you dont have to be a writer to be a poet

you write poetry with the tears that glaze your eyes at three in the morning
you write poetry with the sound of your laugh and how your lips frame a smile
you write poetry with the eyelashes you bat at your lover
you write poetry with the words you whisper into their skin
you write poetry with the way your chest falls and rises with every breath you take

you dont have to put ink on paper
to be a poet
you just have to live

s.s

have you ever gotten your heart broken?

i have,
it was terrible.

it was so unbearable that i shut it off.

i turned my emotions off.
i gave up happiness to not feel pain.

i couldn't handle feeling.

so i thought,

the best way not to get your heart broken is to pretend you don't have one.

you accept compliments for the sake of courtesy
throw them in the trash when they leave
like a plate filled with food, face down because you
dont want to feel rude
you take the insults and
hold them close to your heart
embrace the liquid pain that comes from their cores
and infects your veins with poison
hurt flows through your body, desperation escaping in the form of
tear-blurred eyes and bitten nails scratching at scarred wrists
until you look over at the trash can
i urge you,
draw out a crumpled compliment
for despite being worn
it is no less genuine

love yourself
get lost
in your own eyes
let any tears
that touch your cheeks
turn your lashes
to gardens

s.s

iii.

you cross my mind often enough
that regrets swallows me whole

and there will always be a part of me
that curses the former self for being
lost in the corners of a mind
thought to be misunderstood

i had no words, none left at all
i stumbled and never got back up

i had no words to explain
there was nothing but the sense of
vastness

and i was lost
and lost i stayed

My eyes creak open, rusted from sleep
Mice stir between the walls,
Scurrying away with my heartbeat.
I hear a peep, dust falls from the chimney
Sneak a peek around the corner,
To see the perfect form of horror.

Shadowed figure, hidden visage
Eying the room, suspicious.
A malicious grin spreads, fingers twitch
Towards decorated sweet breads.
Licks his lips, as he cleans the plate
Then makes his way to my giving tree,
A beacon to guide this demon, unholy.

Quick with the turtle tendencies
To hide underneath my shells,
Pop a shot in his gut full of sweets,
To feed him my own version of hell.
Can’t speak without teeth, he mutters a “**, **, hum.”
I guess I was a bit naughty, ‘cause Santa is go, go, gone.

-SLuR

they always say
not to touch the art
but looking at him
how could you keep your hands off
something so enticing

s.s