Evacuation Alert: Tranquille Valley.
Get out. Bring everything you love.
Ash is falling from the sky,
and the smoke is too much to bare.
The fire's rampage has charred
More than 200,000 hectares,
in 133 days.
It's not safe.
Get out. You are everything I love.
Incinerating everything in your path,
You tranquillize the atmosphere
with your absence.
You smoked me to the filter
You left me to burn.
63 days, and 21 letters.
You're not my safety anymore.
I aways say that I don't want you to fix me.
I don't need you to make me happy.
There's no need to pick my bones back together and
Sweep what's left of the my self esteem
I don't need you to lift the weight of gravity
To a bearable level
To a breathable level
To a level of density that allows me to stand on my two feet.
I always did.
I always do.
Come over unannounced and do nothing but help me do the dishes.
Tell me about the time you couldn't stop staring at the astronomy of my freckles,
freckles that are only showing in the sunshine
You are sunshine
Like a daffodil
I need you to grow
get to decide
when (will i be)
This poem is called Boys are Curious.
Because that's what you told me that day.
And if boys are curious,
My body is a treasure map.
I was an atlas for trespassers.
I had a horizon of hope in these eyes,
And my forest hid lust & mystery like it wanted to be found.
My acreage was pure and undiscovered.
If I hadn't scared you away yet,
I've heard that there was passion locked somewhere.
But because boys are curious,
My edges are creased and torn.
The sun has left me shaking in the cold.
I have been sought by the hands of greed enough times,
I've forgotten where I've hidden my treasure.
So, boys are curious.
He left me a field landmines.
it's been so long since
i felt like collapsing while
i'm laying in bed
Call yourself Morgan.
Do not hesitate.
You were born on summer solstice.
Like the sun, you’re distant from others.
Move to Seattle and leave no forwarding address.
Busker for a break and warm your bones with charity work.
Pretend poetry is the only thing you’re good at,
And be good at it.
You can’t just write ****** words into
An exhausted leather journal, no.
Incorporate stanza into every conversation.
Drip intensity and rapture like morphine
Into the veins of anyone who will actually love you.
Speak as if you were never human and you’re still learning to exist.
Metaphors and run-on’s are your best friends-
Develop a reliance on caffeine so potent that
you've become the 7:30am medium black coffee
at the cafe down the street.
Leave no traces.
This used to be a poem based off of a poet I looked up to; Buddy Wakefield. I was encouraged to rewrite it as if it were for me, so I did. Since then, I had the privilege to meet Buddy Wakefield. At a meet & greet after his show, he was so rude to me that I left crying my eyes out. This was so disappointing. I no longer associate the only poem I've ever been proud of, with his name.