Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
mûre Jul 2012
I write my identity in gluestick and markers
I am a lamb raised by wolves
swaddled pulsing cosmos girl-child
My limbs are rebuilt like a 7 year old birdhouse
with garish colours and bubbling pride
I am pouring glitter onto my future
the kaleidoscope cannot exist inside

In the end I think there would be
no nobler cause than to
have a life worthy of taping on
the refrigerator that I can
swell with ever-young joy to know I
have created with
trial and forgiveness.
5.9k · Dec 2012
Quirky Loving
mûre Dec 2012
All she wanted her horoscope to give her
was a sock-foot cozy kind of relationship.
One that wore SPF 30 and smelled of sugar candy.
That would have been just fine.

Instead she got a surprise pancakes kind of beast.
Bear hugs, dog kisses, *******,
sumptuous battles, book aisles, 2am feast
and little silver spoon in the middle night.  

We never made it to the papers,
so we built a patch-quilt nest.
The quirky loving is alright,
you dress me in my Sunday best.
4.0k · Feb 2015
Familiar Spell
mûre Feb 2015
I said it, because it felt so nice to say and
because I can say it very well
-in the moment I meant it
but it's a bitter familiar spell
I've memorized the phonetic stitches the
spacing that knits a magic fleece that
when draped over the shoulders of the mightiest
turns them back to boys, gives full release
the belief
that love, real love, can be-

I can teach any man to fall in love with love...
just not in love with me.
4.0k · Apr 2013
Fallen Mentor
mûre Apr 2013
Get out. Get out of here.
If anybody poisoned the waterhole
it was certainly you.
Put the squish of your smile away
Why sheaf the knife in a lipsticked rictus
if it's going to end up in my back all the same?
Oh, spare me the theatrics.
If you only mean me harm
I'd rather know.
So that I can curtsey
and take the high road.
Mentor, if you taught me anything
during that winter
it was not to be weak.
And so you have my best regards.
And now you may get out.
3.7k · Jul 2012
Generalized Anxiety Disorder
mûre Jul 2012
It was so vivid I could
feel my chest compressing
as I ran, crippled with sobs.
The betrayal was a knife
It was a furnace and my
feet hurt as I flew across the
city. When I punched out my
bedroom window I could feel
the glass separating my knuckles
and I contemplated the destiny
of the larger shards. I awoke as one
resuscitated from drowning
resuscitated from death
gasping, shaking, reeling
d e m a t e r i a l i z e d
and began to cry as I
performed yogic breathing
exercises and went limply through
the worn out motions to
assuage heart attack symptoms.

They know they know
even follow me
follow me when I'm asleep.
My God.
3.3k · Feb 2013
Nom Cookies
mûre Feb 2013
spooon me in your mouth
tongue-melt my hardest bits
mostly sugar, babe.
3.2k · May 2012
mourning doves
mûre May 2012
mourning doves for late afternoons
a lament for the golden hour
the end of adventures
a little girl comes in for dinner
tiptoes upstairs
strokes her mothers hair
leaves little blue flowers by her bed.

                       I let my hair go dark again-
                          just like yours, do you see?
                           I'm a woman now, I have your mouth.

forget-me-nots for noontime
where the little girl would lay
violet blue healing shroud
and disappear
un-pixelating a photograph in the sky
the portrait that made her father cry
it was a five year old aesthetic of death.

           I guess I never really knew you, did I?
music box hidden in the mystery of a closet
shades of midnight, shades of dust
a ballerina's slow pirouette
called into life after forgotten years
the haunt of Sleeping Beauty.

               I know you didn't mean to miss my birthday.
                   I begged you for a music box, you remember?
                      It's my most dear treasure on this earth.

mourning doves for missing you
forget-me-nots for remembering you
my music box will live for you

