#nickels
Frightened stars
Look for love, in the term of a fiend
*** and difference, we have a tale that frowns
Since to ends, a wisdom in the rain, has amends
Sanity, spate, arrogancy
Lips with no beginning or end, take the time
Such is a creed that needs me, in the oracle of speed
Wait on me to hate wholeness, of a carnal chime
Safety, in the riches of a forest
Wink, wood, and the anarchy of a patience
Set aflame by the sight I imagine, continues in lest
Spare me a tear for an enemy, rage of me never ends
Done with my concern, can't a prettiness spite a spirit
With the life of another speed, chance and challenge winds
Come and go, sunshine, the night has a punk in the hint
Of a simple smile, I have never made, and ate for inclined sins...
Shade, do we even care?
Song, can a ***** of burden sit in a sick's fever?
Treacle, as if a war in the milk of heaven had a clever liar?
Dance, in the mouth you swallow with, ink is ours for never?
Dead, antipathy, lead
Spice in the stare, my light has shared, with you
Sakes in the blindness I sold to you, for a craving said
Season's of a devil, my imagination ***** with your smile to...
Love, many, and wishes
Succor is mine, for every strength of a terror
Simple as that, a ray of hope isn't what religion
Meant, if and when a smile is nothing but my charity...
5d ago
May 30, 2026 at 11:34 AM UTC
blue roses and unzipped jackets, looks like the cold doesn't want to enter your skin again so its painting guesses on the corner of silver st. and goat lane, you thought that saying its all good baby baby would make your crown look bigger but the diamonds fell off instead
Feb 13, 2017
Feb 13, 2017 at 11:55 AM UTC
Even were he to explain,
he’d much rather show
to you his scars. He bears
them like medals now,
knowing well they are
made of clad, like nickels,
like cheap bullets.
If he could, he’d chuck
all of them into the deep,
the sparkle, of a wishing well.
He knows that these scars
have not only unsown himself,
but made trenches between
him and possibilities of love.
If he could, he’d place
each scar into the chamber
of a rifle, aim the .22
he never owned at a flock
of starlings. He might miss
every time, but at least
the ravens would scatter.
He knows what he’d wish for,
were each scar dropped,
at 5 cents a wish. He has enough
of them so that they jangle
on him when you embrace.
If he could, he’d stop collecting
them, and wish them away
on you. He’d put away the rifle.
His carving of a smile would fade
into a grin. You had always been
the loveliness of a needle,
of thread and steady hands.
Jun 14, 2015
Jun 14, 2015 at 11:57 AM UTC
I wrote a poem
My heart was a scratch-and-win
And wrote another
Mar 20, 2015
Mar 20, 2015 at 9:13 PM UTC