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Aug 2018 · 1.3k
Untitle me
rained-on parade Aug 2018
There's really something in the way
you breaking my heart ends up
sounding like a love song.
But I haven't stopped loving you once.
May 2018 · 2.6k
Lessons From The Screenplay
rained-on parade May 2018
You wanted a love like in the movies;
rain drenched white shirts, palms covered
in daisy pollen; I love you more than--
a phone call, long distance, your fingers
curling the telephone wire like you're pulling me
towards you
like a fibre optic pheromone.
Soundtracks of a jazz piano, and old jukebox hits,
flared skirts and Mary Jane shoes, square dancing.

But most of the time, we don't get to choose
the colour of the bedsheets. In this story,
I know you're going to leave me. I can sense
the zoom of your eyes, rolling away from me.
The lighting in the room, like the ones where something
awful is about to happen: a sad, sick orange
like a cheap sunset; the music, or lack thereof,
the way you bite your lip like you're about to
break my heart.

You look to the ground, and I know this is where
the narration will start;

this is the story of the first time
someone broke my heart.  
She's going to look up at me
and say the words,
It's all over-

and in a jump frame
the thunderclap will mask the sound
of my heart shattering, the sob disappearing
into my throat.

You wanted a love like in the movies,
we all did.

But then the rain came, and the flowers
drowned in their beds.
You left your umbrella by the doorstep,
I hope you don't catch a cold.
I'm not sure why.
Mar 2018 · 975
rained-on parade Mar 2018
I want to write you something,
but the words don't spill
out of my mouth
the way they used to.
I still need you but I don't want you now.

Not sure why this song is playing in my head.

Dreaming of You- The Coral
Mar 2018 · 978
rained-on parade Mar 2018
You walk through these streets
like you think you know what you want.
But tell me honestly,
inside the pockets of your coat
your fingers never uncross,
do they?

I drown you in photographic film
and sometimes I wonder how time
stands still in a painting.
In the middle of the bazaar, you stood
like a painting
while people moved around you
like an overexposed reel of film
and time still stands still to this day

You're coughing it all out; winter
on your lips and spring in your lungs.
Drink me.
I am a tincture of a daydream.
The sun is always brighter, my dear.

Our hands interlace in the darkness
and melt away with the consequences of time.
You are a bottle of something precious.
Put me to sleep, sing
me to sleep.

Undo the buttons of your dress
and wear away with the night.
Shed this old layer of skin
and something about rebirth
we can tell beautiful lies
but how long before the bread soaks up the milk
and the blood on the carpet
seeps into
the wood.

The ice on the lake
can't hold up this dream anymore.
You're a hallucination
and all I needed.
I don't know if I'll ever finish this.
Jan 2018 · 886
rained-on parade Jan 2018
When his hands dance in the night,
the moon quiets down to sleep.
Maybe he's awake at this hour again,
who knows what the day will bring.
I'm in love with the absence of hurting;
like this; my shins splitting with dancing
so much with my own insecurities.
Nov 2017 · 1.0k
Orange October
rained-on parade Nov 2017
Go on, dance with me now.
Your hands ticking away time       like a drumbeat,
               your radius hitting the table
with a knock
              on every door that has my heart     hidden
somewhere between dreams.              This orange
              October     sky, your laugh like       an earth
losing its spin,           axis alias         to your tongue.
               Forget me now then, we were never a race-
burnt asphalt                   into your name, I was only
               a ship with a suicidal anchor,
crashing turntables         like the surface of the sea,
              our song stuck now in the echoes
                                                          ­     of the Atlantic.
You write lovesongs that make no sense
My lovesongs make no sense anymore.

rained-on parade Sep 2017
You fall out of love like a habit.
Nobody told you that even when they say
'there are no wrong answers',
there's always one that rings all the wrong bells.
You say, 'Maybe strawberry ice cream is my favourite',
and suddenly alarms go off in his head
'How? What? Nobody likes strawberry icecream!
This one is defective! Return to Sender!'

This one is defective.
You were mass produced
on a supply line for antsy, lonely nineteen-year olds.
This was their best year yet; the whole world is aching
but we're sorry to inform you but
Models made after 1995 are no longer supported.