How strange that such wonderful things
should make me so sad.
3.0k · Jan 2012
little fox
mûre Jan 2012
your deepest scars
lie in your brain
where i cannot kiss them
until you let me make-better
kit, you've trusted hands to pet you
and trotted into snares
more than once
and now there's a vast expanse of
"come on out now, you're safe from harm"
far as the eye can see
wide open green and golden this-is-really-good
but you're haunted by steel and teeth
throwing you to the ground
a pain memory that makes you bite
until the ecosystem i built cannot remember
how to make flowers.
let the earth i've grown need you
without fear of what anchors you
let the sky i've thrown adore you
without suspicion of why it's bothered to watch
little fox, let me cultivate this garden around us
because it's a good one
more beautiful with you
the deepest scars lie in your brain
where i cannot kiss them.
Let me make-better
because i'm made better
by you
let me keep you, little fox
and i'll grow you flowers
the most beautiful you've ever seen
unto this little earth
gilded with trees
like the owl and the pussycat
my fox and me.
2.9k · Feb 2012
unnatural aphrodisiac
mûre Feb 2012
rolling in the rosy dish of my tongue
it returns in my mouth to
its most basic elements
a primordial alabaster foam
of corn syrup and gelatin
and unpronounceable would-rather-not-knows
i think: marshmallows
are the juxtaposition to my quaker pallet
microwave tap water&Fr;;'s Cocoa
awash and dissolve
my saccharine oral fixation
in jealous slurps of heat
that radiate down
down down
heat, you see-
(as a sakura flush
blossoms 'cross the
pale of my throat)
-has always been the key
here's a secret:
in solitude i
i'm a homunculous girl
all lips and all hands
mûre Sep 2013
It's pouring rain and my backpack is full of strawberry kefir.
I think when we decided to take a break,
you took half my brain with you.

Kefir is a delightful crossbreed of Yop and Perrier. Creamy sublingual fireworks. A single tablespoon is sufficient to send a conga line of 5 billion probiotic bacteria boogying through your innards. But like most things I enjoy, I cannot successfully covet in small, measured portions. Which is why I went for the litre in the first place.

I imagine your face as I rinse my strawberry saturated belongings and imagine the microscopic bacterium hoopla happening between my fingers (you would laugh at my conga line comparison, because you are one of the world's only people who knows how much I truly despise conga lines).

Oh God, the water is just diluting the yogurt. It has become the great Sea of Kefir.

You would have the solution to this. When it comes to logic, you manage to beat me every time without ever making me feel intellectually inferior.

But I need to figure these things out for myself.

Luckily my other groceries were sealed in plastic:
-chia seeds
-goji berries
-cacao nibs

These were spared.

As you can see, since we have decided to embark on our own paths for a while, I have tried to be "HEALTHY!". The bathroom is a small library of moth-bitten self-help books (Thanks, Mom) and my bedtime is close enough to twilight to high-five the sun on its way down.
I've started to work out again with a little more addiction than conviction or even common sense.
And because you aren't here to regulate me, I've busted my knees (aaaa-gaaaain.)

And all notwithstanding, as I wandered down 13th avenue with my organic Hippie super-loot, feeling very smug and self-possessed in my birkenstocks, I passed by my favourite breakfast joint, and my kale-fertilized stomach was very persuasive: No, I insist.

Proceeded to savour three enormous pancakes that I could have stitched together to form a roomy buckwheat overcoat. Drowned them with a 3pm coffee. I thought nothing of it, but after all we've been through when it comes to food, you would have been so proud of me, babe. When I admit that I've got a broken heart (-darling, I know I broke my own) people are far too kind to me. 110 minutes and three sacks of flour later I float in a sweet gluten haze from my free (and freeing) lunch back to my apartment.

Which is when I discover the Sea of Kefir.

I think I'm trying too hard.

I think, really, the Art of Becoming One Whole Person isn't so much about us becoming the Perfect People we've always wanted to be. That's not why we strapped a hundred helium balloons to our otherwise incredible relationship and tearfully waved as it disappeared over the horizon. I think it's really about just learning how to regulate ourselves.

Here's one Truth: We will never, ever be perfect. And we will never find our perfection in each other. We have to let that go. We have to stop fighting against the invisible standards we create in each other.

But we can get over ourselves enough to be Pretty Great.
Just make peace with the Pretty Great folks we are. Have the 3 pancake- sore knee- kefir backpack afternoons, and still feel Pretty Great.

And when we do, I think our relationship will feel Pretty Great, too.

Because I'd rather be able to remind myself that I'm Pretty Great,
than rely on you to convince me I'm Perfect.

Yikes, there it is.

So that's my homework. It's full of errors, and there are countless agitated holes worn through by pink erasers, self-doubt, and heartache.

