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All I leave behind is lipstick marks,
and traces of perfume--
but never do I leave my heart
or things for future doom.
The past me, before I settled down. A little Breakfast At Tiffany's esque
Jan 2015 · 723
concussionary romance
The thing is
falling seems to imply
something accidental,
something unexpected--
I didn't fall in love,
I ran head first, with the
intention that this would hurt less
than a brick wall.

It hurt a little more than that.
It's a good kind of hurt?
Jan 2015 · 891
little cynicism
I.
best friends with unrequited love
and acquaintances with permanent relationships.

II.
this ***** tastes a lot like heartbreak,
but so do your smirking lips.

III.
Old vinyl record players keep me company,
I've never been a fan of cats because I'm allergic.
bad
this is a gentle reminder
that even in the midst of pain and suffering
there are good things too.
needed this a long time ago
Jan 2015 · 595
limbo
maybe we're not drowning,
maybe we're just floating underwater
hm
Jan 2015 · 496
echoes.
can't get out of my head
the way your voice sounds
when you're biting back
a shy smile.
trying to articulate my thoughts
Jan 2015 · 6.6k
(alcoholic love)
drunk on the idea that
2 a.m. phone calls give way
to true love,
and afternoon suggestions
would give you a reason
to see me soon.
feeling some type of way
I fall in love
with bits of people,
rarely a whole person.
Like crooked smiles on subway stations
or untied shoelaces
or favorite books
or eyes that look like blinking galaxies--
I see the puzzle laid at my feet,
your collarbones, your self-hatred, your bitten down fingernails, your detachment, the wars of your mind, the curve of your spine, the way you scrawl your name with indifference--
All these broken fragments that
shatter and surround me
like the wine glass I dropped,
Shards of glass,
your eyes
reflect me
the deep blood red wine
Drops like crystalline desire--
I might romanticize your flaws
and I might make walls of disillusionment,
but I swear I'll love you like you're whole.
Love unselfish
She called me a beautiful, talented              a r t i s t.
but I shook my head and
called her a              
           m a s t e r p i e c e .
I think I could fall in love again.
I should feel the sharp sting of Betrayal,
as easy as it may--
I have forgotten many Memories,
and forgotten which ones have Stayed--

You gave your so called love to Another,
You gave "our song" as "hers"--
As I was once a beautiful Angel,
am now the devil that you curse--

and How carefully do we tread upon,
the cracks within our faults--
are only the things we let up on,
pretending to exalt--

So it seems only right that I would write,
a Vindictive note Of You--
But darling, I haven't an ill-intent
and the past, I cannot rue.
Angel by Jack Johnson, one detail I remember.
Jan 2015 · 4.7k
Wonderwalls and wanderlust
The desire to become
a virtuoso and prove
that I am indeed worthy
of traveling in the pursuit
of my passions
or in the pursuit
of you--

commendable cogitation
or
fool's errand?
gatsby. one can only wonder.
Jan 2015 · 809
{Hope}
People are pounding away
new year's resolutions
looking toward future with violent fervor
but all I see when I look down my street
is deserted pine tree carcasses.
Not looking back, just looking cynical
(i.)

in love with you like
the cities I've never been to
and the places I've yet to reminisce
about: like I'm running out of time.


(ii.)

my fingers get wanderlust
at the sight of your bare skin
and they wish to roam on
fascinating geography:
but i've never wanted to
travel without your smile.


(iii.)
they say all roads lead to rome
but I wish all roads led to you, especially
driving on the highway at 80 mph:
still wishing life would slow down.

(iv.)
wishes wherever i happened to be:
i used to wish on wishing stars,
and pennies at fountains,
and dandelion seeds,
and really ******* anything:
but i stopped once i realized
they wouldn't bring you to where i was.


