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Sep 12 · 48
1/adam
nom de plume Sep 12
what does it say about me
that i think hunger
is what angels sound like?
lineless and with great aching.
and what does it say about me
that i feel like i could
just pull my pelvis bone
from my hip
and watch it
crumble in my hands?
i couldn't sleep so i
traced my bones,
i couldn't sleep so i
felt my gums,
(my skins got a great story that
no onell ever read
fitting, i guess -
i've yet to be anything but
wasted potential.)
but,
despite everything,
there is something comforting
about the lie of a body.
something human in me yet.
what do i want the answer to be
when i feel my chest
and wonder where
my ribs came from?
it was an early lesson that
one must give up ribs
to be worthy of love.
Sep 7 · 53
book of unsung hymns
nom de plume Sep 7
DO NOT BE AFRAID
there is something so
evangelical about fear.
i was raised to be afraid -
it was implicit from my first sunday school and
my first crush and
my first real haircut.
there is a certain desperation bred in youth groups
in local church attics,
in big auditoriums
with looming, radiant stage lights.
perpetual guilt -
perpetual repentance -
perpetual fear.
                                                                ­                                  SACRAMENT
did i think that
baptism would make me feel more loved?
well, that’s between me
and the Good Lord Himself.
but i will tell you
the water was cold and
my father cried.
i received a necklace from
my grandmother and  i
haven’t seen it in years.
fear doesn’t drown in cold water.
it crystallizes, it burns.
                                                                ­                                    EUCHARIST
if my mouth tastes like blood,
let’s blame transubstantiation.
if my skin doesn’t fit right,
let’s blame God’s want for the process of creation.
if my heart wears it self thin at the thought of judgement - Death - finality,
let’s blame my Protestant upbringing.
how avoidant am i -
blaming Martin Luther himself
for a menagerie of ****** Georgia churches.
                                                                             THE BODY AND BLOOD
christ, you people want
to take everything from me.
i can’t go to another easter service
as your daughter.
i never could.
you never seem to realize what
exactly you want from me.
don’t look at me like that -
like this is a resurrection.
i was never crucified. i never died.
it’s no comet, either, though,
i can tell by your face.
this isn’t easter, it’s
a funeral service.
i’m sorry i can’t come
back to life for you.
but what you think is living and
what i think is living are two very different things.
do you know what it feels like when
your own mother thinks you’re
going to hell?
                                                                ­                           CONSECRATION
i’m sorry i can’t cry
holy water anymore.
but there are good things in becoming.
i remind myself that there is progress- growth -
in transformation.
but i never really liked wine,
anyways.
                                                                ­                                               AMEN
nom de plume Sep 7
i've always written poetry
with the passion of a preacher to sermon.
i experience for literature feelings
which i imagine others to offer religion.

i've never been spiritual.
full stop.
my cynicism denies me wonders -
tired tale, sure, true as any other,

but poetry evokes the holy ghost
a being more skillful, more elegant,
setting my mind's eye alight with
saintly delusions of grandeur

it curls from my pen, bleeding fire into my notebook
if there is Elysium, it is in
the private Eden created between
my mind and my notebook.

if there is peace, it is in libraries,
eyes poring over words pouring over
life, utterly human life, told in a
way that is raw and violent and righteous,
connecting one's private introspections to words.

if religion has a purpose,
a redeeming quality, it is
community, connection, consistency.
God Is Always and Always Has Been and Always Will Be.

the great human collective,
the experience of poetry, of life,
the art of internal monologue,
it persists. it persists.

no, i am not spiritual -
it does a disservice to us.
it unjustly ignores the
holy human hand in our history

time is a chronicle of the messy
affairs of human choice and experience .
it seems unfair to me,
to pin all the blame on a

convenient
divine
deux ex machina
slash
scapegoat.

don't give the big guy all the credit!
the exhausted masses had a hand too!
take some responsibility for
humanity's divine man-made persistence!

so, yes, i experience poetry
with the rapturous fascination
as sinner to saint -
yet there is no sin in poetry.

