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c Mar 2018
As a child I dabbled in ******

No barbie was safe from the hands of their god

Ran hills caked to the toe
Roughed terrain with neighborhood boys

They called me girl
But I felt boy

Upon later years I learned:
Amenities accustomed to this body;
A bustling street of hormones without a
red light

Next were *******—
Wild & rambling, I soon
Mastered the art of shrinking

I kissed my first boy & felt it rattle through my bones
His hair an ocean in my hands as I rose up
to the surface

Later I discovered the shared experience of Woman,
Shifting about the world as a silly metaphor
Carved fingers into mace & metal
Ankles clinking busily on a subway platform

In learning to fight
The young boy dwindled into memory and
I couldn’t sense shape anymore

Fell in and out of love with woman and man alike,
Sinking deep into salt & sand

These days I can’t help but wonder if
attraction is a mode of defense
Or that of love

These days I run hills in heels
Caked to the toe in color

These days I try not to identify with a normative sexuality. I believe it is fluid and shouldn’t be contained with labels. I hope this poem is relatable to those that feel/have felt the same.
1.6k · Jan 2018
c Jan 2018
we whispered missing years
fluttered legs over a withering porch bench

she mixed my hair with white fingertips
to keep the itchy thoughts away

the walls of my grandparents’ house held me close,
my surrogate womb

we shared more than blood and color as
time licked her blonde with
heavy waves of fruit and nicotine and
I didn’t mind

she sung sticky secrets to me:
nights she dreamed on the streets when
rent was too high and
dads that come like rain:
big and loud all at once,
then gone

fingertips padded quiet paths along budding curls while
“mom” sat sweet and safe against my tongue

a poem I wrote about my mom about 7 years ago now. still rings true.
1.4k · Jan 2018
c Jan 2018
Metal heavy

Hot in hand
Shelled, cocked into green-light action
Pierced through fresh flesh

Body leaning

Hot under hand
Shelled, coiling under skin unwilling,

Explicit content.
1.1k · Mar 2018
c Mar 2018

I once
was small.

I fit into the thinnest cavities &

I sip on vitals till
My vials are full
baby you
make Me whole

I am in love
with life
so much
I cling
all nails & teeth

I'll sprawl my feet out
on your tables
I'll scribble my name
on your letters

I am BIG


I'll leave the light on
All night:
no sleep
while I'm busy
loving you

I'll even
Refurbish your skin with glass, but
You'll bruise easy

No need for windows
My dear:
I'll see for you!

No need for clocks
My love:
I'll count down for you!

& soon
your body
will love Me

1.1k · Jan 13
I Danced, A Phantom Limb
c Jan 13
I used to dance alone in my room
I’d spin the spun black under needle
And turn till my walls became one
I’d stretch my face in strain
And mimic pain in movement

I’d measure arms and hands to
The waver of the music
I cried in concaved chest and
Screamed in legs splitting air,
Laughed in fingers spreading wide
And collapsed to the beat’s final throe

I became a simulated symphony, and
So became each dance;
My afternoon secret
I’d forget words and
Mesh into mangled body melody

mmmmmm those hands droning guitar and
a distant voice
in verse,
drumming, drumming

My body curled around each syllable,
Both in question and answer

It was pain, yes
It was heartache
Yes, it was beautiful
But I soon realized
It was not mine

- c
Translating music into movement and interpreting the artist’s pain
837 · Mar 2018
on taking up smoking
c Mar 2018
tap the vein
the very flow
a fizzle-POP
the gears whir

dry-eyed in the garage
suckling that oaky rind
spin the clocks
if so inclined

the mothers plead
but She still calls for you
repo the lung
the liver too

this sickly sweet memory
this one too many
this cool kid
strutting streets in denim jeans

c Mar 2018
The only other girl at the party
is ranting about feminism.
The audience: a sea of **** jokes and snapbacks
and styrofoam cups and me.
They gawk at her mouth like it is a drain
clogged with too many opinions.
I shoot her an empathetic glance
and say nothing. This house is for
wallpaper women. What good
is wallpaper that speaks?
I want to stand up, but if I do,
whose coffee table silence
will these boys rest their feet on?

