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Poetry has become my self harm,
I only write at my lows...
Instead of blood I see words,
Instead of a blade I have a keyboard...

I want to write about...
The wind dancing with the sea...
Or...
The way you smile and it lights up your innocent face...

I don't want poetry to be my self harm,
Because poetry is beautiful...
An art...
Not.
Just.
Blood.
And.
Scars.
Judge away... I'm trying to not care... No matter how much I do ...
 Jun 2014 matt nobrains
sc
Home
 Jun 2014 matt nobrains
sc
I realized tonight
that you are everything I wanted.
As we sat there in silence,
I looked at you for a moment
and I smiled at you.
And I don't know if you saw it
but know that it was real.
I felt like it was you and me all alone in this world.
Like we were driving on an empty road.
Going nowhere, no destination in mind.
I want it to be like this always.
If you felt it, I hope you wish for that too.
I feel better than okay with you.
I want to feel like that all the time.
And when I am with you,
I know the feeling will stay.
Because with you,
I am home.
Upon the fields of Ulster,
the Druid Cathbad long had passed.
He left his knowledge to a few,,
and all but one, had long since passed.
The secrets of the land and nature,
secrets from those sacred souls.
Sewn, into fields of wonder,
then to rest with him alone.

Born under skies of roaring thunder.
A child that always walked alone.
Found his way to silence,
found a way to be at one..
Those days amongst the flowers,
the trees and all that breathes with truth.
T'was there he found a way to live,
somewhere to seek out the roots.
The knowledge that was planted,
bringing fruit to a hungry heart,
was where he met old Cathbad,
this is where it was to start.

And so the years of learning
followed like a growing wave.
The Alchemy and Healing,
wisdom from an ancient age.
The reasons why it's worth to try,
the light that lights the day.
Those teachings, some they came with grace,
and some they came with pain.
And then he was the only one,
the last one to remain.
A Druid under stubborn skies,
crying in the rain.
nothing is foreseen
like the past... it outlasts the future
and no one lives long enough
to know for sure.
and then there's amnesia.
a suite of empty rooms
you
came from -
and all

all
the invisible deeds
of your god
with a margin of error
the width of your
conviction.
a mote of bobbing
apples, made of
smoke.
around a castle
with a rook
made of
bones.
do you ever wonder
about the difference between
looking at something
and the hallucination created
when looking past it?
if you look at your hand
it's all you can see
but if you look past your hand
there are now two of them
sometimes it's hard for me
to remember which is real
it gets me thinking
about how my father
used to wake me up
in the morning by rubbing
his stubble across my face
i spent my 11th birthday
under the assumption
that he might come back
if i drank his aftershave
like maybe if i could turn blue
if i could be his favorite color
on our bathroom floor
he would forget why he left
the paramedics were all sobing
as they pumped memories
out of my stomach
i coughed up the day the post-it note with your new address on it
burned a hole in our refrigerator
coughed up the day
the divorce papers came
and my mother
took a baseball bat to the mailbox
i've been choking on the splinters
for 17 years
it's been 17 years
since the last dinner plate
exploded on our dining room wall
17 years since my mother
started accidentally setting your place at the dinner table
17 years since italian night
at the restaurant on the corner
where the juke box
spat tired music
and like so many other things
it stopped working when you left
i guess it's no coincidence
since the juke box went quiet
that the cds in my car
only skip on "i miss you"
i've been hemorrhaging memories
for so long
and now that i'm looking back
i can no longer tell
the mirage from the truth
sometimes i swear
you showed up to my graduation
and last time
i was at your apartment
i can't remember
if the imprints of my hands
are in clay hanging on your wall
or if they were left in the mud
the day god had the audacity
to let it rain
or maybe it's like the time
i saw someone crying on a bridge
now that i think about it
i can't remember if it was me
You can always tell,
Who the introverts,
Are in the summer,
Months, we're just so pale...
 Aug 2011 matt nobrains
C
While I drive left-handed
you scratch at the white clouds
drifting out on the growth
of my fingernails, and
rub salient fire down tendons
toward fingers of gnarled roots
and less a hand, than work incarnate-
in essence of character. In lines, in
worried skin and flattened bones:
the misshapen unity of labor in lengthened phalanges.
You speak to me about how getting older means:
you can always remember a better time than now and
about the city of angels who never sleep,
staring open eyed, hazy with intangible halos.
How is mans great struggle now with society and no longer himself?
As the sharp angles of the road drive our skin to tight contact,
I find myself in the air between your breath and sweat slickened palms.
 Aug 2011 matt nobrains
C
The cold metal grate calms her, as supple flesh conforms
into the crenellated ridge of many miniature rectangles.
With widening eyes focusing so goes her mind into spasms of elastic thought.
Unleashed imagination simulates the mass of steel and
plastic encapsulating her in a headlong tumbling orbit.
She lingers lonely as the space station spins.
Another 55 word short.
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