But I know, darling- that by the end of this, you'll give me a sticker-

(and by then I wont need it)

I'll put it right next to the one I've given myself.
Woah! A rant? A letter? A story? Who knows.
2.4k · Feb 2013
mûre Feb 2013
About tea
Skinny tea, sweet tea,
Elixir exiling youth's ungainly exit
Tea and a lover, vogue tea,
Tea post ******, closing shoppe
Last call tea, homework, tea-and-a-boy
A born again tea boy
Cause she promised it was better than coffee
Kinda boy, the second steep
Citrus and swords battling them free radicals
Tea in a kiss, a sweet kiss, an oooooolong kiss
Third steep to keep and keep
Expensive swishy flower vase tea
Delicate butterfly **** **** tea
Tea time, closing time,
A steep for the road
Sleep off the load
Tea night,
Tea girl
About tea.
2.4k · Mar 2015
Pilot Light
mûre Mar 2015
My heart went out like a star
****** in like a breath, laid down in the dark
I cannot see well these days, or far
except the flicker of the tiniest pilot light-
your spark.
Remind me remind me remind me remind me.
2.3k · Apr 2014
Rough palms, Stormy irises
mûre Apr 2014
I fell for a maelstrom of a man
an earthquake of a man
a tempest of a man

but his deepest terror is violence,
he exists only to be softly loved.
2.3k · Feb 2013
mûre Feb 2013
Ready, set-
Enter the dream.
Almost like real, now,
the retro cross-section of a house,
picture: Eighties
Complete With Dishes
thrown away furbishments-
relics of frat houses past
a lonesome piano
a most questionable oven
and ***** carpets.

And a little porcelain doll
glued together many times over
arms outstretched, a perpetual please
and the head askew, cocked for
the sound of the front door
under her mothy crown
as the dust settles
as the sun goes down.

Almost like real.

But not quite.
2.1k · Nov 2012
Inbox Archive
mûre Nov 2012
The trouble with writing a
relationship through technology
is that the bygones are never gone.

Why do I pour a drink in your absence
and settle to re-read our old fights, heartbreaks
like *******, lips parted, heart racing?

I shudder through those weeks where you petted me, darling
but could scarcely afford to feed me the same heart
being doggedly masticated in the maw of another
I trace over my retinas the lines where you didn't,
wouldn't, couldn't love me, they scan me
for my identity.
My mug shot, beside

After how little it meant, how can you possibly love me now?

I could edit these now, you know, you're able to do that.
Everything I wish I had been and said.
The pages left blank, I should've painted red.

In the spaces, hiatuses, I recall your ill-suited suitors
I can't tell whether I feel grief, jealousy, or ecstasy.
At the time, you know, it was like falling upon
The Secret Garden
unbefouled by poison nor passion
to inhale the heady scent of white rose
and discover the brim of someone else's hat beneath the foliage.
The place wasn't secret. Oh, it wasn't mine. Never ever was mine.

I'm ahead of myself. Oh, for want of technology.
We courted on Facebook and Gmail,
it was a convenient torture, given the circumstances.

Now my mate belongs where I do.
Loving, tenderly, wisely true.

I cannot start loading the page for the future
so much as delete our archive,
a prelude to love
written in diminished chords,
sung by the jilted and ghosts.
2.1k · Mar 2012
bipolaroid pictures
mûre Mar 2012
photograph One:
i see you, and the first things i see are your dark eyes
you sit beside me with open hands and make me laugh over coffee.

photograph Two:
one night i notice your mouth. you haven't drank but i have.
still all i see are your eyes when you first lean in.
i'm aroused and utterly haunted.

photograph Three:
you're so pale i want to colour you in. i want to make you alive.
you're dancing so frenetically, my marionette man
and i can't tell who tugs the strings.

photograph Four:
It's after midnight and you've stormed from my house snarling
like a wolf waiting to die.
"i'm poison" you spit. "i'll poison you, too".
"you and me." i plead. "i won't run".

photograph Five:
it's a cloudy day. you tell me you love me without looking me in the eye.

photograph Six:
you're standing in the open doorway against winter wind
dragging a half-quit cigarette and i am hugging my knees on your couch
waiting for you to calm
our eyelashes smeared chilly with tears.

photograph Seven:
you are lying on the floor, heaving with sobs.
i am holding you as tight as i can because i don't know what to do
and i'm afraid if i let you go you will cremate in the heat of your darkness
already we are both husks.

photograph Eight:
we lie awake in your cold bed and we are strangers
you will not touch me and i feel naked.

photograph Nine:
i awoke at 4am from a dream of you that was a lie
many months after i fled from your ghost
and like an infected wound
it still throbs hotly that i could not save you
and that for so long i could not save myself from you
the dark-eyed boy with the angel tattoo
2.0k · Sep 2013
Don't fence me in!
mûre Sep 2013
If I'm the cowgirl,
courage is the bronco
and you're the stranger in the mask.

Call it geographical bias,
but I know we're both tired of tumbleweeds,
both allergic to dust.

So carry out,
carry on.
Spit and be brave, child.

This town ain't big enough
for our desert rose hearts to grow.

So give me land.