To the scrapyard, then.
You fall and tumble and crawl out of love
like it's out to get you.
Like it's got its teeth in you,
nails tearing into flesh,
holding your ankles and begging you
to stay.

I don't quite remember myself, or you, anymore.
Jun 2017 · 1.1k
Achtung girl
rained-on parade Jun 2017
I’ve got a signboard pinned to my chest.
It reads:

“Beware of the door. Trespassers will be
versed and put in rhymes.”

Ten-thousand volts of electricity for the man
who dare enter; an auction of body parts

is the central theme to my story.
I gave away my heart to the one with the easiest ways

and my mind for whom I could not find
my tongue. Every time my heart skips a beat

sirens wail into madness and lights start
rolling into the night. I wear barbed

wires as a wristwatch: telling me to
wake up whenever I have a sleepless night.

Put your ear to my chest and you’ll hear
clanking of bolts out of place and the death rustle

of a mechanical beast settling
into his bed for the long, long

7/15, 16
May 2017 · 1.1k
Like a vision in the rain
rained-on parade May 2017
I die small deaths at the hand of remembrance.
Wear me like a red poppy on your lapel;
I want you to remember me like this:

in the rain, my summer dress
sticking to my body, cutting a figure
you've never seen: sadness.
She looks like sadness, she looks
like a tired box of bones with her arms
calling out for love.
My eyes running with the water,
and repeating your name like some
******* prayer
and your arms like anchors and holding.
Nobody is ever going to love you like I do,
I said and you listened.
You listened then,
in the broken opus of rain hitting tin roofs,
and the ground melting at the touch of something
so pure.
But what of it, anyway.

You're going to need a bigger bunch
of flowers than this to make it right
this time.
You were unfaltering, even in the rain.
Apr 2017 · 1.3k
rained-on parade Apr 2017
I love you like clocks
breaking their arms
on my bed,
trying to stop time
from making me forget
what you looked like.
Jan 2017 · 1.2k
rained-on parade Jan 2017
You can tell his hands have worked to the bone,
***** fingernails tracing art in the dark of the room.
Dust scattered on the floor, the desk, the lamps.
He hasn't been here in a long time: seven years
to be exact. What he left behind was a book
filled with love and somewhere two weeks after
he dies, a twelve year old girl will find it.
And read it cover to cover until she became
a love story in herself.

You can ask the sky
how many times she's sighed at the passing
of someone she's never met, and feels she knows
everything about.

Love means never being forgotten
Dec 2016 · 10.5k
rained-on parade Dec 2016
You can't hold the short arm of the clock
and call it yesterday.
This is what I've learned this year. I think we've all grown up in ways we don't want to admit.

And in the end we're always more lost than ever found. But isn't that what life is all about? Finding your way back to yourself.

Happy new year everyone.
I hope joy gets your address right this time.
rained-on parade Dec 2016
The night unravelling,
caught in the moment of the earth's
dance on its tilt

when it's just as day
as it is the night; like light
appearing behind shut eyelids

who am I to trust
when the earth turns and dreams
turn into daytime reveries

will I wake up and forget
or will your elbow slide off the table
and break the spell?

This time is a perfidious lover,
so tell me,
whose side is it on

Perfidious: deceitful.
Nov 2016 · 3.9k
rained-on parade Nov 2016
Why do you take beautiful things
and turn them into instruments
of sadness?
Every winter
I become an answering machine
of unread messages.

Why does it take so long
for me to remember that
the other side of the bed has been colder
for years?

