The wicker chair on the porch
it’s bent
the leg that is
bent sort of brokenly in
which reminds her of
inversions,
how they turned in
and found darkness,
ineffability,
space.

i am seeing beyond your parallels, the routine you
are living in discontent with the way you are strictly
forbidden to be unbridled, so i blinded you to my
antics, because revenge is either clean or messy, but
i like to leave traces of myself in everything i touch
this is my revenge, watching you from my hindsight
as similar as a dog, and remembering what it was like
to be denied my robust but brass voice, and as the alcohol
drips off your tongue, i remember you aren't a drinker
you only drink during contemplating angry thinking,
the alcohol washed over the bridges that led to my heart
and i lit them on fire with a snap of my fingers, and
i watched you fall out of yourself, like a spirit that was
released as soon as i denied you entrance to my soul
you ruined the very best parts of me. i used to be normal.
i know there isn't such a thing as normal, but i wasn't
waking up from dreams thrashing and screaming how
you are a vulture, picking at my skin and destroying me
and all i ever wanted was to find my happy place, but this
is not happy and i struggle day by day crying for solace

- met

there's a reason why our magnetic fields have become so distant
it wasn't because the trigger was pressed too hard against my soft
temple, it was written in the stars that change is the only constant
and hope is only for beginners and i've been dipped too far into
the creasefolds of your fragile complexity of the book you're busy
writing, and i know you want to rip me out of those pages, i am
the aftermath of a broken shield that i didn't know was ripe enough
for others to dig into, but i can never get you completely out of my system,
like a hidden computer virus that i never really meant to obtain, it just
all started almost like a big bang, with a shotgun mouth and these weak
limbs that pulls it's own weight, i didn't mean to push my luck so far

but yes, i could
smile at you like an electric fence, could
**** myself over in
a field of happiness, resemblant,
there i stand,
on fire or just waking.

of course, neither of
us needs that, though. my
motions jar and disseminate truth
throughout me:
of foundation stone, or
of necessary monuments i
am hardly built, i
cut breath, breakfast and no class, i
can fall under a bus or
in love with you,

and the dull ache would remain;

and these days would still part.
and some small town would sleep,
all the same. so say
anything, or just idle and
stay and i'll go spiralling
down all the same.

Ah vastness of pines, murmur of waves breaking,
slow play of lights, solitary bell,
twilight falling in your eyes, toy doll,
earth-shell, in whom the earth sings!

In you the rivers sing and my soul flees in them
as you desire, and you send it where you will.
Aim my road on your bow of hope
and in a frenzy I will flee my flock of arrows.

On all sides I see your waist of fog,
and your silence hunts down my afflicted hours;
my kisses anchor, and my moist desire nests
in your arms of transparent stone.

Ah your mysterious voice that love tolls and darkens
in the resonant and dying evening!
Thus in the deep hours I have seen, over the fields,
the ears of wheat tolling in the mouth of the wind

This is no spring that wakens at the dawn
what should have been awakened all along.

I feel the warmth of winter through the breeze
stay buried in the bone of sleepless trees,

whose buds are fat and seasoned with the salt
left waiting for a snow that did not fall.

And should they waken now, how they would find:
capricious spring has left them all behind.

Certain rhythms will provoke ghosts
in old attics reeking with romance.
That eternal prayer
found in complete silence,
begs sinners to break purity.

Mortal breathes begin to dance between lips,
creating poetry in sacred space.
The momentary awareness of another,
who craves the absorption of your soul.

**** me into your lungs darling.
I'll translate centuries of painful wisdom
stirring in the temple of my bones.

These truths begin a home
in our late night dialogues
circling around dangerous pasts,
all those golden, fatal blades.

As we make our way back to the red light of sleep,
the attic leans in to touch our skulls.
We respond with agony and laughter.

I slide into sleep,
forgetting all I need to find in your mind.
Accepting the fingerprints
as you press my identity upon your tongue.
The restless goddess within my nature
swallows the mortality
in tonight's poetry.

But this never lasts.
Love is a distraction,
an intoxication meant to entertain that ego who loves deficiency,
a selfish voice who finds herself every morning in front of a decaying mirror
and blames the lack of other.

Learn to leave the fear behind.
You alone are whole.
There is poetry sewn into your veins.
Underneath that sacred silence
there is an original symphony
waiting to find the medium of your complex truth.