Why can't we have meaningless talk
the way people have meaningless sex-
you would crash over me into a
river of un-scathing emptiness
and leave marks on my skin-
stories that this was where
you started to tear at
like the silkness
of your sorrows on my floor.
You would become a sultry verse
in this anthology of every day
lodged between the rush and
vacancy of broken hearts
and anguished limbs.
You would radiate the heat
of your angry, angry heart onto
the cold deadness of mine,
and we could burn and melt
all at the same time.
Meaninglessly you would leave
me out of breath,
gather your clothes
and go home.
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
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.
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 screwing you over
when you look up at the sky
and no longer understand constellations.
Love makes it more getting-back-at-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.
You can't hold the short arm of the clock
and call it yesterday.
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.
doors half open,
hearts almost out of love.
We used to talk of how
we used to be infinite.
But now every second now feels
like a stroke against an unforgiving current.
Our conversations broke
as the flaws of our souls
fell through the cracks of this glass foundation.
These upset words that escaped you
left the air around me a little sad,
a little awake,
and with a lot of echoes.
My lungs went empty
talking you down.
I left the door open for you.
So you can walk in
and slip in quietly-
I won't say a word.
And this heart could never go empty,
at this point,
I know not.
Flowers never lost their color
as long as you walked this earth.
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.
You say doctors will
make the best poets.
They will search your emotions
by the skin; cutting open to reveal
with surgical precison.
They will play with
heavy drugs and blades--
nothing shall hide beneath
the armors of bone and muscle.
They know the anatomy
of the heart too well.
They will find the things
you have hidden in your chest.
doctors will never be poets.
They are too mechanical,
too fast with their edges
They cannot see the pain
as pain but merely as an anomaly.
That sadness is black bile
They cannot sing to you
but only clammer in medical jargon.
Poets will use their imperfect words,
and perfect rhymes
to find the secrets of your rib cage
They will find every flaw
of your broken body
and make it the best story
you've never heard.
they will put love to define as
a momentary rush of adrenaline,
an arrythmia for another human
caused due to an imbalance of the heart rhythm.
Poets will tell you
that love is the first jolt
of life for them.
They will say love is a state of euphoria
that takes those irregular rhythms to perfect symphonies.
Doctors say that
veins carry blood
devout of oxygen.
I say that they carry your broken emotions
to their feelings factory
to mend it within its beautiful catacombs.
All those doctors
will find and fix you
with perfect solutions.
And these poets
will do their best
to be your perfect solution.
It's hard to explain
how this heart feels.
Like laughter lost in echo
and your warm touch
now long gone cold.
something lost I need
so desperately found.
Abandoned like houses,
broken like silence.
These hands can't reach as far
as where you lay.
Somehow I feel like I burn at both ends;
the flames now reaching their meeting place.
But it's always better to burn out
than to fade away.
(of broken hearts)
I keep saying that I was alright.
But then everytime I met someone who liked me I
would feel ruined.
Like the tunnels of my throat
has your signal lost
and the anatomy of my heart a hot bloody mess.
Its mixing up the hush from my lungs into my veins
me of how I couldn't talk you down.
Why do you take beautiful things
and turn them into instruments
Cyclonic is your kind of adjective;
I suppose I was born to love storms
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.
I am afraid,
in a way I haven't been before.
I am afraid
of the way people fall out of the sky,
I am afraid
of the way people disappear into the sea
without saying goodbye;
Suddenly the loss
feels like a snake
slithering from across the room;
venom in his blood
and names on his tongue.
I am afraid
of the way people find themselves
at the bottom of the barrel.
at the end of it.
Sleeplessness is a lonely kingdom.
I could promise myself discipline with the daylight,
but what if I told you that I lied under the moonlight?
Sinners never sleep,
sinners never sleep.
They lie awake and talk
with the wings of Gabriel.
They don't shut their eyes;
there are stories in the picture houses of their own.
Of lie and deciet.
And guilt and anguish.
They'll never sleep.
They'll howl with the night
and forget why they were meant
to darken their hearts to match the sky.