Lots of land.
Sing this song to anyone over 80. They'll love you forever. And ever.
mûre Apr 2012
If my world's a bakery
in an endlessly large country
you descend upon my city
we pass at the stale loaves
eyelashes flutter, aghast
like I'm an insect assailing your glasses
I watch you smile or grimace
Run your tongue, checking for guilt stuck in your teeth

"Oh! Hhey!!"

Your voice surprises us both
it is the same timbre in which I render
words more decadent than your courage
to spit at my living person
when it stands all but 5'6 and breathing in front of you
washing up bottle messaged on the beaches of my awareness
-*****, jezebel, ******-


See, I've been receiving your cookies
in brown paper parcels
Little birds didn't want me to miss out on the flavor

I see you, small creature
how quickly you frost your hate
with buttercream icing, your loathing is cake
you devour and feed to anyone who'll taste

You have laid your field fallow
and let me assume disgrace

I want to tell you you're wrong
I want to push you with my mind
I want to throw sprinkles at you

I see you, small creature
with scrunched up fists
and I taste your poison
like grand marnier
it spoils everything

The recipe was followed rule for rule
The souffle rose
***** though you may

I'd almost rather hug you
if it would squeeze out your wretchedness
a flouncing whirl cupcake summit

so we could be tin-pan square

and may our pastry never mix again.
1.9k · Mar 2015
Nomad's Land
mûre Mar 2015
You were a nomad in all things
and every time you'd roll your caravan to town
holding a backpack and beating your drum
you'd reach out your hand
which could grip like electricity
so we'd set out together
us gypsy lovers
like birds that chase each other on the wind
and we'd **** the world with our charm
intoxicate with our savoir-faire
until the seasons changed
and you realized that howling at the moon
was a one man job
you bit and you scratched until
wailing, I threw you back into the wild
where you could have it all
your solitude and
your precious moon.
Ah, grief changes like seasons. The bitterness has arrived, n'est pas?
mûre Jan 2013
It's everywhere, the tension, the death, it's everywhere.
Can't run from food, no sir.
Anorexia is very fashionable in my city.
Bulimia, sorry to say, is never fashionable.
I shiver, but not as hard as I used to.
I cave in my stomach, but not as far as it used to.
I slowly earn my gravity.
Less dizzy, I never knew how pleasurable down could be.
My mouth has become a sacred place,
Cradling a cornucopia of life,
ten little pounds,
I'm desperate to accept
the way my footsteps sound.
1.9k · Mar 2013
Goodnight Ocean.
mûre Mar 2013
Underneath all of the sea
silver pennies lie
in the echoes of wishes
that fasten me to the sand
dreaming beneath the blanket
of a manta ray, exhaling bubbles
to the astronomy of jellyfish
as I'm rocked in the crush of all the earth's gravity
cradled deeply
within the songs of whales
twenty thousand leagues below the stars.
mûre Oct 2013
You were the greatest neuronal reorganization to ever happen,
of course I don't know who I am anymore.

What was plastic seems changed to stone in a gargoyle brain and beneath a microscope the shimmering glia spell out your name over and over in little green lights, fossilizing the neurons that say:


The earth has an edge. Nobody wants to fall off.

So call me Homer, because the gods themselves could not convince me my situation's a sphere there's far too much fear in this flattened plane that understands only primitive desires and just wants you near.

Everyone knows the romanced brain could be mistaken for a ******* addict's.

But perhaps if you look more closely into my eyes you will see my irises have turned stormy, that cyclones of energy are becoming patterns that scribble and scribble arcane suggestions for a new cartography. A new story. A new being.

Supplies needed:
One strong pencil.
Enough oxytocin to unlearn an addiction.

Enough optimism to overcome an affliction, my diction is code for the way you kissed me and it underlines every sentence like the way a voice rises when asking a question.

I have so many questions.

And even though the notion of who I will be when I am not you terrifies me, like Cathy and Heathcliff I will not be doomed to roam the moors, already I know there's endlessly more, and with or without you the best is yet to come. Just as they say. No, I don't know what's in store. But I think that's okay.

Turn golden, Grey Matter, light up 'til you burn.


A primitive attempt at beat poetry.
1.8k · Oct 2012
The Bigger
mûre Oct 2012
I see a Woman eating her muffin
looking at Man who is looking
looking into the depths of his paper cup
and the wrinkles and rivers on the back of his hand
thinking When did I get those?
Coffee Cup looking at the blue bin in the corner
Coffee Cup thinking Well, I guess this is how it goes

The secret force that wrenches eyes upward
from the secret morning monologues
happens like electricity happens
and Man sees Woman's eyes and frowns
and can't tell whether they are blue
or brown.