These boys…
I want to stand up, but if I do,
what if someone takes my spot?
I want to stand up, but if I do,
what if everyone notices I’ve been
sitting this whole time? I am ashamed
of keeping my feminism in my pocket
until it is convenient not to, like at poetry
slams or woman studies classes.
There are days I want people to like me
more than I want to change the world.
Once I forgave a predator because
I was afraid to start drama in our friend group
two weeks later he assaulted someone else.
I’m still carrying the guilt in my purse.

There are days I forget we had to invent
nail polish to change color in drugged
drinks and apps to virtually walk us home
and lipstick shaped mace and underwear designed to prevent ****.

Once a man behind me at an escalator
shoved his hand up my skirt
from behind and no one around me
said anything,
so I didn’t say anything.
Because I didn’t wanna make a scene.

Once an adult man made a necklace
out of his hands for me and
I still wake up in hot sweats
haunted with images of the hurt
of girls he assaulted after I didn’t report,
all younger than me.

How am I to forgive myself for doing
nothing in the mouth of trauma?
Is silence not an active violence too?

Once, I told a boy I was powerful
and he told me to mind my own business.

Once, a boy accused me of practicing
misandry. “You think you can take
over the world?” And I said “No,
I just want to see it. I just need
to know it is there for someone.”

Once, my dad informed me sexism
is dead and reminded me to always
carry pepper spray in the same breath.
We accept this state of constant fear
as just another component of being a girl.
We text each other when we get home
safe and it does not occur to us that
not all of our guy friends have to do the same.
You could literally saw a woman in half
and it would still be called a magic trick.
Wouldn’t it?
That’s why you invited us here,
isn’t it? Because there is no show
without a beautiful assistant?
We are surrounded by boys who hang up
our naked posters and fantasize
about choking us and watch movies that
we get murdered in. We are the daughters
of men who warned us about the news
and the missing girls on the milk carton
and the sharp edge of the world.
They begged us to be careful. To be safe.
Then told our brothers to go out and play.
Credits to Blythe Baird.

Blythe Baird is an affluent, rising young slam/spoken word poet from Minnesota. She has a book out already, "Give Me A God I Can Relate To" and is making gains in the world of poetry. Regularly performs with Button Poetry. You can find the performance of "Pocket-Sized Feminism" on Youtube. Inspiring and firey on the mic! Check this one out.
647 · Apr 2018
If Life Were A Pimp
c Apr 2018
Hey *****--
Lucky you:
You've fallen into my trap!

Oh, what to do with you?
Bury you deep in your own ***** greed?
Or paperwork up to your knees?

Or do I feed you just enough?
The ***** to basic human need

After all, I know your hunger well,
I practically invented human will

I pay a sum--a dying wage
That you'll pay back
Till your dying age

One time a year
I'll slice a chunk
Piece by piece
Down to the bone

You'll bend the knee
And do me right
I know you won't
Put up a fight

I am your god
The beast you serve
Now turn around
And get to work

551 · Jan 2018
c Jan 2018
Suspended between an inching glance and the constant fluttering of hands,
I shake coolness from my neck and cross my arms against my chest
The room grows small, as does the room in my chair, so that
The only room for solace is in the waking thought of sitting back and
Falling through
The floor
I have long since realized your goal, as you
Fold my comfort into a matchbox and
Slide it into your pocket
To light for later
From early years I’ve been taught to
Tuck my resistant words in the folds of rose petals and
Present them to all in unswerving gratitude, but perhaps
That is not enough to satisfy that
Ache in your crotch
Or your head or
Wherever you bridle
That pesky ego

c Apr 2018
Dear Fearless Writers--Fighters,

Never in my life
Have I felt such an
By those both
Like-minded &

I've written more since
Joining you all
Than I ever have before
I hope to publish
My works in time
Thanks to you

Thank you to Eliot &
To the rest as well,

Happy to be here. You are all so supportive and inspiring. I'm beyond excited for this app to come out. <3
484 · Jan 2018
c Jan 2018
If I’d happened to be someone else
weaning myself dry from my silent spell
may have taken months
waiting for words to
find me again

"It was just a touch"

Find me again
drowned in this skin
I used to know before you
chose to
burrow under

Fingers seeping into soil and rooting in
a friend explained her process of
extracting similar roots
like foreign veins
we'd grown accustom to this

