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it was the moon that fell through. a lump of gray astronaut
pale acne-blasted, an orphan of the dome, floating in a pond
face down; gasping... green brass minnows surge through diatoms
that have no word for moon; a legion of blind unicorn gall stones -
invisible to naked eyes; uncountable geometries horde the dark waters
they cannot disprove or disobey. large mouth bass inhale calcium polygons
they have never met; that have no word for large mouth bass -
that hasn't always been unknown as september is meaningless
now, even more so, the meaning is less,
without the moon... so
the last tide is false. a satellite has lost it's grip and displaced a placid
jewel of ice cold pause. in the backwoods of these. words. a. moon.
is. breathing. in. a. void. teeming. with. ancient. life.
it is a void, unfamiliar to a native of heaven. this void used to rise and fall
in obedience to the wax and wane. in accord with her orbit.
but now it burns the ocean of serenity with irony's forge.
pounding the stainless steel of unfathomable loss;
even the dross sustains a shape of things to come undone -
when the hammer falls and the blacksmith is a poet
born to ****** fables from mayflies. a natural.
the hammer was in the hand before the moon gained
a face or an ocean to adore it. it was there,
ticking like a season, burgeoning with locusts -
holding off the mob; the moon was long ago, slipping off the roof -
long before firemen met lightning.
the tide was a pious fool.
the measure was not the span of the impending verse, but the hour of it's
callous beauty, assembled. a lunacy, stripped of all moons.
and only the sun remaining -
to behold the uncanny descent of a faithful, vestigial goddess.
a yellow throne. a yellow eye. and the sun's first chill...
as wave after wave of syllables sum succulent sorrows -
savoring sacred symmetries, asymmetrically... summoning -
super luminary strawberry switchblades,
saving sanity for questions with question marks.

this poem fell through. a lung collapsed or not.

and the moon is at the bottom of my heart.
In brief description is an illusion,
Everything floats.
  Jun 2017 Moonshine Noire
Britney Lyn
I want people to know I'm suicidal.
I don't want to talk about it. I don't want people to tell me it gets better or to get over it.
I just want people to know because maybe taking that weight off my chest will finally allow me to breathe a little. Maybe people will be kinder.
I want people to know I'm suicidal because I want to be honest.
I want people to know that when I wake up tomorrow, I barely survived yesterday.
I want everyone to know that I want to **** myself because when I finally do, I don't want people to think that I was happy, that I had a good life.
I want people to see the deep ugly **** I push down each day, the thoughts that literally eat me alive and push me to the edge.
I want people to know that when I'm in the bathtub I hold myself under until  all my air runs out.
I want people to know when I'm opening cardboard boxes at work with the box cutter I think about sliding it down my wrists.
I want people to know when I get in my car and the road goes two ways or into the lake I want to choose the lake.
I want people to know when I go to sleep at night I resist the urge to down all the pills in my house.
I want people to know that I want to break my mirrors and slit my throat with the shards.
I want people to know I'm suicidal.
And it's ******* killing me.
I'm not the happy girl you think I am.
  Jun 2017 Moonshine Noire
Matt
You found me
    the way fire finds the parched
    forests of California.
You caressed me
    the way waves caress the crumbling
    coast of every once-great
    Mediterranean city.
You whispered
    like the wind whispers sandstorms
    across the Sahara Desert.
You wept
    water-like into the fissures of my
    foundation

and froze

until I crumbled;
until I became a memory of myself;
a phantom limb;
a shadow in the dark.
  Jun 2017 Moonshine Noire
Elliott
"It was just a joke, stop being so serious."

I haven't been to church since I was 14.

At age 7,
I was introduced to my new baptist church.
I recited scriptures and played game and was always excited to go.

At age 12,
I was heading into middle school and won the church's bible challenge.
I was queer, I was Christian, I was unexcited to go to church.
It felt like everyone was staring.

When I was 13,
I had my first kiss with a girl,
my first major girl crush,
my first run in with homophobia.
My classmate said **** off with someone else,
my church said mothers should protect their children from homosexuality.
I wondered what was wrong with that.
When I was 13,
I watched my mother clap to the pastor not knowing she had one.
I watched the youth church pastor make fun of queer kids, not knowing he had some in the room.
I watched a girl I knew was gay clap along like she wasn't one of them
-one of us.
When I was 13,
I watched my first crush date my best friend,
she didn't want anyone to know she was gay.
When I was 13,
I came out to my family.

When I was 14,
I went to church for one last time,
A woman prayed the devil take this phase out of me, and put the holy spirit in.
I broke down in Walmart afterwards.

My mother said I never had to go back to that church again.
I still have some dreams about it.

When I was 15,
I declared no religion, I declared no ties to anyone.
I was just black & queer.
Churches make me nervous
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