by nature it is a
narcissist's and hedonist's pass time.
so there is only wonder
and childlike curiosity,
and the slightest sliver of hope to move forward,
which, really,
what else is religion good for anyways?
Aug 10 · 34
conversation 2
nom de plume Aug 10
sometimes i'm afraid people don't like me.
it's my whole problem actually,
that i so desperately want to be liked by people.
i take myself and i scream at it,
i throw plates and vases at myself,
i tell myself to go hide under the bed and stay there,
and all im left with is the rest of me.
i try to pick those bits up,
sew them together
recycle and refurbish, blow the dust off a little,
and i create something that is totally inhuman.
a creature that moves on inorganic beats,
that stumbles and falls right down the
slippery ***** of uncanny valley,
that talks too much,
smiles too much,
apologizes too much.
it's not fake,
it's me,
just, not any of the parts i like.
it's more palatable, i guess,
but it never goes any deeper.
that's really all i try to be.
palatable.
a real people pleaser.
i take all the jagged edges of my person,
and iron them out until it's more
appealing than the next
hottest number one billboard single,
but the critics hark it all the same,
because generic niceties only
really get you so far.
so you either have to push a little,
give the universe a little shove,
remind it you still exist,
or let yourself get folded up
as you cave and cave
and cave again,
never asserting,
always acceding,
because of that
deep-seeded hatred you
harbor, towards the one person
you could never forgive for as long
as tried, towards your oldest friend:
yourself,
the pathetic ******* that looks back at you from every mirror, from every picture, every poem.
so you cant be them,
because no matter how much you try to make amends, befriend
yourself
you always end up
disappointed.
so you burn the bridges
you tried to build
and create a monster,
an amalgamation of every
polite smile and fake laugh
you've seen, gathered,
like youre playing
customer service
your entire life,
and you scare off everyone anyways,
because there's not a script,
there's no rehearsal,
nobody's running their lines,
they're living their lives,
and you parrot back all the
lessons you've learned from the
acting school of social osmosis
and it comes out wrong and ill-timed,
and while they don't hate you
you just don't vibe,
and you repeat this process
for the rest of your life.
and why do you do this?
no really,
why do you do this?
i wish i could be softer,
not ironed around the edges,
all cauterized and raw,
but more blurry,
a gentler sort of person,
fuzzy and less uptight.
it's a me i think i could be,
if i just were able to take a walk with
me,
let him explain himself,
learn to value him
more than i value
people's perceptions of who i am.
he'd tell me to relax, stop being such a
control freak.
but at this point i would uncomfortable
and i'd say
well, you're such a hypocrite
oh look at mister high and mighty,
calling me a freak
listen, i may be miserable
but at least i'm not you.
my pride gets in the way,
(everyone always says i'm stubborn)
and i cant accept
that one pill i won't swallow:
"be less afraid."
Aug 10 · 96
conversation 1
nom de plume Aug 10
"you're kind of a a *****", he says, kicking a rock with his shoe.

"big talk coming from you," i respond, my shoe scuffling in the dirt, "at least i don't wear stupid t-shirts."

it's all i got. i don't have much in my arsenal toward this kid, no matter how much i want to hate him. he walks a little bit ahead of me on the path. he talks a little bit too loud. the messy brown curls falling down his back need to be brushed.
"you should brush your hair more," i tell him, and he laughs, but it quickly falls into an overly-exaggerated annoyed groan.

"you're gonna hate hearing this," he laughs again, quieter this time, "but you sound exactly like my mom. our mom."

"you should be nicer to her, too," i say.

"you should be nicer to her, actually," he says, rolling his eyes, "because i can already tell you're not much better."

i laugh at that. i wasn't expecting him to be so sassy.

he turns to look at me. my face, a young, chubby face, awkward with buck teeth and pale skin.

"why do i laugh less?" he asks, "in the future, i mean." he's stopped walking, to look fully at me, awaiting an answer, expectant.

"i don't know," i genuinely don't, "you just get sadder. not like, sadder in a bad way, because you know you're not as sad as you used to be, and you know that you're doing great and it's all there and you should just be happy but you can see all the way you have left to go, but you already walked the whole way here, and you're... tired. you're just a lot more tired."