The same friend that
smokes herself to sleep in fear
those roots will find her again

By mere sense she learned the mold of mace and
how to wear her Woman in a public space
She demonstrated proper use as
finger wavered trigger--

If I’d happened to be someone else
reconciling air in my lungs
may have taken years

counting up hours into days
buried in a mangled garden of

Nights spent spinning back clock hands--

I mistook unwelcome hands with the gentle brush of a petal

but luckily

orchids grow
and heal
on their own

Luckily I was not someone else--

Someone so used to gardening open wounds that
trauma festers like a patch of weeds
wild and
unforgiving and
when the soil has dried and
sun has silenced into night
the only remedy is to
uproot the vein

If I'd happened to be
someone else

Explicit content. Guttural response to a breach of trust I've experienced from someone close to me, more than twice. I hope to heal from these experiences, but for now they are fresh in my mind and the person is present in my life.

In the poem, I speak about a friend that has experienced similar trauma, only for her that trauma has stuck with her for years into adulthood. I can sympathize but at the end of the day if that would have been her in my position I can't imagine what it would do to her.
435 · Jan 13
routine decline
c Jan 13
from a hole in the bed I crawl
from a window in my head I watch
from a sill, life in green rushes by
from a quiet air I think
myself into pounding and ringing

from the grey walls I roam
from the bus stop I dream
there’s a reality I’ve tasted before
but never savored, so
from a chalice of happy I sip myself
into stupid oblivion

from a beautiful scape I watch
the anxious sun beat color across the sky
and feel no heat

from eyes I make sense of a way home
leaving pieces as I go,
the roads paved in passing time 

from stairs I climb
room to room
and I’m here

from the pit of pity I mount the ledge
just to fall back
into bed

- c
falling into a daily routine
431 · Apr 2018
Body to Brain
c Apr 2018

I've left the stove on for you
The milk has curdled and lumped
The walls torn of their bark
The shower running hot

I've given all the photos up
To flame in warm embrace
I've brimmed the socks with holes for you,
I've smithered every plate

I've sprayed the garden poisonous
I've festered root & vein
I've grown a **** in every pith
And severed every end

For you, my love
I've scorched the house
And this I'd do again
For you, my love
I would commit
Each feared unearthly sin

I am the soldier
Steadfast, held
Against all element
For you I'd burn
And fall to sword
Infatuate in death

Playing around with dualism. Hoping to write a Brain to Body
379 · Feb 2018
A Tuesday
c Feb 2018
An open door
Green of day steeps into a grassy aroma
A familial air whizzing through shared city streets

The papers greet a house down the block and
I can't help but wonder if the news
Has reached them yet:

--The earth is wilting and
It will rain today--

I board the 91
Coffee buzzing in my lungs

--The house we've built is wilting and
Wigged men are lining us up--

A workingwoman sits behind me
A toddler bumbling about her lap
She looks past me, but I answer anyway:

"The people are wilting and
Time is sitting still"

Reflection on what I've observed of the world (as of yet), on my usual route to work. Hopeless? How are others reacting? Are we oblivious? Willing?
c Feb 2018
Your eyes candlelit, blazing
I've lit a fire for you

Oh the fumbling of hands we share, here
The fumbling of elements many have felt
And I wonder if I am any different--

A trundled body of mistaken chemicals
Brash, raw--

I wish to learn the angles
To love

A dinner date brimming with "immediate intimacy". Angel Olsen has some beautifully written lyrics. This song, California, speaks wonders about the initial feelings of a new love. Questioning the validity of those feelings, where they come from, and how they can carry you away into a dream.

"Who knows what it means to have a feeling buried so deep down?"
365 · Apr 2018
c Apr 2018
We danced, the cognate vessels
Nested in walls &
Cowered in blood

We buried love deep into
Beating flesh &
Writhed In Utero

We emptied veins of reason
Laid in torment &
Seceded in white gowns

We--Empiric experiments
We--Deficient devices
We--Thrashing threadbare


I was recently researching the term "hysteria", and the dark history that follows it. Stripped to its Greek roots, it essentially equates to "crazy woman". Doctors used this term to diagnose women & commit them as psychologically disturbed. They also used it to describe a woman while she was menstruating. It's worth looking into.
364 · Jan 2018
c Jan 2018
What would be accomplished

throwing a word–or three–

into this vat of


Wrote this during a previous relationship. I felt a deep connection with the person and felt I should say the words, but also felt it would be overbearing and just ruin the whole thing. I wasn't sure of my feelings. I'm also a Dickinson fan, so tried channeling the structure through her work.
347 · Jan 2018
c Jan 2018
In Morning