This sadness will last forever.
Nov 2016 · 1.1k
rained-on parade Nov 2016
Underneath these artless skies
I marry the ghost within you
because the stories are now
screaming mad, and dark,
and every time your name
rolls unto my tongue, it thunders,
and I tremble, and tremble,
and like a thousand ships set against
the tide, I will my eyes to sleep;
cold as ice, mother, pray tell
how does one go to sleep when
Thanatos is the one weaving the
blanket; rather awake than dead;
half a heart than half a soul;
tell me if I open you up I'll find anything
other than flesh, other than nothingness;
you're so vacant and uninhabited, I forget
you're not an abandoned building;
tell me how I can go to sleep
without being woken up by the ghost
of you in my head, dancing to music
we once made when we touched; I'll
revisit those little joys, and maybe I'll
understand why empty vessels make
the loudest noise.
Sep 2016 · 671
rained-on parade Sep 2016
You can't lock yourself in
and then complain that nobody visits you.
rained-on parade Aug 2016
The car will edge past the truck maybe
and maybe we'll survive this message
playing on repeat, apologies like daft lilies
and then you go ahead and tell me that you've never
learnt from your mistakes, or my mistakes.
That mistakes are only bad unless you change the order
of analogy. This experiment has been contaminated.
Now a fresh batch. Trust me, there's a point to this.
I'm counting back from a hundred and two
and you've got me standing in the middle of the highway,
blindfolded; this is what loving you felt like,
you said. But I think it was more dramatic in my head.
Nuclear fission and the seige of Dresden dressed
up playing Adagio in D minor; I'm dust. I'm dust.
I've become ash and misery and I'm trying to stay inside you
but you've been coughing a lot, and who's to say
you were holding your breath for something exciting,
I just know for a fact that at the end of this beep,
you'll know what to do and yet
you're not going to leave another message.
"Tell me how all this, and love too, will ruin us."
Richard Siken, Scheherazade
Jul 2016 · 9.4k
Four a.m.
rained-on parade Jul 2016
My name spells love in every language
you say you’ve learnt; the pulsating
streets of your veins are alight with life tonight.

We walk them with empty-pockets and
hand-in-hand; the only crimes we commit
is that we lead each other to dark places;

a castle of lies; half-said the only loving
we’ve done is in our heads.
We lose time in words and suddenly

it’s four a.m. and the coldest hands
have only ever been yours; all that throbbing
gone to waste. Rest your heart

with me, it’s never lost; four a.m.
is your hour with me
because you’ll sleep and awake

and we’ll become thieves of conversations
stealing emotions we hide in jokes
and the sundry ‘have a nice day’s.
You, who else?
Jul 2016 · 1.1k
This is home
rained-on parade Jul 2016
This is where the heart lies:
softly in the hands of rhyme
and meter; we've made a shrine
out of syntax and code.
We tell stories and we sing songs
about life and love, and this
is where some of us grow up,
this is where some of us die a little
each day.

This is our home, not your playground,
so keep your fights
out of here.
I'm not a part of this problem going around in Hello Poetry these days. I've not been approached, nor participated in this yelling, and abusing.

I'm not taking any sides, nor am I declaring any one's fault.

I think it's about time the front page has something positive.

Hello Poetry is a sanctuary for hundreds of people. Many of us have been here for years. And if you got problems, just leave. You don't have to tolerate, or spit abuse. Don't support or promote cyber-bullying.

Just leave.

Stop dirtying this place with your **** graffiti.
Jun 2016 · 17.9k
rained-on parade Jun 2016

No, don't go now. Please
don't go now; the fog is creating ghosts
out of people and we're breathing clouds out of our mouths.
Tell me about that time when you held your breath
under the lake for six years and still survived;
tell me how if I do that, it'll never work.
I'm not a sea God
any more.


My knees tell better stories than my tongue
ever did, please don't; wretched hive harangues
the mind in a plague, can't you see I'm holding you down
and telling you you're all I ever wanted,
you're all I ever wanted; your head is the stuff of dreams
you're all I ever wanted; you can put your arm
right through me and only feel mist;
I am fog. I'm creating ghosts out of you.


Make it up to me in a rainbow of hues of grey;
at the end of it I'm holding my ribs open. I've never
been more colourful and sad at the same time.
You're the mirrors to my house; stay
has always sounded better than don't go

yet neither seems to work anymore.
Jun 2016 · 1.4k
rained-on parade Jun 2016
The way I'm going now,
I'd probably crash into your living room:
tearing apart the art-deco set up
with my red car,
mashing art and steel into a subculture
of hate, and the unrequitedness of love.

I'm rocketfuel and bedding-
I'm churning up the cotton into kindling
and I'm burning so bright
I don't think I'll be able to top this.
I won't be able to top this.