(v.)
i don't know
where our final destination is,
but i promise to always
wait for you at any train station
even if the tracks
lead to **nowhere.
poems within poems about things that I wonder.
-lying on a bed with satin sheets and stacks of cash

-pastel pink lingerie and a matching pistol to go with it

-black chokers with pearl earrings

-crystal chandeliers to break

-making your girl ******
Jan 2015 · 3.6k
|| sound waves ||
it's simple really, nostalgia is buried in a melody
the same way humans are put in coffins--
deliberately heart-wrenching, a science.
an old transistor radio climbs lazily in the background,
buzzing, humming but then hear it--
blank stares as the road carries on, gradually,
slow mascara rivulets kiss cheeks like the intimacy long forgotten only to come rushing back--
songs that we said were ours were never ours to have,
an old familiar lyric that we claimed to spell destiny,
auditory memories that taunt and torture:
the chorus only instigates barbed thorns to lonesome hearts,
major chords aren't happy,
but cause discordance--
clenched fists on the steering wheel, you must pullover--
you can't pause or rewind, you can't stop--
yes, change the channel--
but the music still plays, and the riffs hang in your head,
remembered and reminisced over static--
but nothing is white noise when the final notes linger on your auditory palette,
the taste like the stare of a cold gravestone...

but even colder still,
the empty seat next to you.
ouch.
Jan 2015 · 410
No title.
slamming doors still sound
like fired shots
and
loud voices still sound like
grenades--
warfare is something that never quite leaves the mind
it's a trigger pulled rifle or a trigger that pulls me
back into the past
where I am afraid and alone
and where I am held against my will.
shouting rages have a way about them that
feels like broken shards of glass piercing my ear drums or my mentality
and if hands are not anything less than gentle,
I grow cautious and cowardly.
I never quite outgrew the habit of ducking my head
when I hear hateful words and could never quite fathom the idea that the sting of sharp curses could be used jokingly and not with ill intent.
while most people live to fight, I live
to forget my battle wounds...
because it's easier to admit
that I can heal
than it is to admit the bullets to my fragile heart were fatal--
blood isn't the only thing that's bleeding out of me.
Okay.
Another year
is nothing.

I am but a child
an adult would
easily dismiss
as a pernicious "know- it-all"
One of my teenage years, is nothing
absolutely nothing,
in the face of big concepts, corporations
and calibrations.

But in fact, I don't know it all,
I hardly know anything, and I am
quite aware of my ignorance, as much
as I try to fill myself with reckless experience and
newfound knowledge.

Even so, a year is a year,
and
I'd like to spend it wisely,
if time is finite
and I am not immortal.
I feel old but I've hardly begun
Dec 2014 · 927
Sadly, an alarm clock
the mind is a vessel swimming in ideas, until the break into reality--waves are receding from the shoreline of thought,
crashing crescendos of melodies
that ached to be heard
And
words that longed to be written
And
memories that once resurfaced--

All gone.

Dreaming is a poet's land and
I ache for eye sight and control and the free flight of my subconscious.
Reality sigh
Dec 2014 · 921
God?
my sexuality is nothing
to be ashamed of.
Dec 2014 · 589
in(human)e
I have shifted the tide, so to speak--
not held captive to the flaws of men
or the romanticism of it--
I no longer have the inclination
to adore atrocity or
to revel in insanity,
But,
in sanity,
I am numb to these vibrations,
numb to the feeling of happy or sad,
because coping is another word
for "robot"-- I'm the analyst now,
I'm in love with logic,
and so life goes on,
without a further nod from me.
calm after the storm
Dec 2014 · 1.2k
---notebook paper sheets---
margins are|_________________
home  ­         |
________________
to day-        |
________________­
dreamy       |
_________________
doodles  ­    |_________________
and  ­           |
________________
cavalier ­     |
________________
corr­ections|
________________
or­ some      |
________________­
times          |
______________­
home          |
_____________­__
to my         |_________________
empty   ­     |_________________
word­s        |
________________
­and            |
_______________­
prettily      |
_____________­__
penned      |
___________­___
lies.            |
_________­_______

Can they read my margins,
see between
the lines
and cut into the edges of
my
conflicted
pages?