I found recluse in the

Skin between your fingers

And the sweetness of your breath

Your touch like heavy wind

Meeting wave with rock



A relationship I had a while back ended as swiftly as it began, like a bout of heavy wind rippling into a wave. Imagery of day & night used. Wrote this for a creative writing class I took as a freshman in college.
343 · Jan 2018
Stranger Things
c Jan 2018
Day One:
Fresh Cabernet threatens the coffee table
Two seats too far to suggest anything

I fiddle with the idea of you
Muscles drawn in, eyes strained back
But can only imagine
from here

Night, then day
careless, shift about
like two sheets of ice on water
and now
I see you

Striped shirt stretched, worn jeans fidgeting the edge of your seat
Imprinting bits of flash left lingering on retinas

I wish to be in, on, around
Heat protruding chest and breath

I wish to be near, new, but am left
Beating hard

Day Two:
Light to dark running overtime
Occasion breeds conversation

You want to come over again
A buzzing
“I’m here”
and suddenly
you don’t seem so far away suddenly
heat and breath and chest and all beat and accord mine suddenly
timelightspace in between are irrelevant to how we measure skin suddenly
I see you except this time it’s all of you.

Every particle prodding upon my very reality
‘Tis a luxury,
Wild nights like these, and
I wish upon every length of being
that you
see me

Written as a reflection to a Tinder (yes, Tinder) date that took longer than expected to get started. There was a crazy amount of tension, but immediate attraction.
341 · Mar 2018
Solar Birth
c Mar 2018
The light came first, it is known
Before the measured warmth of sun.

Thoughts on the sunrise, birth, astronomy
324 · May 2018
c May 2018
Summer heat falls without prudence
Ornery and hot like the tip of a newly welded blade
Hilting into skin deep and unforgiving

There is hope in the day’s momentary flurry, when
The air carries wind like a light jacket

But even then
‘Tis only for
A spell

Making sense of a gust of wind.
c Apr 2018
Ask me what kind of **** I am into
And I will take you on a magical journey
To fanfiction dot com backslash Harry Potter backslash NC17

What turns me on is Ginny Weasely in the restricted section
With her skirt hiked up;
Sirius Black in a secret passage way,
Solemnly swearing that he is up to no good;
And Draco Malfoy in the room of requirement slithering in to my Chamber of Secrets;
I am an unapologetic consumer of all things Potterotica,

And the sexiest part
Is not the way Cho Chang rides that broomstick
Or the sounds of Myrtle moaning,
The sexiest part is knowing
That they are part of a bigger story;

That they exist beyond eight minutes in ***** ***** *******,
That their kegels are not the strongest thing about them,
And still I am told
That my **** is ‘unrealistic’.

Not quite as ****** as flashing ads saying 'just turned 18’
So you can fantasize about ******* the youngest girl you won’t go to jail for.
I’m told that my **** isn’t quite as lifelike
As a room full of lesbians begging for ****,
Told that this is what is supposed to turn me on.

Don’t you give me raw meat
And tell me it is nourishment,
I know a slaughterhouse when I see one.

It looks like 24/7 live streaming
Reminding me that men are going to **** me whether I like it or not,
That there is one use for my mouth and it is not speaking,
That a man is at his most powerful when he’s got a woman by the hair.

The first time a man I loved held me by the wrists
And called me a *****
I did not think 'run’,
I thought 'this is just like the movies’

I know a slaughterhouse when I see one.
It looks like websites and seminars teaching you how to **** more *******,
Looks like fifteen-year-old boys bullied for being virgins,
It looks like the man who did not flinch
When I said stop and he heard 'try harder’.

If you play-act at butchery long enough
You grow used to the sounds of screaming,
It is just a side effect of industry;
Everything gets cut into small, marketable pieces.
I will not practice ****** hands
I will not make believe dissected women,

My *** cannot be packaged
My *** is magic
It is part of a bigger story
I am whole
I exist when you are not ******* me
And I will not be cut into pieces any more.
I love throwing out my fave poems here!