Crumbs are on her lap.
Man doesn't notice but Woman thinks he does
Moving imperceptibly and not wasting a calorie
she flutters her hands over the warm loaves of her thighs.
Man notices an ephemeral strain Simon and Garfunkle and
becomes aware of a softening within his sternum and
electrons slowing, softing, into a May spring aesthetic
Woman rubs her finger which does not have a ring
and Coffee Cup wonders if it will still
have sentience within the bin or if the world
with all its broken beauty and mornings and warm hands
will suddenly just stop everything?

I look at my keys. The sort that express, not
the sort that open doors and drawers
but even these, time to time, will
fall beneath the wooden floors.

Man pulls his long coat off the back of his chair
without ceremony rises and turns to go
leaves his cup on the table for a coffee girl to attend to
and exits as the rain turns to snow.

Woman sits. And sits.
Woman might order another pumpkin muffin.
Her knees are chilled, watching her pinkly from the edge
of a pencil skirt like children's faces from a blanket.
A moment later she makes that same comparison
and laughs internally without gesture or sound.

And Woman looks around.

Woman smiles. Not because of Man or muffin
or the secret life of a Coffee Cup
but because she is Woman
struck lively by the sudden meta
fleeting passage of The Bigger
and her eyes, definitively brown
spark like bumper car antennae
and struck by magic, the same magic electricity
for an irreversible instant meet mine.

And for one fourteenth of a moment
Woman knows Me with all her life.
I shiver and she lobs me the red bean bag
and I hold the image in my mind like
a relic of the living divine.

The Bigger, the morning
the secret was mine.
1.7k · Jan 2015
The Firefighter's Trampoline
mûre Jan 2015
when my hurt became audible
you protested with your history
I know only what I've known
and you begged me to be the bigger person
and so I was.

And so you grabbed one end of me
and I grabbed the other
and we pulled until taut, until
I was enormous, stretched
and distorted
like a lost giant or
A firefighter's trampoline-

my highest purpose became
to break your fall

and so I did

and so I did

and so I did
the words are finally starting to come
1.7k · Nov 2012
Blurry Love
mûre Nov 2012
With my heart I picture you in polaroids
tinted blue by my eyes, surrounded by crushed leaves.
In the skipping track of my inner eye
your mouth, the way it moves when you focus
the open-palmed reaching of marimba chorale
and softening of your brow from the vines
of midnight-colour hair.
From many perspectives, again and again,
in the skipping track of my inner eye,
photographs shot with love.
1.7k · May 2012
Narcissus was misunderstood.
mûre May 2012
"The eyes are the windows to the soul"
good thing I have pretty blue eyes?
*******. The soul is the window to the soul
peeked into by watching a life.

Where does the self reside?
in a cardboard box body
dimples marketed to be cherished
a full lipped smile, irises to beguile
this image, lottery identity-


Am I supposed to feel lucky?
Arbitrary proportions, is my soul a brunette
are its shoes size 9?
Some assembly required- to be human
words writ to describe this shell
this meaningless husk
puppet jesting at life
feverishly polishing itself
until it cracks, breaks
abstract and

Does the self wear a top hat
and say: "Here's a hundred years to sell out the show"

"Til death do us part,
my perfection and my soul."

I'll lay out the patio so nicely
they'll never even realize
the host is in absencia, has hidden deep inside

I curse myself for the illusion of aesthetic-

Beauty is the greatest lie

Rid me of the irons to
my body
my name
my poise

imprisoned in this wretched skeleton,
the cage of the soul, the self, the someone
in embryo form
dreaming they're awake

but have never even opened their eyes.
1.6k · Apr 2013
Happy Birthday
mûre Apr 2013
out of beautiful spirals of dna
I'm so glad they settled on you
my sweet scientist
my clever clover
my favourite pair of genes.

If we chose our samsara
If I could bring you back
and you could bring me back,
I'd do this again.

And again.

I wouldn't change a single thing about you.

I wonder how many lives I've already spent loving you?

Happy Birthday, darling.
1.6k · Oct 2012
I'll walk you home.
mûre Oct 2012
August nights are deceptive
in almost every way.

Chivalry may only go so far
two blocks in the dark.
Pausing in natural progression
cross-legged pavement within a 70s orange halo
to pet the neighborhood cat and to measure
the circumstances of the crossroads.
To measure up the exhausted opponents
of the oldest colosseum.

your frown spoke only negations
betrayed by your truth-or-dare eyes.
whites revealing an ancient wound,
irises concealing an urgency
that spread to me on the sidewalk
like purple chalk on the driveway
Or tendrils of ink in water.