                   {I'll never know}
.
Teeth,
grasping at straws,
grasping for words
but I'd rather they grasp
at my flesh--

Hands,
gesturing while speaking
but oh, if they could
make gestures on my form--

and Minds,
thinking deeply,
but do you mind to
let me forget my sins on your skin?

Let me take these little pieces of you,
let us immortalize not in words, but in
feeling.
I've never claimed to be good.
Dec 2014 · 4.9k
Aesthetic.
I want more cute skirts
to go with my thigh highs and psychotic tendencies.
Sorry, I'm not "little miss sunshine"--
I'm lip locked with cynicism and
having an affair with my goodbyes.
Can  you taste the sarcasm
Dec 2014 · 1.1k
Us.
Us.
i.
She's the personification of indecision,
and I'm all of her inner wars and frissons.

ii.
She's an anarchist, she's queen anti-christ,
and I'm a sacrifice.

iii.
She wonders at my unrevealed nostalgia,
I wonder if a frozen heart can thaw.
2-lines
My thoughts are
scattered ashes to the wind--
non-collectable burnt and charred,
wood that I would've carved into the likeness
of hearts, love letters
that I failed to make my point in,
and
newspapers that should be a cohesive story
but ended up a collision of black and white print
and jumbled media confusion.
not writers block just scattered
Nov 2014 · 570
In a garden of daisies...
I'm a ****** rose,
I'm deathly nightshade,
I'm angry poison ivy,
And my vines have seemed to strangle
everything else that tried to grow--
loving me might just **** you.

But maybe you like suffocation,
the taste of sweet poison on
lips that have spoken nothing but
infallible sin,
it is fated, written in the very way
you submit yourself to the storm
that I am.

If anything, there is one thing that I've learned:
as much as daisies are pretty little things,
you're not gonna find one that would make you
do all the crazy things I could make you do.
*kisses your ****** lips*
Nov 2014 · 1.0k
Cars.
A body like running pavement
and filled with
skidmarks --
broken pictures of sunset sky between trees
power lines--
they fall and rise like waves,
quickly flashing.

A mind like an endless set of highways
there's no map to tell
where anything could end up--
ideas that are
headlights, move with uncontrolled velocity,
bobbing in the darkness, wheels
humming from the engine, throaty engine--
voice that's a radio, projects songs
and thoughts
to the passengers--

it's not a roller coaster, we don't choose to be behind a wheel
but we're all in our vehicles
with horns
and shouting matches and road rage,
swearing, arguing our luck,
gambling the speed limit
to try to get to all our destinations
"on time"
but God only wants you to feel the wind rushing
through your rolled-down windows,
or contemplate on silent journeys, a
seemingly never ending stretch of road,
breathe through the starry summer nights,
sunlight flickering on rooftops,
dirt paths in forests,
trees, lights,
pedestrians,
a hitch hiker,
clouds,
parks,
mountains,
cities,
stoplights,
billboards,
­but all you see is the
pictures fading into a blur--
blurring,
all
blurring,
and sudden--*

                          collision.
don't take it for granted.
Nov 2014 · 1.0k
cosmic affairs.
Kisses like dying      s   t    a   r   s,
*** like new       g   a  l  a  x  i  e  s.

U   n  i  v  e  r  s  a  l    love.
making small things bigger than they are
Nov 2014 · 981
laying claim
Mark me
like a permanent marker stain on my collarbones,
a smear of bruised flesh, painted with possessive fury.
I'll mark you with my nails,
crescents like waning moons on your back--
but we aren't waning,
we're waxing,
glowing,
night lovin'
creatures.
professional poetic lust
Nov 2014 · 3.5k
enlighten
Darling, I hope I'm the cause of your
existential crisis,
opening your mind
in horrifying,
vulnerable
ways.