Brenna Twohy is a poet and performer from Portland, Oregon. She is a two-time Portland City Slam Champion and was the 2014 representative to the Individual World Poetry Slam. (taken from her Google page). She is a part of Button Poetry collective as well. Check out this poem and more on YouTube (just type in the poem title). It is muuuch more riveting of a write when she speaks it,
304 · May 2018
Out Where They Walk
c May 2018
I am quiet in a line of on-lookers, big-thinkers, hell-raisers
I sing a song to a corner in the room
It winks and blinks along the beat as
Large shadows confidently raise their arms in triumph.

I am sitting still, a floating ocean depth silence
Watching waves crash and clatter miles overhead--
What fun they must be having out there in the world!
Where the blue is sometimes yellow or pink and
All one knows is not only the dark, deafening hush of
The colors really taste like they advertise:
Savory sweet honey orange, supple plump green melon,
Ripe for the picking, these--

These are the pickers.
With their power-tool loudness, their "I can fix it!"
The red-runners, the green-makers.
Their lawns rolling out like gold ****** dresses
Reveling in their own chaste gold underskirts under a matching
Gold sun
The earth bowing her shoulders to make room

I am the crisp subtle crunch between bites
The shamed blouse of the *****
The sufficiently watered bud among a field of tall daisies
The pause in your breath
The silence of an empty house

The quiet lemon shavings left on
The quiet cutting board,
Bleeding rind by way of knife

The metaphor in a poem -- waiting in quiet verse
To rear its head to the reader

How many empty glass bottles can you shove into a bag
Before it all leaks out the bottom
I am the bottom
A soft reflection in the train-car window

I see you all.
I hear you.

I don't know quite yet if
I understand you
Rambling on in high buildings with your
***** reared high.
Whether love is just temporary obsession or
If one can make it to death without truly living.

But I do know, quite often, that there is meaning
In complete

298 · Jan 2018
After: Slut
c Jan 2018
Sometimes I want to be held and whispered “beautiful” promises to but
Other times I need no excuses to run streets
caked head to high-heel in low-cut, skin-tight, green-light layers
Each curvature unapologetically weaved
into some savior’s careful bow
These curves were never hers to call home
They dwell under the thumb of some street man or
That sweet man you once called your own, but
Before he strived to own you
Like a toothbrush or a window
These things don't come so easy
For the one they call Eve
Or no, how did it go?
Something about an apple or a tree or
A woman free to live freely without a he
Though she’s meant to bare the root of all being
Pinned the scheme
On her

298 · Jan 2018
c Jan 2018
I find its presence all but inconspicuous
looming growing phasing
into a full crescent

finding me there

stretch out my legs, wipe away old sweat
shallow on my back
I recoil

Small fling I had
282 · Aug 22
c Aug 22
The tune hums along in G
And the lights buzz softly

I am being taken somewhere
Someplace beneath it all
Underroot, I am
So deep
The dreary sun
And her arms
Cannot reach
Than those commonplace people
And all their happenings

It is cold here
Below the surface
And the door appears, open
As I

279 · Mar 2018
c Mar 2018
i can't
i won't
this time

                    i clasp
                    my legs,
                    the line

will just

                    as i
                    and writhe
                    in fear

267 · Apr 2018
Taking Anxiety As A Lover
c Apr 2018
Long ago, I felt it rinse through my body
And sink in a shallow too deep to reach
By mere hands.

From early on it spread:
Quiet, low, festering, yet
Too bruised to conceal
Too flash and fire to put out, and
Every once and again
It consumes each straying thought, I--

              I wanted to be naked like everyone else.

I wanted to brim and spill over,
A kettle engulfed in flame.

I wanted a song I could hold,
A dream I could touch,
Personified by love and love only, so
I carved my body into a question mark
And let you in.

You've made a garment of me.
A disheveled entity I no longer recognize,
Your animated sleeve.

Anxiety, you are the perfect lover.
The table I lay my worry on.
The one I curl into at night.

I line my shelves with your books as if
One day they'll offer an answer,
They are light and leafless.