They'll never glow. They'll never beat.
I'll never sleep. I'll never sleep again.
When I die, dear Mother
don't give my body away
I'd rather have it given away to poetry.
I want people to cut me open
how my bones were riddled with
melancholic verses of joyful pasts.
They have to see
the scarlet of my blood was the hue
I stole from the sunsets of
give my body away
to the art of writing:
for they have to look past
everything they have ever learned.
They must know
of how much I loved and I lost,
and how that made the twine of my ribs
a story to tell.
More than love,
sometimes it is
the fear of being alone.
creates a haunting echo
of our silence.
Isn't that why
we seek broken things,
and broken men?
So that we
fix instead of break
at least for once.
So that we
leave our signatures
in the loosely filled
cracks and scars.
So that they
cannot recall life
but after we set
their hearts beating again.
So that every time
they take their clothes off,
they can see us
sewed to their skin.
And be proud
to call it ours.
Go in, don't come out,
and do not rise again.
Go in, do not open your eyes,
I say to myself as I breathe in the ether,
slowly watching the light above me blur and the voices suddenly merging
with the sinfonia in my head; I hear nothing and feel absolutely nothing.
The doctor will cut into me with a ten-blade and I am sure of the awe
when he sees, I have no heart but an ersatz trying to pump sensation
into my body; he will ask for another opinion and call in some more
to witness the shriek and horror and miraculous and amazing
show in front of them; there will be a flash and my story is put into
pictures to behold forever-- in books and minds-- coalescing reverence
and pain in a never-ending cycle.
The girl does not have a heart, they will say; ask me so when I awake
but I am sure, I will not for I have made it clear
that I shall marry into the nothingness of a comatose alliance.
Go in and do not come out, I say to myself
constantly, so that I drift away into the abyss and never see myself home.
Because you don't want me here, there, anywhere.
I will be like a tree to you
neath whose shade you lie
as the days pull you down
and my branches long for
the pull of your weight-
the only kind I will allow
to pull me down.
Painless is the way
I shed my leaves for you,
die a slow death
all for your love for a golden autumn,
and again I come back to life for you,
because winter is a lonely business.
Your faith in my hold
is strengthened over these glad years,
like how my roots are interwoven
into your ribs.
My poetry is eternal for you,
growing each day
and when you cut me open,
the rings will tell you of the years
I bled for you.
I will be a tree to you,
your very own Eden,
and the day I die,
I hope my roots reach out to you
when the time comes for you to
marry into the earth.
Only a vehement storm
can put me down.
I want to tell you
Everything there is
to know about me.
About how I ran from
the highest hill down
to feel the air push
Once I bent down
and asked Him to give me
death over happiness.
I used to believe that
dust was nothing but
fallen away from us.
I will tell you everything.
If only you asked.
Because I want to.
I want to give you
a piece of my mind.
I want you to get
inside the mind that controls
this melancholy body.
I want you to get
inside the chambers of my heart
and wrest dark secrets
from its broken symphonies.
I will tell you anything.
Like half written symphonies I wait for you.
I wait for you
like an empty house
so you come and build yourself
I wait for you
like the flowers wait for spring
to bring them
back to life.
I wait for you
like the rush of blood
my head needs
to feel alive.
I wait for you
like the warm earth
needs the kiss
of soft rain.
I wait for you
like the souls
that walk this earth
waiting for release.
I wait for you
like the heart
that needs a score
Like purity for
I wait for you.
I wait for you.
I heard we
ran out of papers
so you ran up
around the walls
of this house-
on them like the paint
we could not decide upon;
like a troubled mentalist
looking for solace
the sound of your pen
against the walls-
how they went from
flowing to screeching-
hands now bleeding
heart; you reached the
porch where you underlined
your first steps and her last;
the bedroom a serenade
between the sheets some-
times a lie tucked away
there are fractured stories
in the woodwork finally
You are making the
ceiling cry in the eulogic living room; the kitchen
is a mess of lonely dinners.