I hope I make you question
and I hope I make you learn.
Maybe I'll rewire your brain--
praise me
let me incarcerate my
writings in your
bones,
let my thoughts linger,
let the pads of my finger tips
dwell along
the contours of the railways
in your head,


let me in.
Quick write no edit go
it won't be too hard
to find another
you,
but I could do better--
i just need an upgrade,
a phone that will take pictures
of my new lover,
a popped button off his collar, easily fixed
and the temporary kindness
i could find in a more genuine soul.

so yes, you're replaceable.
That was heartless sorry
Nov 2014 · 365
catharsis
He's going to kiss
It all away.
I'm okay.
Nov 2014 · 3.9k
rage
This should be in all caps
But I trust you to know
I'm screaming anyway.
.
Nov 2014 · 792
Don't..
Don't send me pictures of tattoos you want unless you have the intention of letting me watch the ink dry, the intention of permanence.

Don't love me with a half-hearted candle when clearly we could be a forest fire.

Don't smile like that at me unless you plan to catch me when I swoon.
Friendly reminders
Nov 2014 · 1.4k
poetic justice
I don't think my poetry
serves you justice;
if anything, it's a disservice
and I'll never be able to pen
something
that will have as much significance
as your stride in a busy city street,
or the way you can love me,
even when I don't deserve it.
*sighs*
oh *******,
i'm not under the control of fate,
remember?
the government controls us.
so i'm destined to **** you.
Nov 2014 · 1.3k
Forest Graveyards
clinging desperately
a lone leaf
on an autumn branch,
enduring the cold winds that blow--
the breath of winter,
the darkened skies,
the bare branches of skeleton trees.
one more push and it will fall,
swoop down in all poetic glory,
to paraphrase life's forgotten misfit ideals--
no matter the tenacity of the leaf,
how strong its stem holds,
falling is fate,
and rotting is
inevitable.
slowly slowly slowly dying
Nov 2014 · 997
and now I feel okay.
she's afraid of reoccurring nightmares
afraid of choosing a single instrument to play, she can't stay with one
beautiful sound-producing musical wonderwall,
of committing herself to one,
and I was wondering if she was really talking about instruments
or talking about people,
talking about me--
am I a violin or a piano?
it doesn't matter because she says she wouldn't stay with any of them
anyway.
she's afraid of going downstairs to brush her teeth at night in the dark
and instead of picking up a tooth brush
she's afraid of picking up a razor in its place,
and god i tell her
all about my nightmares
how I run and outrun myself
or try to,
I reveal that I fear and love being
alive, I expose myself and my personal
horrors,
and I tell her, tell her it all, and for the first time
she looks at me with eyes that aren't empty,
eyes that are sorrowful as they are
compassionate and she tells me
"it's okay".
i think i'm understanding now
Nov 2014 · 311
I'm looking and
I see her in a distant place
her eyes roam
a different dream then where we are,
absently munching on her food,
and I'm looking
and contemplating,
and trying to delve
into her head for just
a fragment of time,
so I ask,
"what are you thinking?"

she startles, stops, stares...
she opens her mouth,
"I'm thinking this is really ****** pizza."
truth in the small things
Nov 2014 · 908
paper souls
He's a diary
with secrets to spare.

I'm a first draft love
letter that's trashed
half way through the
confession.
... I need to stop
Nov 2014 · 2.1k
{paint me black}
Red,
Paint me red
The color of our passion, dear heart--
Until I realize you that you painted it
The color of rusty hinges.

Yellow,
Paint me yellow
Because I thought yellow was sunshine
And happy
Or maybe windswept afternoons
For dandelion wishes--
Until I saw that you painted me sickly green pale yellow, the color of hospital rooms and body fluids.

Paint me blue
A soulful sky blue,
I thought that you couldn't go wrong with blue--
But now I'm an indigo mess, very sad
Drowning--blue, I'm blue.

So paint me black
Like hateful ink
Or skies with no sun, no stars,
  I'll be a masterpiece then--
Or maybe I should've realized you're no painter, and I'm not a clean canvas anymore.
you could say my heart breaks are fueling my creative process so there's that
Nov 2014 · 540
"But I guess not."
I thought
We could be
Something--
When I say something
I mean instead of a "hello" or "hallo"
Maybe a good morning kiss.
Or twine your bilingual tongue
To mine and make sense of all the hidden
Messages and vowels in our
Passion.
Maybe we could
Link hands on long walks
Or swim in each other's eyes
With knowing, glowing
Gazes.
I just thought we could be
Everything happy for a little while
And everything that makes smiles
As easy as learning how to say
"I love you" in our two languages--
I know you already know, but I don't know how to say it yet
I just wanted to know an "I love you"
Which isn't foreign in any language.
I just thought we could be
Together.