I watch the Janus of your being
oscillate like glass
afraid of breaking itself.

The mouth that denies
is the mouth that calls its own bluff
Renouncing its resolve all over
damp trembling skin and
the high of oxytocin.

I'll... I'll see you again tomorrow?

August nights are deceptive
in almost every way.
1.6k · Apr 2013
Chameleon Love
mûre Apr 2013
I love you more than me
it's what scares me most
my chameleon heart
I become what I cling to.

And so my colour-blind soul
passing through shades
when picking you flowers
what do I have of my very own to give you?

You made me out of blue
You felted my heart of this red
You turned my hands to gold.

I am already you
I have nothing of my very own.
My darling, what could I give you now?
1.5k · Dec 2012
This is how it goes:
mûre Dec 2012
I don't move,
I orbit.

I hopscotch the squares where love can be.
Where it has already been.

I don't move [forward],
I orbit [to where I may belong]

I am homesick for everyone
I've ever met.

Most major decisions are based
on the statistic probability of a kiss,
because to be loved
is to be corporeal.

My heart doesn't guide me,
theirs do.

I follow my bloodlines
and shake the tree
for fruit.

This is how it goes:
With each breath I draw,
one for me
one for you.
1.5k · May 2012
Blackbelt Bachelor
mûre May 2012
At the end of my name
follow three letters
right now they spell

folks say it ain't the
way it used to be
jobs- like there's even such a thing as
"beneath me".

I'm a clever little phoenix
I have my flight plan
not an android, nor
academia didn't make me

I can wait and remember
I can serve you an ice cream
without forfeiting intellect in
a flurry of sugar cones

I pick my battles gracefully
so I remember what I was taught.

Curl up.
Pay rent.


1.5k · Jul 2012
We're a Typhoon, Darling.
mûre Jul 2012
Your love is the wind
compass reeling
in fearsome gusts.

My love is the water
rushing rising
and carrying away.
1.5k · Oct 2012
Summer's Crone
mûre Oct 2012
it... it's too small for my hands
I smile winsome to convince
the loose doily cloth of naivete
the backwards crone covered in bark
the little old lady who looks young in the dark
she belongs under secrets in a lemon grove
she's the oldest and newest in all of the park.
1.5k · May 2012
pyjamas revelation haiku
mûre May 2012
my entire life has
been a slow steady breath in
i'm ready to sing
1.4k · Sep 2012
happy sad september.
mûre Sep 2012
autumnal leaves scent your hair
weaving the reverie of stranger summers
of smoke and arboreal decay
bone-fingers, ceramic mug
shivering *** under the wool
   these septembers bewitch me,
   their wincing smile-
   how good it is
   to feel so sad.
1.4k · Mar 2015
mûre Mar 2015
My killed love for you
I will inject
micro amounts into my heart
whenever I'm about to let someone in
to safeguard against ever
becoming sick like that again.
1.4k · May 2012
broken mirror
mûre May 2012
I am a chocolate box of contradiction
pick a name and call me
go on- put a name to my whole identity
so be colourful, be flavourful-
Fake? Loyal? Insecure?

Each are shards of who I am-
a broken mirror of opposites
    just like you

The difference is, you don't know how
to handle your broken pieces without cutting fingers
so pick up mine, throw them at me
little knives of greatness and flaw
Go on, this mirror is already broken
lying in pieces at the feet of its master.
1.4k · May 2012
mûre May 2012
in dreams i met the fox again
this time i asked him to use words
grabbing sandcastle fistfuls of his fur
until the tide swept in
and i howled.

i asked him for the essence
secret ingredient
that made him a fox
as if it could be answered
= fur. paws. snout.

so we built a den of bricks
and i seal it over and over in vines
-just hold this together-
in thin flora we both know he could tear down
(if he wanted to)
the fox and his mystery mortar.

one day, the fox opened his mouth and said:

do i ask for his appraisal
or do i riddle me for mine?

tearing down the wall to qualify
my own little bits of stone
twist my silver hair

because maybe i'm not half as scared of knowing the fox
as i am of knowing
the wolf.
1.4k · Jan 2012
King's English Shrubberies
mûre Jan 2012
A patchwork quilt that I roll roll up in
Stitched with syllables
Like a little phonetic sausage
So deep inside you can't hear me go
Dur dur dur.
(insert self-deprecating quip about being a wiener)
laughing track
But it's cozy and neat.
And if you do
I'll rubix cube your dearest mind
Til I'm tucked deep inside once again.  

