Dreams

Distorted

Jointed

Cruel

Pleasurable

In the

Extreme

When I realized that I didn’t want to love you anymore, I realized that I probably never did.

it is about you.
no lovesickness to rock your empty body.
no guilt to beat like a drum in your chest.
no anger, no hurt,
it is about your skin.
about the light that you drink with morning coffee.
how it reflects off of your curves.
about the corners of your mouth.
about your cold feet,
your gentle hands.
it is about the grass in your toes.
the air around you, above you, below you.
the water that you drink from.
the earth will take care of your wild roots,
your wild hair,
your wild smile. the earth will take
care of your lovesickness,
all of your pain.
all of your guilt.
you touch the world with your gentle hands and
it always touches you back.
you are composed of what touches you back,
what you can sit still and listen to.
what buzzes inside of you,
what you contain and
what you allow to escape.
it is about you,
it has always been about you. not
your hurt, not what callouses your palms or
haunts your clasped prayers.
it is just about your body,
every part of your body,
from the bottoms of your feet
to your fingertips, your
nose, the ends of your hair,
it is about listening when the
earth tells you, this body is
okay. this body is enough. it is
about how everything you touch
always touches back.

Self deprecation:

the act of reprimanding oneself by
belittling, undervaluing, or
disparaging oneself,
or being excessively modest.

It can be used in humour and tension release.


It's a breath of fresh air to see someone whose ego isn't the size of a hot air balloon

But maybe you shouldn't put yourself down so much

Oh god, not this again

It's not really funny anymore, it's just a bit sad

Are you okay? That was a little dark

Forgive me, I didn't realise you were allowed to express your emotions to me and not the other way around

God you really ******* it this time


-

I'm at war with the verses lying inside my head,
Should I have been a doctor or plumber instead?
Some other job to be content and productive,
And not chained to this verse, this lyric destructive.

If words can be weapons and a lyric hold power,
Then I grow more dangerous hour by hour.
Slave to the adjective, linked to the verb,
Trapped by each subtle nuance I observe.

A wellspring of discontent, driven by rage,
My life, my heart bleeds out on to the page.
It's not simple grammar but linguistic frustration,
That lends itself perfectly to my situation.

See now my soul spread out on the paper,
A storm of calamity that won't seem to taper.
I am the victim of an invisible crime,
Entrapped by a pattern, a rhythm, a rhyme.

Trying, but failing, I can't even think,
Stuck in this ******* at the whim of the ink.
Now see the other side to the life of a poet,
I am without direction or control and I show it.

Laid upon the sheets, my struggle abounds.
I want quiet right now but I hear deafening sounds!
I cannot get out of this word laden den.
This is my sentence, a life in the pen.