"billionth" poems
I was there
Beneath it all
Stubbing my nose
Catching my eyes
On the most soulful of gifts
There was a promenade
Then music
A chef in a tall white hat
Shouting at the top of his lungs
As cracked eggs
Desperately tried
To reimagine themselves
As whole again.
They did not wish to change.
I am a poem
And I am nothing
I am a man
And I am nothing
I am a before
Yet to embark
On an after
Could this be it?
I think of
What could have been
If I had done this
If I had done that
And switch
Paralyzed.
The horizon
Fades at dusk
And is reimagined
At dawn
How I wish
I were content
To be ok
With such a simple
Routine
Progress
Achievements
Recognition
Advancement
Awards
Realization
The ***** turns to tighten
To hold
Only to rust
Be forgotten
Put in the back of the pantry
Read from afar
The days of the sun
Are over
Darknesses lengths
Are upon us
Taste of the hubris of the moon
Its position is fixed
Such a fact, such a reserved space
Where will the moon go
But anywhere
But here?
And of us?
Where will our bones go?
Our me minds?
Our fleeting psyche?
The I is none other
But the billionth petal
Of a flaming sunflower
In a field
Surrounded by the identical
Taste ash
Mixed with honey
As the buzz of the bees
Fade.
Aug 14, 2018
Aug 14, 2018 at 2:25 AM UTC
the Hebrews call the Greek myth of Icarus
by name: Lucifer - i know man is prone to plagiarism,
esp. in the religious realm, the easier the plagiarism
the easier the governing of men -
for indeed the Hebrews claimed
Icarus prior to the Greeks, the former with Lucifer
and the latter with Icarus -
but how i loathe peasants claiming
medicinal endeavours
of knowing only the spotlight cursors
to curate and environmental care of origin
of such negated ease,
they have no knowledge and no power,
their interests in the subject matter
would never encourage them
to run a marathon for accumulating funds
for a cancer charity -
one word answer? ***** they're basically
***** should have engaged in a family
life before you blamed me m.d.!
take your regressive anger and shove it
up your little bee magnet **** to take
a **** like extracting honey - now i'm ******
but look where i'm writing it: on a colour
of defeat - militant heaven of the archangel Michael
sword in hand and Satan defeated waggling a
tongue - isn't that importune to speak of
the current times with the defence of a freedom
of speech subdued by a fear of insult
demanding? monotheism did as much good
as it shouldn't have - and did as much evil
as it should have - and did, crafting the strict
labouring of judaism's orthodoxy -
so for each niqab there came the madness of
a jewish girl's care for wig - translated into
christianity as the donning of wigs in the 18th century,
and the 17th - bypass the concerns of
monotheists and you came across cuisine
freedoms of mandarin, and the colour backlash
sprinkling to a billionth birth, a land
where the homeless have a mother kamadhenu -
and celebrate Holi for chance of extracted mundane
hue of man polarised with fluorescent ivy
and x-rayed orange... or that's how the thing was said.
Apr 16, 2016
Apr 16, 2016 at 9:25 PM UTC
Day breaks;
Presence aches.
Someone cries.
Someone dies.
Happiness is your self-made bliss.
Go seal it with the billionth kiss.
Night falls;
Repeat it all.
Nov 6, 2014
Nov 6, 2014 at 10:56 AM UTC
DEAR PENPAL PEOPLE, what I wrote before comes back with a lot in store:>?
drowned in the traps of the atlantic
drawn scars so deep so dark so pathetic
dried the river made the wounds stitched them fast
why is this the billionth time that I've sworn the last?
shut my heart and silenced the beats erasing the bullet's shot
for the mind to mock me with a twist of the plot
like a sweet candy
brought the purples out of the fancy
the recurring reoccurs
the sixth written on a stone of hers
risk the whole day on one wish
slowing your life is a crime of selfish
its like I'm begging the tick of the night
with the devil a reunite
for the love for the sake
no space left much in me to uptake
for the love for the sake
I plead an another no matter the hurt it makes
drum roll before
I give up and close that door
because that would be the day
I **** the only thing that makes me stay
these illusions trapped on the pillow
are not for the living alone future to burrow
-----ravenfeels
Jul 29, 2021
Jul 29, 2021 at 1:18 PM UTC
םתוח
השׂטן
and i thought that ancient egyptian
was retarted...
looks like there's a contender!
hebrew!
this language doens't know left
from right, or up from down...
hebrew is, by html encoding... a dodo project!
it's retarted!
hebrew can't survive in the html age...
it's retarudus proximus!
oh, you think arabic is any better?
don't think semites should
be laughing at this point...
trying to write hebrew script is like
juggling pineapples...
what does it say?
