Those that say writing is for those avoiding life,
have never seen the way my pen
dances across it's stage.
They've never seen the way words can
wrap themselves about you,
settle in your bones,
nap in your empty places, guarding your secrets.
They don't know how it feels
to squirm under the relevance of a poet's
transcending prophecies.
They don't know the subconscious way we bite our lips
when e.e. cummings whispers
oceantides.
Or how we sigh, starry-eyed
when T.S. Eliot feeds our fantasies with dreams
of places and things we can't find in our backyards.
They can't possibly understand
the relief of understanding,
when Sylvia Plath eviscerates herself into our thirsty
mouths, spilling her soul onto skinsoft pages.
Maybe, then
poets are not so alive after all,
human sacrifices to their own mortal experience.

dear media;
my body is art.
**** your opinion and your ideals on what I should be
because I am living, breathing art.

my face shows young beauty,
inspiration and awe found in my eyes
and just beneath the pupil, a shimmer of excitement.

my lips have said so much, they seem to be so ripe with the words they speak,
they send daggers
yet stay plump and baby pink.

and what about my arms? they have endured so much,
every cut, bruise, and punch for a lonely night or the feeling of not being good enough.
they allow me to write my words;
hold those up plagued with the feeling of being alone
my arms, they are strong.

my stomach is like a mountain and
next time I'm in bed the man I'm with will understand as he
runs his fingers between every space of each rib and kisses my stomach,
down to my inner thighs and back up again.

and my thighs, still fresh and wild
dangle and jump at the mere sight of adventure
wrap around a mans waist to make him feel better and
kiss him on the cheek with the lips I spoke of before.

my brain will hold and absorb galaxies,
an endless universe unfolding before me and
i will take in each bit and dream of it at night because;

i am ambitious, diligent, strong and talented,
and yet I can still be
soft and caressed and fragile but,
media, society, never mistake my kindness for weakness because
i will take the food you feed me and spit it right out because
my body and mind is worth much more.

dear media;
my body is art,
and you will not be the artist.

conceptcollection

We once lived near a school, I swear to god I could still hear those little kids screaming excitedly. When you look outside the window you would ask me if I wanted to learn anything more, and I would say I learn new things every day just by looking at you. You would smile and say that you're nothing compared to the universe. You were always right, then you would ask again and again and I would answer the same.
What you never knew is that you're the answer for the blank spaces I always had. You never knew that no calculation would fill my head so well, and no map would make me feel so small like your eyes.
I don't know why you are still looking for answers, but whatever it is, I hope God listens to my prayers.

i read somewhere
that when you can't sleep
someone's dreaming about you
i'm sorry
but last night i had three dreams
two of them are nightmares
nightmares about you
and you almost fell asleep in the bus this morning
i'm sorry

*i read somewhere
that when you have dreams, you are sleeping rather well

the mile ride home doesn't feel so brief, and
on my way home i need to stop by the jet wash
now that you took our favorite mixtape
i realize that this lonely war is quiet
i can hear the engine humming
yesterday it was muffled by your breathing

isn't it odd?
i'm sure you didn't smile triumphantly either

there's just too many locks i hold, and
i can't remember which one's for home