You left the library for the last.
This was where you began a
passion never ending
fantasy; open up
The world will one day
listen to the way
a little scribble went
to a house
and came back
They said be careful
what you wish for
but all I asked was
the stars and then
you once said that
it was all mine to take
you said love is like
a day you wanted to break
talk was never your forte
yet you were always
like the sound of thunder
on a stormy sea
and I was a tugboat
too shallow in the sea
but too far from home
sometimes I could almost
feel your mouth
shape the words
I love you
even though all I hear
is you saying
like you found the good in it
like how it was always
the subsitute for
our brass silence
I feel like I could almost
catch the falling rain
and then I realized
that at some point
dusk looks exactly
the same as dawn.
I sailed the seas looking for your shore
until I realized you made me my own island.
I watched as I set fire to myself
to see your eyes light up to their passions.
I kept saying I love you
till the words lost their meaning.
I will be your willow
if that keeps you from weeping.
I awoke now
to find myself here
with my body cold and empty
in the depths of your darkness
lost and insecure.
And in those moments
of breathlessness and insanity
our lost shoebox of memories
holding onto a frayed thread
which is hanging on
by the last of my intrepid feelings
to something we thought was there
and never was.
soft and warm as it was
is becoming as colder by the minute
as you are slowly
drifting away further
into the abyss,
while I try to grasp the water
only to create
only to find my heart empty
and I wonder how
I made it through the final night
and in those thoughts
I find the last of you
and then I find the box of your letters
the scent of your being
the words that escaped your lips
sleeping still by the pillow
the final breaths of stay
still warm on the other side of the door.
blindsided by the love of my life
which was you
still is unwilling to let this go
let you go
must crumble it down and cast it away.
is becoming colder
to the point where it has started to become
So if you can please
watch me go
watched you disappear.
The heart where once
love resided fell too cold.
Now the flesh turns
an uneasy grey beneath
a thin layer of dusty frost.
the fingertips stick and the cold bites.
Few dared to warm
the space with their hands
and now neglect has my heart forgot.
There's an uncared for path.
An overrun piece of forest
nearly hidden in the brush
that leads to a cave.
There's a cool breeze
that staves away my curiosity.
I have stopped counting,
the days, for they are now
just seconds and hours that pour away
into the blankness of life.
It doesn't pain me because it is an
understanding that for you
love could never mean anything
more than a prolonged feeling of monochromia.
You have fallen,
and fallen again.
Love is nothing more than
a chasing game for you.
But if I had never
come into your life,
what could, in your ways of life,
it have proved?
It was the mischief of the cosmos
that wanted us to be.
Else the weaves of the universe
would come undone.
We have our stories
by a known
All we are,
Till our curtain falls.
The rain drips on your forehead,
much like the ways it falls on the others.
Yet on you they feel like the burn of an acid,
and warm like your tears.
The slurs are now muffled
behind the door
you decided to shut forever.
While they still bang on them,
don't let them in.
Somewhere along those hasty corridors,
somewhere in those strings of angry words
the strength to light the brightest fire.
Your words are now
piercing their hearts.
You make us stay strong.
I'm not sure if you and I have ever
been apart, long enough to make me
wrest my dark secrets
and revive you from the back of
my manic mind.
You have been my companion
for however long it could have been
and I have tried as much as I can
to run from you.
Away from you.
But sooner or later,
your easy reach into my soul of torment:
you know where to hide, where to look for
the things I thought I lost,
will make me return to you.
And with this silence,
I thee wed.
Love someone who you cannot even
look in the eye:
it's not the demons in their self
but the way they make your heart
skip two beats instead of one
and maybe the realization that
they need not more than one look to know
you have already decorated a heart shaped room
in your ribs for them to find their home.
That's all they'll need to know
how once they let you in
and lose your mind every time
their footsteps echo in the silent soundbox
of your conscious.
We don't talk of storms when they aren't already there;
if they can't fix you up,
they'll teach you how to ache instead,
and perhaps I'll learn to forget how to
give myself away in my smiles