stumble over the rhythm you create
as if it wasn't yours.
trip over the syllables in haste
as you attempt to overtake them
before they run out of control.
this is not poetry;
this is just plain crassness.
you're a verbal klutz,
and it hurts our sensibilities.
you can't hear what you're saying,
you are driving blind
in the blizzard of words
and you have the audacity to think
you'll get out of this unscathed;
somehow revered
because of your valiant effort
and mediocre product.
a bad combination,
and you're bound to be
called out on it, for sure.
luck won't cut it.
you have to know what you're doing
and you have to be good at it.
so if you have nothing to say
that you'll be saying right—
nothing that will squeeze flesh
through clothes or break skin and teeth
or kick and scream—basically,
don't
even
try.

i spit metaphors
and stumble to my knees,
i wipe similes from my lips
like blood and teeth.
i am pummeled with irony fists
as i stagger and crash
across barstools in anapest reels,
with splinters of broken
clauses enjambed in my flesh
and choppy flashbacks
blinding me, pounding my head.
i slip in spilled spirits,
scrabbling and scrambling
to steady my psyche.

i flail, i falter, i fall,
again and again in alliterative agony.

this is not a beating.
this is catharsis.

I will defy the movement of language
With syllables soft before the snow
For Autumn in the fewest chosen words
Along lines of simple alphabets

In the palm of my listening
I will observe you walk as a poem
Skips across ethereally this earth
With colors and bodies of Christmas

An instantaneous impression of beauty
I will sing a lullaby to the irreproachable sky
And kiss the poem-greeting letters
That dissolve as a soul among the trees

And the centre of music
That is a living expression of the times
Today the sun comes out in your poem
And I listen for the poem I will write in reply

I will be a hero of a recluse today, again
With an inner smile of jewel-pointed clarity
That the imagination is a universal thing
The night’s sheerness of black gardens

A voice from which religions spring
Spiritual movement completes itself
In an intuitive release of meaning
A letting go of the sadness of having come

And gone, like death, poetry takes me there
As a river of music, entering my blood
Chilling me with a serotonin symphony
The joy of being here, the glances and reflections

Of existence, mirroring poetry
Between silence and music
The snow and sun, men and women
The rain and drums stalk my fantasies.

You are watching everything I do.
You make sure I repeat the words; your words.
I'm your mouthpiece.
Your ballerina.
If I wanted the fame and glory,
Then I will deal.

You are my Svengali
Watch as I dance and dance,
Never realizing...
I didn't stand a chance.

I now know
That I am a puppet
In my very own show.

The place for the Angels
Is where I would like to be.
Can They hear the echo of my hearbeat
In the lowly ground?
No, probably not.
I wonder how the dirt feels,
All encompassing and eternal.
I'm in it.
To be in it
Is to not feel it.
They know why.
I'm already gone.

No similes
No metaphors
No allegories
No alliteration
No irony
No paradox
No rhythm, and no rhyme
No more stanzas
No more verses
Only
truth:
I miss you.

**2 8 . 0 7 . 1 4

I’m a writer
I **** my own joy to jolt down words
I **** heroes and I see beauty too late
I leave people just as they leave me too.

I’m a writer
I destroy the people I care about, make them leave
as I run and I miss them when their bags are packed.
But their stories still travel my world;
my pages.

So, I think I’m a writer.

I find my muse and I get afraid and
the demons inside of me force me to fill
the pages. And I do it.

Only to realise a muse might
also be someone I care about.

But I push people away.

And I give myself a lonely life;
in which I bleed and sweat for empty
words and empty stories.

**4.04.14

love; something everyone wants
but no one knows what it looks like.

#life; something everyone has
but no one knows how to use it.

#sad
  #depression
    #pain
      #death; for when poets get ‘the feels’

      #heartbreak #you #him #her #heart
       Poets who fall in love fast with the
       Same reckless abandon that made
       You climb all the way to the top.
       Those scars used to make you cry
       Now they make you write.