ask your blood
your limbs, your breathing feet
what Poetry is -
a phylogenetic anomaly
in light’s discontinuity

or just…
the strange yearning of hematopoiesis

ask the silence in your lungs
the bursting DNA, reinterpreted
how it allures memory inside your bones
how it treads conventions of sleep
with the weight of a sigh

if you ask me
what Poetry is
I’d say: breath calligraphy
a winged dream of depth
on enchanted retina
the bitter-sweet art of airy harmony

ask your hands
what Poetry is
perhaps they’ll take a moment
to bloom

I do not like this phase of a heart break.

When you purposely avoid love songs,
Or sometimes you play them just to make yourself feel like your hearts still pounding.

When the person you loved and hid from every waking soul is brought into a conversation.
Or when he isn't.

When you see other lovers who have made it years without the cruel hand of fate ripping their love from them.
Or when you see they haven't.

When you notice him writing you smaller, casual messages when they use to be breathtaking and beautiful.
Or when he doesn't write at all.

When I ask you if I am pushing you away and you say no.

"Alright, happy birthday! Text me later tonight?"

"Will do"

When every hidden goodbye ends with those two words. And my broken, belittled heart.

(i. r.)

Tonight I
Wrote those notes
That family and friends
Always find
Once their loved one
Has been long
Gone from this
world.
I wrote it
With such ease
And it seemed to come
Naturally
As I started out with
A simple
"Dear Dad"
Or,
"Dear brother"
Or,
"Dear best friend"
And the words
Seemed to slip out
Like I had
Been keeping it hidden
Under my tongue
All this
Time.

-e.w.

Your eyes are two lighthouses of angelic glare
fell as if by enchantment, from a sky made
only of dreams.

Hope is located in your heart.
Quest ever and you'll discover
what do you wish, but I
will always be there for you.
*Always

I'm a failure
A ****-up
I'm someone
Who will never get anywhere
With this stupid thing
Called life

Because I'm getting
That terrible
C- in Chemistry
Because I've never been good
At science

And I missed
Working on the project today
With my group
Who probably thinks
That I'm lazy now
Because somehow
It totally slipped my mind

I try my hardest
But things slip my mind
And I'm not the best
At science
Or math

But my dad
Expects so much of me
And my brain
Races with this idea
That I could actually
Turn out okay
That I could
End up leaving this hell
Called high school
And go to college
And be smart

But then I have
Days like this
Where I forget something
And that whole
Idea
Crumbles to the
Ground.

-e.w.

Naked you are simple as one of your hands;
Smooth, earthy, small, transparent, round.
You've moon-lines, apple pathways
Naked you are slender as a naked grain of wheat.

Naked you are blue as a night in Cuba;
You've vines and stars in your hair.
Naked you are spacious and yellow
As summer in a golden church.

Naked you are tiny as one of your nails;
Curved, subtle, rosy, till the day is born
And you withdraw to the underground world.

As if down a long tunnel of clothing and of chores;
Your clear light dims, gets dressed, drops its leaves,
And becomes a naked hand again.

They say at the age of 7, girls start planning their wedding
At the age of 17, they pick out the right gown
And at the age of 23, they without a doubt know who their best maid is going to be
But at the age of 17 I'm struggling to find the reason for matching rings
Because the material things are just exaggerating promises for something that can part your lips with ease

But out of all the stories I've told
I must admit, I've stretched the truth in the most entertaining ways
I'm not exaggerating when I say I love you
And I'm not exaggerating when I say that potentially waking up to the wall that is your broad back would be the most beautiful sunrise I could ever ask for
I would put my arms around you
Your skin would be cooling from the friction of last night's 1 am hormones
But I'd still hold on and hope to get a burn of some degree