But I guess not.
I'm happy but not
Nov 2014 · 2.5k
suggestion--
be the rainbow
after the rainstorm--
I'll be moonlight
for your midnight
passages.
please
i.
A creature lurks in my mind, has overtaken me in some manner.

ii.
It is a creature because it is a feeling that has grown to unimaginable proportions and has developed limbs to walk around the crevices of my thoughts.

iii.
This creature is an unidentified state of dissatisfaction. It is a hungry beast and I've spent the majority of my short life trying to fill its insatiable appetite. At first, I thought its desire was human affection. I tried to find it a home that would house us both,
a heart that was big enough for us and kind enough
to let us rest and be content. This only worked for so long as each time as each fragile heart eventually fell apart and we were left to fend for ourselves.

iv.
Maybe I can't fill it with broken hearts or rebellious impulses.
Maybe--
I will never satiate its hunger.

v.
I don't know what I'm doing, I don't want to know sometimes
I embrace recklessness but I am also
direction-less, weaving intricate
patterns of distress in my skull,
this--
I can't control.

vi.

what am I even doing, what am I doing,
what do I even want, what do I do,
I feel oppressed without a clear
sign of oppression, I am
not a sheep--
I'm not to be led.

vii.


help me.
I'm not lucid.
Nov 2014 · 838
<-----> linear equations
we're


3-dimensional and consider this form




of existence



more important



yet




lines of words



are




two-dimensional



and



they



immortalize us.
-
Nov 2014 · 1.4k
sext:
Your mind is an archivist's *******, I'd like to spend an indefinite amount of time there and observe the inner workings
like a astrologist, seeing your constellations of thought...
it also doesn't hurt that your stubbled jawline
seems to speak volumes, and I wonder
if it's chiseled proportions would mind me using them
as braille.
I'd like to know the caverns of your mouth
more intimately--
please whisper prose on my collarbones...
and I don't believe in love at first sight,
but maybe, love at first poem.
{to one of my followers, i was going to send this as a message but then I got scared and sometimes I'm really shy.. so this happened.}

I get infatuated really easily, in case you didn't notice.
Nov 2014 · 641
my daily existential crisis
i.

Experience is subjective, but maybe it's like Jung said--
our collective unconscious shares our pain
even if we don't wish to do so.
Maybe we're not as perceptive to the hive mind in the duration of normality
but sometimes I feel it, I understand it,
the connections in my dreams.
we're an inversion to the universe,
one of many indefinitely,
Observing in our pocket of humanity--
trying to find a reason to be
that doesn't have a clear outward
manifestation.

ii.

I don't believe in purpose,
that's something we made up.
fate and destiny are not at subliminal lines of a universal intention
but what culture wants us to think.

iii.
I'm a cosmic accident, but I don't mind-- even accidents can do good things.
..
Nov 2014 · 815
i'm not bitter but
does he hold your face
better than i did
because all i seem to recall is
you leaning towards my touch
like i was sunlight and
you were hungry leaves--
now that's even funnier
because you did leave didn't you?

was he good at understanding
the little actions
the nuances of a head tilt
or that picking your nails
meant that you were
dying of boredom--
{or bored of me}?

and lastly,
did he find that you loved
words and stories with a brilliant fire?
did he ignite a burning passion
in that literary lovin' heart?
because if so, i hope he's a *******
library and you've burned him
to a crisp.
i'm not angry but maybe i'm passive aggressive sometimes
Nov 2014 · 515
v.
v.
||
a voice of an angel
and the heart of a devil,
lead me not into temptation--
I know they say it was an apple
from the tree of knowledge,
but are you sure it wasn't a pear,
because that hour glass body looks
much more luscious than any apple
i've ever eaten.
temptation?
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