Chariots of the moon.
Carry with them my love.
I've learned to sort my pain
containing all of the beauty I don't feel.
so I write the poetry I can't live
and live the poetry I can't write.
with each word i attempt
a mothers lies
or a daughters cries
in hopes that one day I'll watch my memories
the way you read them.
it's the little things that we appreciate, like how the body forms into a shell ready to take you in,
welcoming you into their mind of oceans and currents as they willingly embrace you
we attempt to picture every moment we have with them, wondering if we'll ever fit the frame
conversations are merely recordings that fade into background, the true connections made through sincerity, subtle glances and intense regard
the flesh and skin that they wear appear as exhibits that we alone can touch
their presence a reward, their words a treasure for the heart
we notice the fine lines, their dainty wrists, and veiny hands
we notice their crooked smiles and how the corners hang like a wanderer stapled to the moon
we romanticize too much of everything that is easily dismissed by everyday eyes
although almost invisible, they mean every beat of the heart
to every fiber of the soul, to ever breath we breathe in
so when the smiles disappear like forgotten dust, we cannot help but fall apart
we disintegrate into tossed cigarette butts that once resided on lips we love
we cannot forget the way they laced their fingers together, or how they made their coffee
how their ears are shaped, how they gazed into space when we watched them wondering what they were thinking
how they carried their feet when we dragged them, conversing in drunken breaths
because nothing is as simple as that, a disappearance like a thief in the night who took our lives with them
nothing will resemble or replace even a strand of hair
because it's the little things that tear us apart as well
the walls leaned in closer every time she spoke
as fleeting as her voice, time shook before her
her hands were the minutes and the hours
her smile was a reminder, her eyes were a lover's
yet she belonged to no one but herself
each breath took was a second lost
each word drifted and passed around
each picture taken was a memory
she was slowly slipping towards death
and although she knew,
there was always something beautiful about it
My idea of a party is having sand in my hair while I smell of burnt wood and midnight barbecue
Music will be the waves that crash and return and messy chords on an acoustic guitar
And I will remember when we both wished that we could go on road trips on hours like this,
And how eventually time ran short for us, so we're finally here
I want to get drunk on the moonlight while I sip on yesterday's memories
I want to talk about the good times
I will fall asleep enveloped in nature's arms and dance while the stars twinkle high above
My idea of a party are late night drives and stops at gasoline stations at unearthly hours,
Conversations that result to slurred words and cackling with the windows rolled down,
Romanticizing over the architecture of rotting wood and crumbling concrete
Books and printed words under a flashlight
My idea of a party are rolled sleeves and roadtrips away from every soul and every touch of skin,
Away from the world, except yours I will never grow tired of
Sad isn’t pretty.
Sorrow is beauty
And depression has its allure.
Grief is engaging.
I am not in love with the idea of sad
But I believe there is a morbid
Beauty that some moths
Emerge from their cocoons
With no mouth.
Like the girl you see,
Digging herself a deeper hole.
Sad is boring,
Misery is enchanting.
We romanticize our sadness
To share it with the world
Let others know we understand
Or maybe get a little pity
Because what’s wrong with
A little fake love every now
I was taught not to let a boy see the stains left on my heart by another boy but ******* how could I not, you were so inviting and helpful and I had to show you and you never disappointed me. You made these scars fade. Sure I got new scars, but they were the good ones. The kind that you look back on, smirk, and think that you wouldn't want any marks like this from any other boy. You make my soul and the scars look like perfection and I know it's wrong to romanticize pain, but god, how could I not find beauty in everything you do?
Oakes-photo, hypocrisy and flagrant mirky plateau. Brimming celestial warrants overcrowding public housing systems. North-South lights, sell costly iPhone Apps; and then there are Social Societies of non-verbal delight. Password protected non-profitable and over-costly educations of no reward or biblical synonyms. Catastrophizing hash-tag dot.com. Weary party going poster children with glowing anemone guts, fruity looped cantlings, ravenous scattered supper clubbed coughing up ******* on their strange and central affairs unit. Overcome the candisation and sugary affairs of any of the ***** and pops that erstwhile matter less and less. We are speaking of nomenclatures that don't arise. Promises and by which confession aloof romanticizes every Tom dicking Mary that carries the theory of sustainable energy, prussian blue, and irregular browsing.