And I'll softly pontificate about the genetic code
and how it made your irises not quite hazel
But still able to illuminate spontaneously
teal, laurel, cyan, the sea
And if you'll pardon my hyperboles
They draw me strong as an Atlantic tide
This ocean that ***** me the deepest inside
Aesthetically, the contrast is startling to your skin
An artist would capture the portrait therein
But really, all you need to know
Is they're the prettiest
prettiest ******* eyes
I've ever seen.

And I'm sorry
That when I get nervous
My heart is a little effervescent
My words become too efflorescent
(I seek not to strangle you with King's English Shrubberies!)  
As you stand before me, incandescent
My dread is that you're


But that thing about your eyes.
All you need to know.
That thing about your eyes,
Not to mince words

But I think

I'll feel that way always.
mûre Aug 2013
Oh my captain,
you are a secret compass
in my breast pocket.

A tiny urgency within my doublet
that insists me to your side
so that all the maps of my life
are your destination.
I wish I had a doublet. I often think I was born in the wrong era.
1.4k · Nov 2012
Dear Dog,
mûre Nov 2012
I am in the coffee shop.
You wish you were.
Your snouty head is one great flappy nostril.
Your belly is huffing and I know if I could hear you
You'd be whining.
Your eyebrows are raised in a way
that defies (or proves) evolution theories.
Your pinkly jowls dripping with the mixed
urban aroma of cars, pigeons, and
smelly bipedal mammals.
An olfactory carnival.
You sit on the pavement red-leashed to a bike,
a statue of solemn dignity as passerby
pause to scritch your ****.
1.4k · Mar 2013
The nature of the job.
mûre Mar 2013
Friday, 1211h
A man collapses at lunch
and his vitals spin away like
marbles: pulse, breath, pallor
rolling about on the floor
out of reach of the heroes who
shout his name, flash their pagers
like the batman symbol.
Someone get a doctor in here, now.
The old Vets shuffle out of the room
comment blearily on the poor guy
I guess after the War things do not phase you the same
but perhaps they didn't notice the hue of his lips.
And then he stabilizes, and I fall apart
aghast, aback, there is still tuna sandwich in my mouth
ground by my teeth into a diamond to monument the recovery.
The gurney rolls by, I know him.
My stomach falls to Ground Floor
in relief and despair.

That's the thing about long term care
these men are clever, they teach you so well how to live
that you forget they're supposed to die.
1.3k · Jul 2012
mûre Jul 2012
I nurse immortal longings
at my girlish chest
Pacing, rocking, swaying
agitated pluck at an instrument
and am lost for sounds
paintbrushes crusted with acrylic
dim florescent basement hum
I pick up a pen
and it burns my palm
turn and turn to a looking glass
and scrutinize my limbs
these 23rd year limbs in the
autumn of youth have
barely begun to wrinkle
I ransack my renaissance boudoir
An artist, poet, musician, healer
one, some, any of these,
or none? I gather my trappings
and hold them to me like a toddler
hoping that perhaps they will impart
purpose, or authentic human feeling
palpable happiness, cutting sorrow
I used to feel so much more then-
where have my feelings gone?
1.3k · Feb 2013
Shoulda Come.
mûre Feb 2013
Afternoon-light in our periphery
our cerebellums glowing happy like...
maybe a plate of cheesecake, and two bent forks
the atoms that separate 'you' from 'me'
laughing within a jitterbug
but now there's no cake for us.

Why aren't you here?

afternoon-light in our periphery
and our cognitions like a strawberry swirl
Sweet, home-made, toujours innocente
and I scratch your brilliant head for
the secret to unconditional love
and your smile becomes lyrics,
the first line of a perfect song.

Shoulda come.

At the bottom of a teacup, we reveal
our secret selves, in a boy scout pact of friendship
spit-locking our hearts into a ferocious loyalty
to take care of each other in our parallel lives
and to cherish what we cannot see.  

Because I cannot see you,
and you cannot see me.

I forgive you, next time- it'sraininganyways
i'mnotmad, i just don'twant to revealhow
muchyou mean tome.

You shoulda come, friend.
1.3k · Jan 2013
Lessons from my father.
mûre Jan 2013
A family man, running spandexed and puffing
reaches into the stroller at the crest of the hill
as the day sighs away the last of its dusk
hands a three year old a flashlight
and makes her a secret-wink promise.
You'll move so quickly on your path,
it's your duty to carry a light with you
to keep you and others safe.