"oh," he says, before frowning and turning back around, "alright."

we emerge from the forest and walk toward the gas station.

the young girl buys a can of arizona tea and walks back to church, where his youth group is.

the young girl pays for his gas and goes back to his car.
Jul 31 · 57
gutter glamor
nom de plume Jul 31
i never bought the whole dark academia thing.
sure, ****** and drugs and *** are torrid and dark when you're from a rich family,
when you've never woken up to the news of your childhood best friend being shot to death,
when you haven't seen your family and friends fall into the seductive cesspool of opioid addiction,
when half of your class was pregnant by the time senior year rolled around.
the academic upper class thinks what working class kids go through is sexier when the backdrop of the overdose is chandeliers and silk,
instead of a small town parking lot at 3am.
my aesthetic reality of academia is scholarships, it's leather jackets and nicotine addictions
it's having the only fifteen-year-old car in the campus parking lot and hoping to find a plug before the first week of classes.
it's not sleeping between work and class and partying. it's being the only one whose dad isn't buddies with the guy giving me an internship.
it's lonely. it's the crippling loneliness of not understanding upper class social cues,
it's reading crime and punishment in the slivers of time between work and work and class and more work
and emphasizing with raskalnikov so much it makes your teeth ache.
it's coughing up blood.
it's having health insurance for the first time in college and still not using it.
it's drowning, it's fighting, it's violent and heroic and painful and
never knowing
if you'll actually
make it.
Jul 24 · 97
memory box
nom de plume Jul 24
i've kept every
sticky note,
letter,
mindless, simple gift
ever given to me by a friend.
every memory,
from valentine's day cards to ticket stubs.
i'm a hoarder, but of a very specific breed:
a scrapbook's worth of paper with no home and no purpose.
more akin to an archivist for no one.
i started crying yesterday
because i couldn't find my
memory box,
the shoebox i've stuffed all of my
sentimental nothing into.
i still can't find it.
i'm afraid someone threw it away.
(the box is full of letters and notes from my friends, starting from 8th grade. i go off to college in a week.)
but if that someone saw it as trash, they were probably right.
i have old letters from people i haven't talked to in years, that hate me now,
all crammed in this little shoebox
because i could never bring myself to throw them away.
my own personal museum of all the relationships i've let die of starvation,
hung taxidermic and pointless
within the walls of my heart and
cluttering the floors of my room.
exhibit a:
when i broke up with my first girlfriend,
i opened my memory box and burned the letters she'd given me.
but,
i went through them first
so i could keep the ones i couldn't bear to get rid of.
i'm a hoarder. i latch onto every crumb of affection i've ever been given and never throw it away.
wouldn't you?
exhibit b:
i was an angry child
i am an angry adult
i have spent my life roaming the desert of a lonely god,
and finding people willing to love me is a long and empty walk from one
oasis to another,
with nothing to show for it
but a shrine made up of
immortal-dead remnants of
every person i've ever known.
i have been alone before
and i never know if i'll be alone again.
experience hath granted me the wisdom
to hold onto, dig my claws into what is not guaranteed.
so yes, i am a hoarder,
and, exhibit c:
one day i will die alone
surrounded by garbage and words that some person out in the world doesn't even remember writing,
and i won't be able to bring it with me
into the black abyss of wherever else
and they will clean out my house
after i am dead
and throw it all away.
but for now
i'll keep looking for my memory box,
because it's gotta be around here somewhere.
i really do hope
it's around here somewhere.
nom de plume Dec 2019
you have a tattoo on your left arm
that i have never seen before.
and now i know that i will never
get to ask about it.
two teenagers found dead
shot to death in a car.
you followed me on instagram
a few years ago.
and i, knowing we haven’t
talked in years, thought i should reach out.
nothing would be different if i had,
but
i’m still thinking about it.
we probably would’ve talked for
a day, maybe two,
small talk, i would've learned how you’ve
changed.
but i never said hello
because you were so different,
and i didn't know what to say
and i thought i would always
be able to ask.
when we were kids
we used to sit outside in your garage and play dolls.
we prank-called my brother’s friends on his old phone.
your birthday party is still the only time i’ve ever been to six flags.
you told me that when the sun is out and it starts raining
they say it's the devil beating his wife.
and now i’m grieving in a way that’s more
nostalgic than sad,
because 18 is far too young to die
and i just wish i would’ve asked you how you’ve been.
subtitle: i never said goodbye, but i never said hello, either.
nom de plume Dec 2019
It’s not an art museum,
it’s a Waffle House,
and you’re looking sleepy
as you sip your tea.
It’s three a.m. and
I know we still have a few more miles until my house,
but I’m home and you know it.
I’m ripping up a napkin with my
hands as we talk about the concert.
I know I enjoyed it more than you,
and I know I cried on the way home
because I thought you didn’t love me,
but you still came to the concert
even though you didn’t really like the artist,
and now we’re at a Waffle House at three a.m.,
and the garish yellow decor reflects on your skin,
and we’re sweaty and tired,
and I love you in the rare, inexpressible way
that feels most potent
after concerts at Waffle Houses at three a.m.
it was an amanda palmer concert, if you were curious
nom de plume Oct 2019
I am afraid of everyone I know.
I did not evolve with any of you.
It’s a party but I’m
a deer in the headlights,
and I'm trying to have fun,
but I am scared of everyone there.
I got very drunk,
and told a friend that
I didn't trust anybody.
Why did I tell him?
Everyone’s out to get me.
Hm, no, that’s not how it feels;
everyone could be out to get me one day,
and every word out of my mouth
is another knife in their arsenal, or my stomach,
because I am a revolting mass of skin and sinew
and everything is something to hold against me.
I think one day I will be
the ****** that will not leave the house.
It’s like the original “Little Mermaid”,
every step on dry land-
every step out of my home-
is another step of agony,
and one day, when I have had enough
of this miserable existence,
I will turn on the stove
and dissolve into the sea.
Oct 2019 · 403
wandering horseman
nom de plume Oct 2019
i ate a four-leaf clover and
consumed its luck, which died in me.
i lied in the quick, quiet field,
killing the grass,
looking to set myself free.
i drank and i drank
from every river, every creek,
my thirst unsatisfied until it had every sea.
my touch burned down forests,
my glance slaughtered meadows,
when climbing and looking for everything, anything,
i killed every tree.