the seal of satan... satan?
well that implies guardian
of the tetragrammaton...
i still agree hebrew evolved from
ancient egyptian script...
but hebrew wasn't used in writing
html or any other computing script...
that's why it's so retarted when trying
to write it in html mode...
nope, can't convince me...
you can't really write hebrew in html mode...
i call this the extinction precipice...
if this ****** is going to keep up
its copernican acid tripping not knowing
left from right...
might as well leave it at the roman
long-handshake... where hands
don't actually touch, but hands touch
nearing the elbow... namely
forearm-grip.
as the original stated:
the smaller the audience: the greater span of historical worth, and desire to upkeep: that pangloss citation from voltaire's candide: better us tending to our own conerns, that bother ourselves with the concerns of others.
oh, i know what a small audience implies...
didn't christ have only the 12,
didn't pythagoras only have the approx. 30?
there's something quite telling
about a small audience...
not exactly cultish...
but something beyond the realm
of influencing people within a single
lifetime...
take en sabah nur and his 4:
oh come on... rewrite tolstoy's
war & peace in a comic form:
just to ease the gates for poets,
and leave barren, the boring narrator...
let's keep it at just that:
there's something telling about a small
audience...
look at the 1 and the 12,
and now look at the billionth marker -
funny, isn't it?
what am i claiming though?
ah, that's simple, that's a revival of
"judaism" - i say "judaism" because
i am the one ordained with neither prophecy
or anything worth mastering:
i am the guardian of the tetragrammaton...
and sure, the god within the confines of
philosophy has to necessarily not exist...
but?
well... you can't really evaporate
the tetragrammaton out of existence!
whenever the right time comes,
i loose the title: chief prosecutor, and become
chief defendant.
Jul 25, 2017
Jul 25, 2017 at 8:53 PM UTC
Lost
It is
Bigger and more incredible than the poet can imagine
Spider web nebula dripping purple blood dust
Twisting galaxies more numerous and ancient
Than the mind can comprehend
Storms rage on planets
Millions and billions
Of centuries away
The scream of devil winds
Are only a whisper on my ears
The ancients payed tribute to golden suns
Pulsing in the night sky
Calling them holes in Gods floor
Calling them angels
Each star a heaven
If they only knew of
Red dwarf death soaking moons in heat
Craters full of silence upon the edge of a meteor
Negotiating through the black infinite
Until they impact with force enough
To split planets
Fingers
Of comets
Blonde and blue trails through the void
Sapphire moons reflect scarlet sunlight
Obsidian asteroids circle a glass planet
Phosphorus gysers shooting into orbit
The living heavens
Twisting about a central nucleus
Balanced and growing
Suns coming and going at a whim
Super nova tantrums
Are a flourescent brilliance
God making fireworks
Billions of planets
Some dead and dry
Scorched black by suns
That are millions of times brighter than our own
Maybe some planet
On the edge of a small galaxy of no cosmic importance
A young boy writes his own love poems
To a girl who has no idea of his longings
Planets untouched
With golden seas filled with gigantic beasts
That warm themselves on volcanoes
Misty Jungles hanging with vines
Maybe intelligent alien eyes open
To the light of twenty suns rising
Galaxy after shining galaxy in every shape imaginable
With every planet imaginable
Little neighborhoods
With little streets
Where tiny comets circle
The same planets year after year
Titanic hurricanes
Raging vortex
Tornadoes that can rip the crust of planets off
And toss them into deeper space
Yet...the United States says we need no space program
Because we have more important matters
Like taxes and guns and drugs and war
White people are more important than black people
My god is the real god
You are wrong
You are foolish
You aren't good enough
You don't deserve life
I am right
You are wrong
I am right
You are wrong
................................
For the rest of my life
I could soar at the speed of light-
And I would hardly break the golden bonds
Of our lone-quiet-minuscule-spinning Milky Way
Feb 12, 2012
Feb 12, 2012 at 3:49 AM UTC
I didn't mind stepping on
Grass, dirt, differences,
And broken promises
the whole night
If it meant I could see the faces
That have become all too unfamiliar.
It was like looking at the night sky
For the billionth time
Except the stars that you knew had their places,
No longer did.
But the sky was still beautiful
Your voice
Pierced through me the way it always has
But with words that no longer made sense,
Words that forced it's way
Through a crowd of people you called
"Cool".
There was no problem with that, I tell you
But
My heart sank to the soles of my feet
In uncertainty
Because
You never liked that word,
"Cool".
You once told me that we were better off
Different
I grasped your hand for the first time
Since the last awkward silence,
And shook it.
Except you returned it with a grip
That felt like it belonged to someone else.