I watch high from your window as you
Paint your face on my mirrors,
Beat your name into my walls,
Speak for me,
Breathe for me, I--

               I once considered washing you down into oblivion.

Made a net of my hands and convinced myself
I could fall forward,
Land without you.

Through years I've realized
I could do this very thing
Without condensing my life into a bottle.

No pills, no altering remedies,

              I do not wish to dull your senses.

Instead I wish, in silence,
That one day
I will garner the courage to
Stand up to you
When you are wrong.

An ode to anxiety. Hope this is relatable.
This isn't meant to knock those that choose to medicate. This is something I recently decided is best for me personally. Thanks for reading.
251 · Mar 2018
growth underground
c Mar 2018
night to sun
whichever one
i am constantly smiling
a barrier around
to remind the strangers i too
am alright

growth underground
i've found out
it is neither journey nor destination
as i am stuck dancing
in the same rain
as once and each time before

i see the sun but feel no heat
the time slicks by slow as a drain drip
pattering me into childhood--
what're two grown hands worth without
an axe
or intent to wave

sleet underfoot
the earth has made enemy of me
and everyone else

where do we float from bone to dust?

do we conserve love once given
or does it go to soil
as well?

249 · Feb 2018
c Feb 2018
Temples riddled sick, the world seems small
In this room
Air thick and mischievous
Walls slick, closing in

A closet light in the dark
You take me in your arms and
We practice stable breath
Your chest a flower bed of roses

This was love--

I slide down and down
Lapping waves envelope lungs
Gasping salty, green

Steady as you root into soil
Stronghold hands on my waist
Lifting me from oblivion, meanwhile
I latch on as vine and watch the world spin

You’ve saved me again--

Love pads on
Easy as rain on a metal roof and
I am glossy-eyed, laying in your bed of roses
In a stuffy room in New York

The lights have gone out
Wind rushing overhead
The bustle weaves by outside yet
Time is still here

I am home--

A poem about my love & partner of about 8 months. We are long distance so our moments together are spare, yet each time I am slipping I feel he saves me from myself. A great lover and friend
247 · Apr 2018
c Apr 2018
We walk different jungles
Sun spliced in different skies
Split by a slab of blue
Yet I hear

Me, here,
Walking the paths you sing of,
Making hands of the words you speak,
Arriving at the memories you've wrung like a
Needle stuck in my mind

Sing like your soul is on fire.
Purring of quiet as silk;
Lungs weeping raw in
Consonant melody sifted in

Spilling off palms
Soaked in the blood sun, and
In all my wandering--
I can't help wondering if, in the end,
I discovered you
For a reason

Reflecting on an artist that inspires me: Nai Palm (singer/producer of the band Hiatus Kaiyote).
I've listened to practically every interview I could get my hands on, and decided I'd try and translate my feelings for her music and artistry into a poem. I could probably write about it for 15 more stanzas at least. Here's a start?
242 · Apr 2018
Making Sense of Rain
c Apr 2018
I wanted to cry
It’s a strange coping mechanism I have for when
Things don’t add up but
The air is dry and
There’s no sense in breathing it in

I couldn’t cry
My mind was not there
In that wavering state
Bordering fear and anger and
The air is dry and
I am not breathing it in

I keep opening my email
Hoping for a petty distraction from
My senses all piling in at once
Giving in to heat
And breaking reason but
The air is dry and
Breathing is not living

I find joy in letting things go
It’s come as natural as beating
In the chest
I am awake but dream to wake
On a day sun really shines and
The numbers really add up while
The air is dry and
Breath is not a good enough excuse

I wanted to cry
But the well’s all dried up
Parched of all its
Perceived life

More of a journal entry
239 · Apr 2018
Things I've Already Thought
c Apr 2018
He jokes that we'd argue over bedsides
We'd live in hipsterville &
I'd bike everywhere &
douse myself in patchouli each morning

He giggles at the thought of us
Dancing in our white-walled apt &
the wine spilling over our glasses &
the dog ******* in the tub

What a crazy thought--Us
Sanding our own dining table &
reading the headlines &
taking pills before breakfast