in my quest for satisfaction,
i murdered the sky,
and yet nowhere have i found the fulfillment
i believe key.
thus, starved for complacency,
i continue my fruitless killing spree.
Aug 2019 · 240
precipice
nom de plume Aug 2019
in ninth grade i came to school
everyday
with cigarette smoke
embedded in my clothes
i wanted so badly for
someone, anyone
to ask why i smelled like
a cancer ward.

i would write poetry
about how much i hated myself
thinking it would mean
anything to anybody
all the sharp parts of
my body condensed
into shot glasses
overflowing and draining at the same time
the chipped parts leaking *****
onto my bedroom floor
that i'm afraid
my mom will smell

when i was a preteen
i promised myself,
a pact only i can legitimize,
that if i wasn't happy by 18
i would **** myself.
i am a breath away from that
moment
within arm's reach of the
edge of something--
whether it's a
swimming pool's side
or a cliff's face
is up to me i guess.

here's the thing no one
told me about life:
nobody notices your pain
no matter how much you want
them to,
and if they do
they do it wrong.
you won't be able to find
the words in the
moment they ask.
you'll freeze up
and your only language will be
cigarettes
blood stains
and a faint smell of *****.
it will seem romantic at the time
but it is really, really not.

all it does is hurt and hurt
and hurt and hurt.
you will be scared when
she notices the blood
on your thighs/hands/heart
and the black in your
lungs/soul
and you will cry. it will hurt.

but hey,
so does everything else.

and if there's
anything i've learned
by now, at the
precipice of 18,
it's that
cigarette smoke,
the blood and *****,
the black;
it all comes out in the wash.
Apr 2019 · 186
question/answer
nom de plume Apr 2019
question: why didn't you turn your work in?
                 answer: being alive and having to function as a human being day after day is an exhausting and unsustainable exercise that i don't know if i can continue forever.
                 answer: i get so depressed that i can't move, can't do anything but wallow in my own revolting, pathetic self-pity.
                 answer: there are messages on my phone, friends trying to reach me, wanting to know how i am. the thought of replying to or looking at them fills me with dread.
                 answer: i've been thinking about entropy and the eventual, inevitable end of the universe. one day, on a scale that none of us can even comprehend, everything will be nothing and time will be meaningless. human civilization, all of our monuments and cities and societies, will be gone, with no one and nothing left to remember them. every act of cruelty and of kindness, any anger or joy or sadness ever experienced will mean nothing when us and all of our everything will be returned to the dust from whence we came. it's more than me contemplating my own morality, it's me trying to come to terms with the futility of the human experience. sometimes i get so overwhelmed with this sort of inconsolable nihilism i can't sleep.
                answer: i'm scared and i'm tired.
                answer: sometimes
                answer: i wish
                answer: i was
                answer: anywhere
                answer: but
                answer: here.
answer, spoken: i don't know. can i give it to you tommorow?
Mar 2019 · 215
Tender Apocalypse
nom de plume Mar 2019
This is the world we live in
This is the world we end in
We'll end with it,
And it with us,
The absolute of nothingness.

