I am not in the business of
Listening to lies
Which is why I hardly hear
When you say "I love you"
Love is the most overused word
In the english language
"I love this song!"
"I love this book!"
"I love that movie!"
"I love you."
It's become an impulse,
A reflex
Spoken in a monotone voice
Because I'm expected to
And every time we exchange those words
It feels like a transaction to me
When the words slip from your mouth
They feel clumsy and awkward
With no passion and not a hint of truth
Everyone tells me you don't mean those things
That you yell at me
That you say things without thinking
But just because you speak without a filter
Doesn't mean it's not true
If anger and abuse is the only kind of love
You have to offer
Then I don't ******* want it
You can keep your double standards
And your lies
I thought a mother
Was supposed to have
An agape kind of love
Not make their daughters
Feel like burdens
For even being alive
You've classically conditioned me
To not believe a word anyone says
I've had hope far too many times
And whenever you tell me you love me
And I fail to reply
You'll start yelling yet again
But you don't understand,
That unlike you,
I am not in the business of
Telling people lies

There is a desire within me,
a rich burning spur
which in my side
is planted.

Reaching, steady, patient,
weaving like vines for sunlight,
its heat,
the moon.

Roots,
cold and beckoning,
dip the cosmic water
and break space with a
word.

Sparks stir
in the dark,
kin with stars,
Icarus ash vanishing.

I am that ash,
that shell cast
and waiting for a casket.

A wicker man
with map hands
holding a coal heart
in a flower petal basket.

It's tragic..
but laugh!
We need the wheat,
but there's magic
in the chaff.

I've never liked the expression
'Sticks and stones may break my bones,
But words will never hurt me."
I think it undermines the power of words
It's undeniable that words have an impact on people
Letters strung together can sting a person's soul
When they are spoken with a tongue used like a whip
Words evoke passion,
They inspire us,
Make our blood boil,
Horrify us,
And yes, they can hurt us
To say that words can't hurt,
Is to demean all that words do
Look at Marat,
Martin Luther,
Shakespeare,
Darwin,
Hobbes,
Freud,
Orwell,
Paine
And tell me words can't change the world
Words are what I turn to when I have nothing left
I'd rather my bones break,
That would be much better,
Than to lose my dignity,
To have a record of voices
Tell me I'm useless,
I'm stupid,
I'm fat,
I'm never good enough
Always on repeat,
Always on my mind,
Always ringing true
Maybe I'm over analytical
Maybe I care too much
About things said in the past
But here's to all the "I love you's"
All the "I hate you's"
To saying "I don't give a ****"
The pen is indeed mightier than the sword
Because your words
Are what made me turn the blade
On myself

Wanted: v.; to desire, to lack

I wanted you to be the stars to my sky --
I would have let you form
galaxies and constellations
to the edge of infinity,
in whatever shapes you pleased.
I wanted you to be the pen,
while I, the paper,
let you write across me,
telling me your story,
blending it with mine.
You were the avalanche
to my echoing heartbeats:
unstable, unstoppable,
a snowflake turned by rage
into a force incomparable.
You were the thunder
to my summer storm:
inconstant, intemperate,
a distant reminder
of things worse to come.

I wanted you to be a sonnet,
but instead you were an elegy
for a love unrequited.

And I would hold your hand,
but I can grasp a pen;
and it makes me free to know
that unlike you
the pen
will not
let go.

Griselda gratz kept sixty cats,
She fed them very well
On angel cakes and raisin flakes and acorns in a shell.

Her furry crowd patrolled,meowed
About her tiny house,
Griselda gratz kept sixty cats,
To catch a single mouse.

You are going to ask: and where are the lilacs?
and the poppy-petalled metaphysics?
and the rain repeatedly spattering
its words and drilling them full
of apertures and birds?
I'll tell you all the news.

I lived in a suburb,
a suburb of Madrid, with bells,
and clocks, and trees.

From there you could look out
over Castille's dry face:
a leather ocean.
My house was called
the house of flowers, because in every cranny
geraniums burst: it was
a good-looking house
with its dogs and children.
Remember, Raul?
Eh, Rafel?         Federico, do you remember
from under the ground
my balconies on which
the light of June drowned flowers in your mouth?
Brother, my brother!
Everything
loud with big voices, the salt of merchandises,
pile-ups of palpitating bread,
the stalls of my suburb of Arguelles with its statue
like a drained inkwell in a swirl of hake:
oil flowed into spoons,
a deep baying
of feet and hands swelled in the streets,
metres, litres, the sharp
measure of life,
stacked-up fish,
the texture of roofs with a cold sun in which
the weather vane falters,
the fine, frenzied ivory of potatoes,
wave on wave of tomatoes rolling down the sea.

And one morning all that was burning,
one morning the bonfires
leapt out of the earth
devouring human beings --
and from then on fire,
gunpowder from then on,
and from then on blood.
Bandits with planes and Moors,
bandits with finger-rings and duchesses,
bandits with black friars spattering blessings
came through the sky to **** children
and the blood of children ran through the streets
without fuss, like children's blood.

Jackals that the jackals would despise,
stones that the dry thistle would bite on and spit out,
vipers that the vipers would abominate!

Face to face with you I have seen the blood
of Spain tower like a tide
to drown you in one wave
of pride and knives!

Treacherous
generals:
see my dead house,
look at broken Spain :
from every house burning metal flows
instead of flowers,
from every socket of Spain
Spain emerges
and from every dead child a rifle with eyes,
and from every crime bullets are born
which will one day find
the bull's eye of your hearts.

And you'll ask: why doesn't his poetry
speak of dreams and leaves
and the great volcanoes of his native land?

Come and see the blood in the streets.
Come and see
The blood in the streets.
Come and see the blood
In the streets!