He laughs at these things
These things I've already thought

Buried under sheets alone
in wonderment
of what we could be

All in good fun, my partner & I started coming up with crazy things that would happen if we stayed together long enough to live together. Little does he know, these were things I've thought of since the moment I became his and he mine.
c May 2018
I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold
Thought I’d share a favorite. Such a sweet poem. The story is even sweeter. William left this exact note on his refrigerator, addressed to his wife, just to say. He then got it published, as is, and it became a huge sensation. I think the lesson here is that everything is poetry, and that poetry doesn’t need to be constricted by rules.
232 · Mar 2018
a purple schwinn
c Mar 2018
white pink skechers follow brown-leather feet
padding down the stairs, nothing but fall leaves and
a generation between us

the older man glides the purple beauty into our front yard and
onto the sidewalk
gramps is a dedicated biker and will be years from now

polished aluminum gives way to the sun and
his eyes gleam along with it

he guides me down the pavement, conserving my speed with a trembling palm

on the handlebar

holds me tight and shows me how not to ride,
when to push through an upcoming hill and
when to brake

Wrote this about 7 years ago. Grew up with my grandparents, and my grandpa used to live on his bike. Naturally, he taught me how to ride. He's been teaching me to ride till this day.
225 · Mar 2018
Nation's Pride
c Mar 2018
Teen mom, Photo bomb
Blood rights, ***** fights

-- I watch from below as She
Gurgles down the words --

Plastic fairy, No dairy
*** scandal, School vandal

Magazine cover
Take cover:
Bullet babies
in chrysanthemum

On celebrity gossip, national/international news, and national tragedy.
224 · Jan 2018
c Jan 2018
we danced around each other all night long

mamboing and tripping in circles,
taking bites out of each other’s throats

metallic, malleable, ready
we mingled like fire on skin

you whisper of your woodworking days and
I could see you now:
new shavings flittering off the palms
those stronghold hands
dust carelessly pooling around your collar
holding finished product to light

I wish to step into this scene,
to carve breast into back and
hold the beatings of your chest
as your lips
brush mine with color

I strain awake.
Fun dreams
221 · Mar 2018
c Mar 2018
i hold the ring
worth its weight in water
a trinket of our love
pooled in my palms

i wonder
does the surface glimmer
the same for you
as it does for me?

would you savor
every last drop
and fall to the heat
pleading for more?

till death; for life
holistic & ripened

i am waiting
for this silly trinket to

--but instead
watch as its glimmer
into air

Sometimes I feel naive to the workings of love--whether I deserve to, or am able to, feel it/understand it, given my age. Recently I've thought about the possibility of marrying my partner later in life. However, I don't receive similar signals from them. This poem is alluding to the hypothetical result of proposal.
217 · Apr 2018
c Apr 2018
I danced all night in the dress He gave us--

Pins stuck in my hips
Zippered through my spine
I even painted my lips
To match His werewolf eyes

"You're beautiful baby"
He takes in a mouthful
I slink at the waist
Just how He likes me

"Let's get you a drink"
And I feel the sway
He bathes me in blood
He takes me away

Tonight I'll be His **** nurse
His seasoned strip steak thigh
His Only 18
His innocent eyes

Tomorrow I will lick the wounds
And pray He'll call again
Tomorrow marks another night
Of dancing in His dress

Inspired by PJ Harvey's song "Dress"
216 · Apr 2018
The Daily Commute
c Apr 2018
We are all subject to the train’s pull
No matter our worth in weight or wealth
No matter the sum of gold noosing necks & wrists
Gravity wringing aspirations into pools at our feet

We are sacks of meat, burdened by the heaviness in knowledge & consciousness:
The knowing we are, and yet not

Writing preface to our own demise,
Whilst the load of space around seals its binding
******* righteousness in the left & ignorance in the right

We, nature-made, we
Busy in breath and body

We, donning better halves as pelts and scarves, we
Soulless sleeves malleable in gear

Train people
As does a bundle of seaweed moves about a scape of blue,
Powerless in swing

Enjoy the ride.
197 · Jan 2018
To be read
c Jan 2018
I hope one day to be read
by a scholar
the careful counting of my lines
calculating their cadence upon some parchment,
it matters not

I hope one day to be read
by a child
swirled spirals capturing the margins as
she rewrites her own story over the words to match
the colors and dragons in her head

I hope one day to be read or
written on the back of some hand
a wishful keepsake for a day
inspiring some great thoughts
or little ones, at least–Perhaps!