This is the only comfort
I can offer you.
The finality of it all.
And, you know, these days,
Comforts are few.

When the world is burning,
and retribution is coming.
Those four men and all their horses
Barely held behind the gate.
Soon, there will be no wants to fulfill
Or desires to sate. Just nothing and ruin and what is left of our undoing.

The end is coming, but
That's alright. The fires
Persist beyond our door.
These are the only comforts
I can offer you:
Knowledge of the eventual end
And arms you can rest in
Til we both undo.

So, can we sleep while the world ends?
The distant sounds of grief
Have not yet reached our window.
Just hold me close, and I will, you
Though the world's set alight
I'll rest easy in your arms tonight.
In bed, embraced.
As the fires rage.

This is how the world ends:
Not with a bang,
But with a kiss goodnight,
With a soft "I love you,"
And a pause;
An eventual, whispered "I love you too."

And when the end comes,
Garishly and unkind
We'll sleep through it,
Peacefully and sublime.
I'd appreciate criticism and feedback on this!
Jan 2019 · 127
when the caged birds sing
nom de plume Jan 2019
my chest is an aviary,
hundreds of caged birds
flutter and shudder and whistle
soft songs and incomprehensible words.

my ribs as bars,
and my heart as feed,
and the birds all hum,
and we all have needs,

including birds, including me,
digging my hands, into my chest,
they peck at me, my insides,
to rip me open, we try our bests--

i scream and writhe and cry and whine--
i tear and pull and carve and break--
they sing and sing and sing and sing--
half-gored, i give in, stop, shake--

an albatross in my chest cavity,
the canaries' screaming pitch remains,
the robins and bluejays and wrens and larks,
all choir my unending pain.

i want to be free of them,
and them, of me,
but my ribs are bars, and my heart is feed,
and in my chest they will always be.
nom de plume Nov 2018
Alienate my body and mind,
commodify my core;
Is my existence
a means to a profit?
The 21st century's commercial *****.

My labor is not mine,
my art is not mine;
Everything I create
liscensed and taken,
another addition to a capitalist's shrine.

I understand the poached animal:
Ripped apart,
skin and teeth hung for all to see,
and then, admired for its beauty.
Mar 2018 · 370
childhood, tainted.
nom de plume Mar 2018
the train running by the baseball field,
looking around in wonder at the great sound—
(does it count as **** if he was barely a man at sixteen?)

my first birthday, giggling senselessly
covered in blue cookie monster cake—
(does he remember it as vividly and as vaguely as i do?)

my brother smiling and wrestling with me,
us both the perfect picture of idyllic youth—
(would any of them believe me if i told them how my cousin lured me into the bathroom, the perfect picture of youth still innocent—)

in the cul-de-sac, learning how to ride my bike, pink and sparkly with purple tassels hanging from the handlebars—
(does it torment him?)

falling asleep in the backseat, surrounded by my family, amber streetlight lulling me into a peaceful child’s slumber—
(does he get off to it?)

holding my breath as my brothers, laughing, dunked me underwater—
(he has a son now, will he ruin him like he ruined me?)

lungs screaming as i’m held underwater by my older brothers—
(does he realize how he’s ruined me?)

my child-like amazement at the world—
(molested by an almost-man, a boy who still has me utterly powerless in his grasp)