I'm swallowing air and the sea,
the sea can wait a little while,
I'm yelling so hard at the waves my
throat has more salt than your tears,

you don't need conch shells to hear
me pleading for you; strumming six songs a second
and wailing into a chorus of
"I'm sorry" and "I love you";

it almost sounds like

I'm apologising.
Crash and burn.
Past tense.
rained-on parade Jun 2016
The man sings like a plague
crawling on the ground,
its attachments are not the first
thing you’ll notice, but when
his verses and the tone of his voice
slowly takes over the machinery

of your Monday morning misanthropy
you’ll begin to wonder
how you could ever forget
that loving takes more from you
than you could ever give, and how
you do it anyway. The toxin

now in your lungs, and your body’s
immune system is hostage to his
rhythms; chasms of his songwriting
has metastasised into your liver:
I love you’s taste like anxiety induced
speechlessness, and bile, and how

many times will you run this over
in your mind like a hallucination.
His song like a plague,
has wiped out this population
of sorrows, and what now of you
who has only ever claimed

that sadness was your art, your clothes,
your home, your sanity.

*What now?
Isn't love a sickness we keep catching
May 2016 · 1.6k
rained-on parade May 2016
He was the one person
who held storms in his fingertips,
and still touched you with the softness
of rain in springtime.
But you only felt thunder.
May 2016 · 831
rained-on parade May 2016
Who needs a noose
when the wait will **** you anyway.
I feel like a ball that is being thrown around.
Apr 2016 · 1.2k
rained-on parade Apr 2016
Leave me be;
I’ll die if I leave here.
Chained to the bedpost, my body is
no longer your sanctum. Every inch
of my skin is paying its debt back
to the earth. I’m dust.
I’m going from whence I came;
the clock is turning back its arms,
as far as it can go; mothers are closing arms
round their boys in embrace;
the rain falling upwards;
conversations are being unspoken;
(lies are being untold)
((your heart yet unbroken)),
the seeds are going
back to sleep; I
am going back to sleep.
Apr 2016 · 830
rained-on parade Apr 2016
I'll toll the bells in your return-
you've come back empty handed,
without any stories
to tell me.

I'll lie awake tonight again,
and you'll have nothing to tell me.
No happily-ever-after, no stories of heroes and queens.

I'll wait and want to be tangled in narration,
and dialogue and maybe finally
slumber might find me
and take me in.

And you'll tell me that you're sorry,
that you owe me histories and narratives,
that my eyes won't rest
and it's all you're fault.

But oh my dear,
all I wanted was for you to know
your homecoming
was my most favourite story
Apr 2016 · 814
rained-on parade Apr 2016
Our lips make music
softer than the rustle of leaves.

It's almost autumn,
and I'm still waiting
for when you actually
tune me.
He didn't kiss me.
We didn't make any music.
Just stared at each other in silence.
Apr 2016 · 631
rained-on parade Apr 2016
You fall in love only once.

The rest of the times,
you're just learning.
Ordinarily happy
Apr 2016 · 1.1k
rained-on parade Apr 2016
I kiss you with more guilt
than I thought
I was capable of.

You kiss me with more forgiveness
than I thought
I was capable of.
Apr 2016 · 539
The little things
rained-on parade Apr 2016
Anxiety is
wishing there were ashtrays
in dress trial rooms.
A thought.
Apr 2016 · 865
rained-on parade Apr 2016
I can tell you that touching you makes me shiver.
It's like sometimes when I try to speak
I choke on the words as if an ocean I keep
in my throat- an abode for the Poseidon in your midst.

Stay with me like cataclysm with a sinner,
lie to me; I'm made of cardboard and tape,
I can take it.

Your soft tsunamis of tongue,
a voice like thunderclaps,
you could make Zeus blush-
a blinding fire shut behind his eyelids,
and an earthquake in every touch.

They tell stories and call you apocalyptic,
but to me you're just the hiss of the snake keeping
guard to what he thinks
he should be protecting.
I'm a little lost.
Apr 2016 · 1.5k
rained-on parade Apr 2016
I love you
the way the sun
burns the earth
for it to rain again.
rained-on parade Mar 2016
I’ve never needed more words
than the ones I already have.

I am a lost library book.

