver through my eyelashes.

it whispers to my senses,
gently pulling
until I am lifted from the ground
purely ecstatic; purely silver.

it is in my eyes when I see you
and under my skin when I don't
tickling me to madness--
I think I need you.

It never made a difference what I did or didn’t say to you.
You didn’t listen to me either way.
I could have told you the truth all along and maybe
then it would have made a difference. But I’m too lazy,
and I’m too tired, and it’s about time I gave up for once.
You gave up on me straight away and I thought I could pull you back up.
I guess I’m not always right.
I guess I’m only trapped in what boundaries you give me.

You make me so angry, but its worthless pounding on the door of a sound-proof room. I did anyway, and it only made my knuckles raw.
You hurt me. Does that mean anything to you?

      I found myself screaming.
      I found myself losing it.
      I found myself in the middle of nowhere, with no one, and nothing to say,
      wordlessly livid.
      Every thought inside if me no longer made sense.
      It felt like I’d lost control of my own life,
      all because I lost control of you.

      I was simply a flea on a tick on a dog on a hill on an island in the ocean of the world, which is barely a speck in the universe.
      I was a moment that no one heard—especially not you—
      a tree that fell silently in an empty forest,
      a lie that was told to a dreaming deaf mute,
      a ransom held for 12:03 P.M. that no one can pay, that no one even understands.
      I was a thought removed from a frontal lobe
      (“Pass the scalpel,” whispered remorsefully from behind a doctor’s mask).
      I was trapped in a memory you’d forgotten,
      and it was all I can do not to be completely erased.

Remember me! I wanted to shout, for waiting was no longer hoping. In my own sharp memory, I was surrounded by ice. It was fierce, yet completely withdrawn into the open window of your soul. All I could see was debris and packed boxes, stacked upon each other in the clotted, fatal shape of a skyscraper. The darkness of your fond shape wrapped me within myself, when I thought I was wrapped into you. You led me down a path that you knew I would be lost on, and you left me there without a word.

       I’m still stuck in this desolate world that we created,
       and as soon as you think of me, as soon as you return, I will greet you:
       “Welcome to every second in despair, every moment lost, every
       minute growing angrier; welcome to the storm is coming, to running
       from the monsters that aren’t even there, to burning fevers; welcome
       to dead but alive, to quivering and empty, to uncomfortably full,” I
       will say.

“Welcome to loneliness.”

i know you're thinking about it now, too.
fingers dipped into coffee ice cream.
watching 'girl, interrupted,'
and i know you watched it closely
and maybe you questioned it like i did.
i know you're thinking about
those nights that we talked until
it wasn't the night anymore.
rushed phone calls when we
felt desperately to hear the other's voice.
nights spent in laughter,
nights spent in fear.
secrets, and dreams.
slurpees, and hiding from the heat.
and i remember that when you left that day,
my pillow smelled like you.
and to be truthful,
i held it and inhaled until
i thought my lungs could burst.
i tried to hold you in.
i tried until i couldn't anymore,
just to have that little bit of evidence
left over of your visit.

i'm so sorry that i drove you away.
i begged you to stay and then i left.
i fled, constantly, and i don't
know when i'll stop running.
i'm afraid of standing still,
but i'm also afraid of the
pain in your ocean eyes.
i'm afraid to be the one who causes it,
even though i know i am.
i'm ambivalent,
pulled between wanting to heal it
and wanting to protect you from it.
you'll never understand.
i'll never understand.
sometimes it's just easier for me
to leave it all behind.
to leave it to melted slurpees
and ice cream and movies.
to late nights and secrets
and the heat of everything.
and maybe, just maybe,
the upcoming cold will
bring the end of us.
officially.
but we both know this won't happen.
because i don't know goodbyes,
and i don't know severed ties.
i don't know how to end poems
or tie off chapters.
all in all,
i ******* **** at leaving.
and i'm sorry for that,
i really am.