(does he get off to it?)
(does it ruin him?)—
(i can’t breathe)

i am held down in her grasp and i can’t breathe, knowing that my special moment saved for someone i love has been stolen from me by the almost-man, i can’t breathe because i know i’ll never have it back—
(i can’t breathe—)

my mother scolding my brothers and them releasing me, my tender face breaking the surface of the water and gasping down the air that had been stolen from me.
(and yet i am ever-choking on a phantom pain from six-years-old)
Mar 2018 · 216
morning after
nom de plume Mar 2018
i came
i saw (you lying there)
i bit my lip in the morning light--

in the moonlight:
i drug you up to my room
i held you down onto my bed
i listened to you beg.

you climbed on top of me
you pressed your lips against mine
you slid your hand between my thighs--

i came.
you saw.
you conquered.
Mar 2018 · 215
Baptism.
nom de plume Mar 2018
The sunset's light bathes me like the christening I never received as a baby,
when my flesh was still new and still soft and still;
when the first pulses of pain had not yet rang through my tender heart;
when the first rays of sun had not yet wrinkled my mother's skin;
when the thrumming, buzzing world around me had not yet made my small hands shaky.

I feel the light wash over me but I am blinded by the glare,
my impromptu baptism ending as the sun Himself realizes I am far too gone for any semblance of redemption.
Hindsight is twenty-twenty, I know; perhaps if my parents then saw me ******,
saw me now, every dispicable thing about me now,
they would've pushed me under the water as a child, said a prayer and held me there.
Feb 2018 · 337
Red.
nom de plume Feb 2018
I turn the shower setting to the highest it can be,
presenting myself skin bared to the Devil or God, whoever listens best;
hoping that my flesh will fall off and with it all that I've done and do,
leaving me red and hurt but reborn, a fresh heart pumping in my chest.

Prayers unaswered, I crawl from the shower nothing but aching.
The weight of life a still a noose looped and drawn tight around my neck,
skin on fire but sapped of all my fight;
red and hurt but never anew, still nothing but the same, ever-repeating shell of a wreck.
Jan 2018 · 245
RUBBLE
nom de plume Jan 2018
My resolve gave way under the burden of her touch.
The walls meant to protect me from heartbreak twice over
must've come from Jericho, the way they cracked and crumbled
around me, sending me tumbling unprepared into feeling once more.

Rubble remains however;
the fear innate within me makes itself known,
doubts following my heart wherever it dare go.
I can't help but think: when the walls of Jericho fell,
how many died from suffocation alone?

My asphyxiated heart beats with this anxiety, telling me
I am to suffer the common human millstone.
I am doomed to love too much yet never enough.
The tragic truth of my heart, burdened to be so easily let go.
Dec 2017 · 272
woolfe-esque
nom de plume Dec 2017
i have to drown
a necessary reprieve, a last chance to truly breathe--
escaping that living crown
so fitfully placed upon my head

i've always preferred the dull gray
the drab of concrete always more appealing than gold
i sole my shoes with it, wrap it around my neck
looking at my sadness reflected by this watery mirror

history repeats itself
the mirrored melancholy of her and i
two corpses having a tea party
at the bottom of river ouse
Dec 2017 · 1.1k
asphyxiopiliac
nom de plume Dec 2017
fate's meddling red noose has found me again
wrapped, warped me into your life
and i am far too light for my neck to snap
by my oh my do i choke and writhe

and i laugh with a mouth full of blood and bile
as i gasp for comic relief that will never come
i believed it might be different
lured in by the crimson rope's beating drum

the joke's on me
gallows humor of a certain sort
the punchline hits me in the gut
and i ***** on fate's high court

to be loved more than one can comprehend
to be loved but feel so empty
to be loved but feel so lonely
to be loved
to be loved

the joke's on me
Apr 2017 · 350
dear you
nom de plume Apr 2017
my head feels funny so i thought i'd write
a sonnet in an attempt to get sleep
tired eyes meet heavy thoughts meet long nights
lonely hours breed thoughts of hearts sworn to keep

why do these thoughts always come back to you?
oh, all the things i would give to forget
me swearing to you my love and time too
when do promises become cursed debt?

maybe i am not the best with my words
i have a disposition to sadness
does that mean you can cut my heart in thirds?
tearing me apart in your cruel madness?