I’ll never be read
by some insightful stranger or
inspire grandiosity at all

conserve unspoken words
by ink to paper

I have many a dream, and one is to become a full-time poet and novelist. Instead of following that dream, I decided to write a blurb about it.
188 · Jan 13
c Jan 13
I awoke to time beating
its fists against my walls, and
could do nothing but
sing along

186 · Mar 25
Charcoal Brow
c Mar 25
He’s shaved like a survivor of something
And this is the first time I’ve realized, his
Head normally baubled under a dark cap

His arms spindle, bark bent at shoulder and elbow
The leaf of his hands shiver around a 6B
I watch him become a Broadleaf before my eyes

He stretches long around the room
Determined to crowd every corner
Trundling, truncated at root

I wish to be as I see him
A beautiful tangle, loud in motion and
Silent in speech, sprinting full speed

His feet pound in dirt,
Name sprawled on the walls in capital BLACK
Demanding to be heard or at least recognized

He is the mystery of the day, every day
The jumbled stranger, in pieces strewn
& unsolved

Falling in love with a stranger/acquaintance
181 · May 2018
c May 2018
I saw a world I wished to enter
In an instant
Found myself steeped in similar breadth
Which is the life
I’ve always worn
Ever-roaming forward

In that place,
Where mere things do not make man and
Love overrules the rites of

Wish to breathe in every ocean
To walk through every season,
To bellow low in my beastly ways
And feel no shame
For supposed sins that
Make up this race

A place so easy to come by
Night dream or
Mellowed waking thought;
A place further than all foreign places,
It glimmers

A world beneath the trivialities of
Soil and root
Where one becomes one
And forever truly rings true

179 · Jan 2018
c Jan 2018
There were a pittance of days she did things for herself.

She liked the way an orange could be peeled to its barest form, made each peel a journey to something.

She enjoyed knit sweaters pulled past her knuckles while barreling through wisping city winds.

She found much joy in closing her eyes among a crowd of strangers.

The mounted sky sheds opens above her. What a pleasure it would be to see and feel all at once.

These were human moments. Like the ones you read about in those poem books, those romance novels, those 500-paged atlases. They sat shallow and sweet in the valley of her tongue, a pinch of raw sugar.

She recoils as the taste fleets swiftly, melted away like each moment before last.

Making sense of a random woman I saw on the train
172 · Apr 2018
c Apr 2018
i could not begin to
add up time spent
scrubbing you from my lips

in an instant
i return
to the taste of

A crush I know I should not have
163 · Mar 2018
I Read Your Name and Knew
c Mar 2018
Your name
Your FULL name
flickering pixelated
on the computer screen

Your given blood
Your sacred spoken vein--
I whisper it in silence
And paint you into the room

You are here, not there
Golden and smiling
You taste of hard drive and wiring, but
in this moment
it is enough

Reading the name of the one you love when they're far away, and won't be back for a while.
157 · Mar 2018
Generational Fugue Over Tea
c Mar 2018
There's no way to do you justice

To quantify time in learning as I grew
sprouting from rich soil
at your hand

You are all violet & chamomile,
which you do not like but
I think of you each time
I steep its leaves

In youth I was questioned & prodded
Other children finding comedy in the
absence of mother &
the presence of you

In youth I grew shameful of time spent
bent over puzzles & mystery novels
Spent so much time apologizing
To those I thought knew better and
Pocketed my love for you

I am sorry for hesitating
For tabling the thought that maybe
This crazy was my normal, but
You are my normal
I couldn’t ask for a better reason
To leave the party
For another cup of tea

Grew up with my grandparents. Had my parents around but my grandma was like a mom for the better part of my childhood. Trying to explain these feelings was a challenge. I hope to write more into this.
149 · May 2018
c May 2018
There’s an instant when,
Recondite and foreign
The azure expanse bears its face and,
Stricken grey with glutton,
Ventures its dark reign
Making sense of a rainstorm
148 · Aug 22
The Waiting
c Aug 22
It’s all taking too long--
The commute, the wait
The procession, the speech
The descent, the dark--
I’ve dressed for the occasion
And repose in my finest robe
I just wish
He’d hurry up

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