I am a dot on Seurat’s canvas.
You told me that I wouldn’t be respected if I used Times New Roman, well maybe I don’t write to be respected. Maybe I write in Times New Roman because I like to read in it.
I could write in Wingdings. Would that make you happy? Would that make me stand out?
I don’t write with words I don’t understand and I don’t embellish nature to sounds pretty. Times New Roman isn’t trying to impress anybody and neither am I.
I am writing about what is real and I am writing about how I feel and I don’t need your opinion and I don’t want to hear your spiel.
Did that make me stand out?
I stand above my bed
And examine the damage.
Blankets this way and that
Pillows all over
Sheets tangled up around themselves.
Proof of something that
Only hours ago
Left this place empty.
I take in the rubble
And breathe deeply.
I lower myself down to those
And backwards bedspreads
And fill my lungs with you.
I pull them up around me
And close my eyes
And wish for this place to be
The same kind of battleground
those ocean currents
they call eyes.
not a word outspoken.
Strangled with glacier hands,
fingertips of salt and
thunder cottoning my
You wanted to save me,
but I could not tell you
over the salt eroding
that you were the one drowning me.
I don't think I'll ever be close enough
to you. Like so close
that I can feel your heartbeat
in every part of myself.
It seems weird to want to
open you up and check out your soul
but that's exactly what I want.
I need to see what you know
and what you've felt
and who you are.
Because right now you're just a name
and a pair of ever-moving hands
that just won't settle
on my body.
days like this, gray sky
over coastal grandeur,
I sit and look out across
the rubble of a city,
the rubble of our souls;
what a ******* mess
we have made.
the gulls loop and dive,
screaming, into the
winter lake, and all
the classical music
in the world couldn't compare
to the dull sorrow
of this moment;
such a beautiful contrast
of trash and gold.
we are all, every one,
searching for something
to hold that won't turn
my hands are tired from
having no purpose
so why don't you take
the load off and
slip your fingers through
I wasn't sure what to make
of this intergalactic space war.
With flying soldiers in old tobacco tins
and bullets made out of fingers.
I took it upon myself, I suppose
to conscript to this chaos,
upon the fluffy terrain.
Some sort of tyrannous Tyrannosaurus,
with a purple top hat
had taken over the bunk bed fort.
I'd made up my mind.
The only thing for it was a straight "Neeeeee-owwwwwwww"
into the back of the villainous lizard.
My comrade in arms however,
felt I wasn't quite suited for this rampant combat.
Although, his reason I didn't quite agree with;
"You're doing it wrong" he said, rather patronisingly.
I guess my little cousin is less of the kamikaze type and more of the tactical warfare nature.
A sort of poetic commentary on what (as you get older) suddenly seems ridiculous to you, but is so normal still for every child.
Lovers, hold on to everything.
Because when you’re holding on for dear life
That’s when you find what you’re made of.
I walk and the rose petals fall
as if they have gravitational properties
which allow them to float
for just a while longer
Before they hit the ground.
God I wish for that gift.
An ethereal light
Illuminates my figure
I crashed onto the ***** mattress
On an even dirtier floor
And writhed my body
This isn’t the story of heartbreak
It’s the story of what happens after it.
I’ve felt the heat from the core of the earth
Give birth to my broken body
He broke me but I fixed me.
(It took an eternity)
When I thought I just needed his love
I found I just needed mine.
Skyscrapers and mango trees wearing boxer briefs.
The tantalizing wind blows caressing paperclips and mortuary signs—
turning them indigo red for we all know that dead bodies are nothing but dead.
Hymns of love and soliloquies of the unconscious ego—
Id of our time but men of the past be our hero.
Leaving to wonder, if king Nebuchadnezzar was a crack-feign
would Coca Cola still educate penguins on the importance of Lesbian Existence?
For in this war of life, cockroaches are the real winners,
and the taste of excellence is only reserved for fire extinguishers —
so if nuclear clouds persist,
let the fire burn with love and you lay on the bed of oblivion
cuddling the moral that capitalism leads to schizophrenia.
So insure your sanity for free 99, this, with warm regards from yours truly,
Rhizome of Golgotha.