though still confused, i'm glad you ****** off
though i'm without sleep, i am moving on
we were volatile, a **** molotov
now i can move peacefully into dawn

though lacking you, it is still a new day
i would not have it any other way
nom de plume Apr 2017
i followed you through hell
but you would not acknowledge me
you would not speak to me
you would not look at me

i followed you through flame
through devils and demons
all in the name of being saved
but you would not look at me

we were at the doors
and i, the fool
i, the fool, had thought we'd make it
and you had not looked at me

for the first time, you turned your head
foolish eyes met foolish eyes
i vanished at the doors of hopeful sun;
you had looked at me

just to check
nom de plume May 2016
He is who i think of after any ****** encounter
He is the ***** feeling under my skin

it is Him that i think of
it is Him that holds my innocence hostage
i ache knowing He stole my special moment
He took from me what was supposed to go to someone i love

He is the bitter taste on my tongue after i call someone "baby"
He is the terrifying ****** thoughts i have
He is the fear i feel when i'm in a room alone with a man

He is the fear.
dont ****** kids, youll **** em up
Apr 2016 · 298
spectrum
nom de plume Apr 2016
you are red;
you are fireworks; beautiful, searing flames in short bursts;
you are ashes; long dead, but still scorching any who dare lay a finger on you;
you burn.

you are orange;
you are forest fires; wild, and untamed; refusing to be controlled;
you are rebellion; constantly fighting, unable to rest;
you break free.

you are yellow;
you are shooting stars; lying to the innocents; the ones who don’t know your true identity;
you are dandelions; false hope given to the wishes of the young and naive;
you deceive.

you are green;
you are spring; rebirth and new life; hope;
you are home; familiar, blissful ease;
you welcome.

you are blue;
you are hurricanes; angry, violent forces that want to rip the world apart; nothing stops;
you are erosion; slow, patient eradication; none even notice you;
you destroy.

you are violet;
you are mountains; unmoving wonders of the natural world; constants;
you are anchors; keeping those in need safe from drifting; ubiquitous;
you remain.

you are complex.

you are your own canvas.

paint whatever the ******* want to.
written last summer
nom de plume Apr 2016
my love,
are you still there?
i looked back (just to check)
and you were gone...
Apr 2016 · 732
fernweh
nom de plume Apr 2016
the pull from under my ribs
is wanderlust
unsuccessfully convincing myself

that the ache in my soul
is not my red string of fate--
the one wrapped around my heart--

being pulled taut
ripping my organs from my chest  
and breaking my ribs like glass

it is not,
i whisper, not fooling anyone
the distance that makes it feel

like glass shards have taken over my throat
crawling from my mouth
and cutting off my tongue

it is not,
the fact that i cannot hold you
that makes my arm feel as if they have no purpose

it is not,
you being so far from my heart, my arms
that cuts up my insides so fine

please let me pretend,
just for a while longer,
that you being gone doesn't make me feel like a goner
unfinished; may return to
Apr 2016 · 355
deicide
nom de plume Apr 2016
we used to be golden, my love
you were midas, i was your girl
you held me close to your heart
and i glittered in the sun

we used to be golden, my heart
celestial beings, benevolent gods
we ignored the mortals beneath us
eyes only for each other

our fall from heaven
happened all too fast;
one minute i was golden
next you were gone;

perhaps the others was not ready
for our divine, ethereal love
that's why we were exiled from our heaven
ripped from each other, banished from your arms

i felt the silver leave my blood
the diamonds fell from my eyes
my gold is tarnished
i'm covered in dirt

my immortality has been stolen
my wings cut off
you're still ethereal
in an intangible way

my earthly journey has been lonely
and i've learned some things, since you've gone
elysium is a ******* lie and
temporal pain hurts so much

i suppose i shall wait it out
i'll sit here, i'll wait for you
i'll sit here on the terrestrial plane
and wait for rapture to find me again

i will wait, my love
i will wait until the day
we can be golden, again
not really sure where i went for this
Apr 2016 · 929
shards
nom de plume Apr 2016
missing you
permeates my entire being
my arms and legs
my head and neck
do not feel connected anymore

i believe it began in my chest
traveling up my veins
and creating
brittle bones,
aluminum skin

my bloodstream is freezing over
steadily
slowly

until i am made of glass wholly
(i have fallen from heaven
and been made unholy)

i am made of nothing more
than  ice and stone
a statue no longer breathing--
i am no longer flesh and bone

as lonely shards
i litter the floor
until this black hole
has swallowed me whole

— The End —