A stern man and a hot scratchy washcloth
removing a Spice Girls bubblegum tattoo from
the nose of a seven year old, molecule by molecule.
As soon as you get caught up in superficiality,
that's when you'll make mistakes. Don't make
mistakes that will last.

A medic man returns from a surgery
from a rural village with more kindness than money.
Lays a basket of apples and a banana loaf on the table
in lieu of a cheque and says:
There will be opportunities in your life for
your actions to define the kind of person you are-
always take them-

and never forget your common humanity.

An animal man bursts into the room
with a puppy as new as a sparrow
gamboling, loving, seeking faces and laps.
When choosing your first dog, look for
one that has more loyalty than shrewdness.
Choose your friends that way, too.

A tired man breathes deeply instead of shouting
at the quivering teen and the confession of the bumper
and the scratch that shouldn't have happened.
Hurt softly with the truth.... but never with lies.

A romantic man recounts his history
raising his eyebrows at the score of his frolics
and makes me swear to fall madly in like
with every soul who my heart should kiss-
but Love, reserve Love as the most sacred
of words, deeds, beings. When you Love,
you and he shall become one another,
and be one life.

A sentimental man wears a silver crown
at the head of his dinner table meditating in
silence after the laughs and mayhem of his
family clan have subsided to the fireplace.

He looks at his daughter.
She looks at her father.

The fullness of her adult face
and Polish eyes reflect in his irises
blue inside blue inside blue inside blue-
making any separation between them
redundant, intangible, like-
mirrors facing mirrors-
as the roots of the
Tree run as deep as soul itself
and he murmurs:

*The day you hear the cry of your firstborn child
is the day you discover the meaning of your life-

and nothing will ever, ever be the same.
1.3k · Jun 2013
mûre Jun 2013
If Love is the better half
then I am gilded frame
lonely for stolen masterpiece.

I sought Home in wrong places.
It hides under covers
but these sheets are porcelain
and I am cold to the touch.

My roots are my rocks and suddenly
your name is carved in the bark
of my family tree

If Love is the better half
I am nothing without Yang.
1.3k · Jan 2013
I experience you.
mûre Jan 2013
Were Love a fragrance,
would it settle like a hummingbird
at your throat- or would it become
trapped under your hair, shimmering pinkly
oxytocin shaken out in your bursts of joy
Love, like an orange peel.

Would it be that sound is the body of Love?
Is it tucked into your quiet sighs
as forever as a child, is it the raucous laughing cry
of delirious grandiose 2am Love on crowded streets,
or afternoon halfsleep philosophies on the human condition?
Or the very quiet promises, and Love is the vow.
1.3k · Nov 2014
reluctant astronaut
mûre Nov 2014
Breakups are perhaps the space travel of relationships-
in leaving you I deserted my home planet.
What, what is this?
Everything is dark, unfamiliar, and cold.
1.3k · Mar 2013
the April in your lapel.
mûre Mar 2013
In the Garden there was a man
a quiet maker of boutonnieres
whose sunflower grin stirred pollen.

In the Garden there was a bird
a hummingbird, a quiet maker of songs
who steeped within his mirth, thirsty for more.

And now she tastes his flowers everywhere
as he weaves them into his lapel
that she might always flit home
just below the crook of his smile
and just above his April heart.
1.3k · Dec 2013
manos enamoradas
mûre Dec 2013
Is there anything so extraordinary as a hand?

I asked, as I ****** his finger
with a gusto hungry to milk some essence of him
that would nourish me after his body left.

Your divine digits! These brilliant explorers, who
fragile as separate spring shoots, can teach and tell and build what
would last for ever.

If a Renaissance lives, it lives in these hands , these ingenious orchestrations that can musick and paint and sculpt and-

          *-and write?

Yes darling, and that.

I migrated my tongue and attention to his palm and slowly painted his love-line pink, tasting his future.

Do you know, when I was once a little Catholic girl- they would tell their stories in Sunday School and I used to imagine the soul resided somewhere in your belly and felt like chicken noodle soup...

and perhaps not so, perhaps hands are the houses of soul where the most Authentic Self of selves resides waiting to touch, to hold, to caress... where the animal desires of humanity delight in the most truthful communication existing?

        -Then... what is the common language? Id?

Yes, perhaps you're right. And love.

His other hand, jealous of my attention, spoke aloud in a sonnet of pinches and strokes that could have drawn tears of reverence were I not held captive by the decadent finger between my lips.

Between gulps of air he queried my fixation
and with a final holy gasp I testified:

**"Darling, touch is the only transparent sensation"
Next page