You smiled a smile that wasn't yours
Your teeth shone a light more strobe than candle
You told stories of laughter
But they were no longer about our adventures of fighting dragons and saving the helpless.
They were about jumping into the lakes
Not to enjoy the water
But to show off that new tan and flaunt that new body
And I could have sworn
Amidst the chaos you presence caused
And the enthusiasm of your story telling,
I heard you introduce yourself to me again.
But it sounded like you were saying:
"this my name but this is no longer my personality"
As my heart sank, my hopes followed
Because I was certainly standing before
A person with a piercing personality
A person with the same hands and the same feet
A person who lit up the whole room
A person who was, undoubtedly, beautiful
But that person was no longer
You
Oct 14, 2013
Oct 14, 2013 at 7:59 AM UTC
I didn't mind stepping on
Grass, dirt, differences,
And broken promises
the whole night
If it meant I could see the faces
That have become all too unfamiliar.
It was like looking at the night sky
For the billionth time
Except the stars that you knew had their places,
No longer did.
But the sky was still beautiful
Your voice
Pierced through me the way it always has
But with words that no longer made sense,
Words that forced it's way
Through a crowd of people you called
"Cool".
There was no problem with that, I tell you
But
My heart sank to the soles of my feet
In uncertainty
Because
You never liked that word,
"Cool".
You once told me that we were better off
Different
I grasped your hand for the first time
Since the last awkward silence,
And shook it.
Except you returned it with a grip
That felt like it belonged to someone else.
You smiled a smile that wasn't yours
Your teeth shone a light more strobe than candle
You told stories of laughter
But they were no longer about our adventures of fighting dragons and saving the helpless.
They were about jumping into the lakes
Not to enjoy the water
But to show off that new tan and flaunt that new body
And I could have sworn
Amidst the chaos you presence caused
And the enthusiasm of your story telling,
I heard you introduce yourself to me again.
But it sounded like you were saying:
"this my name but this is no longer my personality"
As my heart sank, my hopes followed
Because I was certainly standing before
A person with a piercing personality
A person with the same hands and the same feet
A person who lit up the whole room
A person who was, undoubtedly, beautiful
But that person was no longer
You
Oct 14, 2013
Oct 14, 2013 at 3:54 AM UTC
don't
dream while life snores
don't
skip the words for pictures
don't
believe that every rise of a wave
will deliver you to the sky
don't
think of her like that
when she says she's back in town
don't
believe that every ride
will take you closer
to the exit
so much in fact
that you cut across
the oncoming traffic
don't
fall while hills rise
don't
cry all through the summer
don't
ignore the warning signs
and write your own
while doing 90 in the fast lane
taking photos of the same setting sun
for the billionth time
don't
follow your heart
into dark caves
don't
destroy or devour
or test the resilience
of every good person
in your life
don't
count every change of direction
as a diversion
from your future
but always do
what a don't do sign
person or poem
tells you to do
Feb 24, 2014
Feb 24, 2014 at 8:10 AM UTC
When someone loves their addiction more than they love you,
they will give you things
like candleholders and dried strawberries,
iPhones and giftcards,
midnight drunk texts,
they will hold out
an ashtray for your pain,
but they will cover their ears for they
have long since stopped wanting
to listen.
They will send you
on trips that lead to nowhere
but a dead end of endless guilt.
They will ****
with your head until you're convinced
that blackmail is love
and spilling the truth is hate.
They will tell you relentlessly
how much they love you,
how much they need you,
how you're the only person that doesn't leave them.
When someone loves their addiction more than they love you,
they will disappear for weeks, you will
forget what their voice sounds like
you will begin to miss
perhaps an idea you had of them
you will begin to question
if they ever did exist in the first place.
They will use you and you will think it's love,
your friends will shake their heads and tell you to run for dear life
in the opposite direction
and you will push them away because
they couldn't possibly understand the depth of this love,
they weren't there when you had to pick up the pieces,
and you will tell yourself
that they aren't there, still.
You will beg for them to stop
Maybe someday, maybe someday they will say
and you will hope and you will hope and you will hope
but they won't, they won't, they won't.
You will slowly begin to crumble
You will master the art of appearing strong
and you will find new people to save
thinking maybe just maybe
this time will be different
this time will be different
but it never is,
it never is.
And then one day you will have to make a choice
between truly living or truly dying, because yes, you see,
it will get that bad.
You will cry for days,
you will settle on anything less
than love.
You will have to finally face the truth
because something's gotta give,
it might as well be a first
or second
or third
or billionth attempt
at sewing yourself back up.
Feb 2, 2013
Feb 2, 2013 at 2:49 AM UTC
What of the nights?
What of the time God spent in-between days of creating?
What of the eighth day?