I have become overdue, forgotten
and I once gave you a good time.
Mar 2016 · 1.1k
rained-on parade Mar 2016
You become a handsome ruin
in the hands of the glass God; an imprint
of your presence on the coffee table
makes more hurt than the sound of you
almost putting your key in the door-
the dangling of keys, the pins shifting
like sands; I'm burning so bright now,
I think I'll turn these sands of time to glass.
You kissed me with such shards of love,
the blood in the mouth is the only memory of you left.
Culaccino: The mark left on a table by a moist glass.

I want to be loved.
Mar 2016 · 1.2k
Apologies to the moon
rained-on parade Mar 2016
If love means having to burn this much,
then tell the moon
I'm the sun.

And I'm never going to sleep.
And what of his longing to exist?
Dec 2015 · 18.4k
Love and other disasters
rained-on parade Dec 2015

I’ve swallowed too many I love you’s
to be afraid of coughing up blood.
They cut you on secret.
Who knew it was drinking gasoline
and sawdust and every little inflammable thing
and then sitting down cross-legged
in the heart of a howitzer; soft.


You are a soft explosion.
You are streaks of a rebel orange
in a sky that is supposed to be blue.
You are steel rods in the curve of my spine,
holding me straight.


I love you’s are like death notes written in ash:
you’ll have to smoke your way to it.
Smoke cigarettes, journals, curtains,
and yourself to get that much ash in your lungs;
trying to blow smoke rings into your finger;
my ceiling knows more about my sadness than you do.


Saying an I love you once will have you
chanting “don’t leave me” on a rosary;
love will take your bones and leave you
lusting for somebody whose back
is the last thing you’ll see, and whose
skin you’ll think you left your keys in:
and now you’ve locked yourself out
of your own house, in a storm
whose sirens wail in your ears and remind
you, you’re hopeless and homeless.


I love you’s leave no exit wounds,
no shell casings, and when the time comes
you’ll be telling them all how his bullet
ricochets in your ribs,
but emotion never made up for evidence
in the court of settlements for a broken heart.


Telling someone you love them is like cutting your jugular
and not expecting to bleed out.


I love you like the pages of a mad girl’s journal.


The moon turns from an ally
to the haunting image of science and realisation:
you share the same sky, but no longer the same bed.
And astronomy keeps ******* you over
when you look up at the sky
and no longer understand constellations.


Love makes it more getting-back-at-you
than getting-back-together-with-you.


Every time you taste blood,
you’ll know you kissed somebody
with teeth like needles
and they cut you everywhere; they
bit you, they bit you, they bit you
and you kept letting them.
Nov 2015 · 1.0k
rained-on parade Nov 2015
You can't close your heart down,
and then blame the rib cage.
Nov 2015 · 1.2k
rained-on parade Nov 2015
Grief can take you places
where love never will;
valleys of sheets, unclasped
hands: your eyes,
an ocean of sorrow:

walking away from the shore
and into the deep blue
deeper, and farther;
I forget
I can't swim.
I love you,
like tragedy loves me.
Oct 2015 · 2.3k
Return to sender
rained-on parade Oct 2015
I didn't know
the 'I love you's you gave me
were borrowed.
Sep 2015 · 1.2k
rained-on parade Sep 2015
You once said,
sleep is for the weak
and I feel like Achilles
limping across the battleground of your
subconscious; eyes half shut
are eyes half open.
How long will it be
before I too drift into
the limbo of your nights
and forgotten
when you awake?
I feel lost.
Aug 2015 · 913
rained-on parade Aug 2015
Just because it ended
doesn't mean you have to
set fire to what you've built.

You can just
not visit there
Aug 2015 · 837
rained-on parade Aug 2015
You're burning a seething red beneath
your skin; how long before this garden
burns to ash and the ferns grow?

When you no longer know how your
story goes, how many demons can you
create out of those who you've surrounded

yourself with? These tresses will strangle
the last of you in some ceremonial ground
where all you'll ever hear is the sound

of their voices laughing like a pack of
wildebeests, waiting for when your flesh
is no longer owned by your bones.

They'll pick you apart like a child
in a corridor full of strangers much
stronger than you; go to bed

sleep on it, and just let the light of your
ember veins light awake the madness you
cannot cast away. These miseries

will find their way into their beds
and make your dissolutions their nightmares
and then sleep, sleep you will.
Aug 2015 · 1.1k
rained-on parade Aug 2015
You take me to places only nightmares
are allowed entry to; the juggler in our midst
has now taken your hand and my head
and we are lost somewhere between wonderland
and purgatory. Bound to you with strings,
I am no longer an instrument of love,
I do not make music, nor do I burn
with impassioned colours. I only hum
the songs you've forgotten, and I refuse to.
We were born in a wrong time and we've got
to get out of this place, before the maze
in your thoughts swallows me
Aug 2015 · 952
rained-on parade Aug 2015
We have lived our lives on clotheslines
and antiquities; I carry my home
in the soles of your shoes:

home is where you are,
and happiness is where my arms
always find yours in the dark.
Jul 2015 · 1.2k
rained-on parade Jul 2015
Under the clouds of hope
I married your kind eyes with the faith
of a million flowers bringing
back the spring
to the wild gardens
of my left atrium. I swear
I did not know that you were born
of rain and alcohol, because every one
of your touch could douse the flames
your kisses light on my skin.
I tried to write more about how every
time you said the word “halo”, your mouth
would curl like a serpent waiting to attack;
how your hands always were a warm
reminder of thoughtless touching;
how your feet are tired from all the walking
down flights of a paradox of stairs
and still wanting to run
away with me.
No longer the wind on my face.
Jul 2015 · 5.6k
Of storms and men
rained-on parade Jul 2015
Cyclonic is your kind of adjective;
I suppose I was born to love storms
like you.

I could never really keep my hands to
myself. Nor my mouth. Or my words.

I love you like hurricanes love destruction
and mornings love reckoning.
My life is a series of misfortunes disguised as experience.
Jul 2015 · 1.4k
rained-on parade Jul 2015
Today I wrote a song about your teeth.
They are crooked and imperfect.
Just like this. Our hands. And these
songbirds are all liars. We haven’t learned.
Flesh memory is overrated. Last night
I felt the linen, and it whispered to me
nothing. Not even the shape of you
reminds me of happiness. What is the use
of these metaphors if they can’t
beautify you anymore. No longer as fierce
as the inferno I allowed you to become.
Drowning in bedclothes, trying to understand how streams of consciousness
are becoming bodies of water. Today
I wrote a song about your teeth. And I
read it aloud to the voiceless, and now
they know what love tastes like.
Does hating your own art make you a better artist, or just stranger to your own hands?
May 2015 · 1.5k
rained-on parade May 2015
Touching you was like static electricty in a dark room,
a makeshift thunderstorm in your fingers,
you had more noise in you than a little heart could handle;
so you came bursting open:
screaming, hands punching the air and gasping
for sanity; they said if you hear God it's probably purgatory
what would they call it
when I hear the windclap of your hips a sonic boom
and the quiet of your eyes like blood rushing to my head
in an anechoic chamber;
would they call it madness or delusion
or a mix of a little bit of both; could be alcohol,
could be love
because when I lit a match
in your darkness,
it burned the whole house down.
May 2015 · 1.1k
How to write poetry
rained-on parade May 2015
Find coastlines along the edges of your body,
mark your territory
and invite gallant young men to try their hand
at crossing a huge wall made of crystal glass
and steel verses.

Let them be afraid of the tombstones gathered
at the gates; tremble at their own risk
because your heart can't handle an unsteady hand:
it's filled to the brim.
And as the tourney dies down,
as the men scratch the surface
and leave with pieces of your arms,
your eyelashes, your cheeks,
there will be one
who is there when the dust settles.

Allow him to love you,
in a most consuming way; let him
take your body a shrine and let him
call it his only home.

break his heart,
and watch as the poetry
spills out of you like
an angry river, from a spear
he wishes he'd hit into your chest
not cupid's arrow instead.
May 2015 · 972
rained-on parade May 2015
Running can take you away from here;
I am homesick for a home I have known
only in the soft ridges of your chest.

Two legs and a broken heart
will not take you far.
Your cheek.
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