When did God sense that the ethereal rush of completing a project
was wearing off? Does God get bored?
Does he, like everyone else, grow tired of the mundane and of the usual?
God, forever only projecting his image onto his creations was no longer exciting enough.
Too lonely was God and too curious he was to be left unattended-
with the power to elude the impossible.
Too lonely he was, too much he wanted to be around others like himself
too much time had he spent with his own thoughts
reverberating off the walls of his own making,
shouting back feelings already known to him.
Too curious he was to not see what would happen
if he could experience the company and love of others like himself
and too insightful he was to know all of these things existed in his mind
but not as a firsthand account.
Too self-aware he was to not understand that a genuine account of such feelings
was what he wanted.
He felt all the feelings we feel
Curiosity
Loneliness
Boredom
Companionship
and love.
He understood them so completely and totally in the world he created
that he grew tired
and then the only feelings God could sense were those of loneliness and of guilt;
a strong undying feeling of regret for feeling things that only he has ever felt.
With these thoughts encircling his heavy mind he also realized
that if he were to create another like him, he could not control it.
His identity would have to be shared with another complete equal.
Could he have this?
Too wise he was to not account for the repercussions of his artistic actions;
God was still.
For God like all of us, wishes to be special,
to be unique, and to have control; control, the original ***** of God.
God realized this after the night of the billionth fifth day;
he realized that now after looking at the last of all his great creations
the problems with the ones before
because after all this was not God’s first week
and in no measurable time he had created many
planets, worlds, kingdoms, and beings
none holding his attention long enough to not create the next.
So these, he muttered in his kingdom of unshared silence
these had to be different.
Not God enough to oppose him but human enough to feel him.
Oct 10, 2014
Oct 10, 2014 at 6:22 PM UTC
My hair is messy,
My make up’s off,
My heart is tough,
But my skin is soft.
I walk through the space.
The space walks through me.
I am this lonely planet’s billionth progeny.
I revere and ravage,
She nurtures and reaps.
This classic co-dependance is naturally unhealthy.
How can I compete?
How to be complete...
I’m just one lost soul in a black hole with two twisted feet.
Left handed,
Forever branded:
Too rich a soul for a poor economy.
Mar 1, 2012
Mar 1, 2012 at 6:19 PM UTC
~~~
Postface: This Thing Called Poetry
postface - a brief explanatory comment or note at the end of a book
or other piece of writing.
~~~
*more and more will come,
'tis the nature of,
'tis the burden of,
this compulsion,
this undeniable, irresistible,
emotional chain,
a synapse from
connecting ganglions of nerves,
what we call poetry
each poem
a winnowing,
a narrowing,
the landslide of a moment,
a perspective erected,
a momentary monument
intended and left out overnight
for perpetuity's sake
a finished poem is
a broken telescope,
stuck on a single view,
a broken kaleidoscope,
forever flash frozen
upon a
permanent fruited plain,
a still life salad
walk a few footfalls
to the sandy beach,
humbling,
this vastness,
this billionth universe of
trillions of grains,
each a microscopic starship,
each a poem uncovered, exposed,
weathered and worn,
living among friends
a few taps onto this tablet,
table scraps,
leavings of chalk marks
of poetry,
same,
grains,
metaphoric, meteoric,
a billionth
of something both
dead and living
yet,
still and always,
a simple postface
still required,
a must have,
a necessary
a 'the end' official
sign your name,
your truest signature,
emblem
not of ownership,
but of completion,
here I was done
here I wax spent
sign my work,
so I know this grain came from
my weathered and worn
work, still living
and will be so known,
long after this body's form
as week is but
a few grains of sand*
~~~
July 2, 2015
NML
Jul 13, 2015
Jul 13, 2015 at 4:19 PM UTC
True story used to cause me to remember,
Christmas coming to mean the story told,
I first got the story from a family Bible, yep.
We had one, and my mom must have read it,
because, when I was no older than six,
I asked her where the story of Christmas
came from, and she opened that Bible,
to the very story.
The Good News, surely was then, had been,
since. And now I think I may recall
that child like faith, in a seed
planted as true as can be,
the story came from the tellers of the story.
Why? Curios addiction, pineal primitive will
to know what works and what kills.
Men of letters, let us make up our minds,
in the realm of words, lust is not a factor.
Any vital juices spilt trigger art' official guilt,
mea culpa, my one 8.2 billionth
of all breathers, I caused hope to fail…
falsification
of this sapience capacity- projected
light where Plato had shade,
of course you may now remove earbeans
with no other one the wiser.
Apr 5, 2023
Apr 5, 2023 at 5:41 PM UTC
oh believe me, i'm dancing a love-joy
dance when your funeral ended, on your grave....
cheese disco... B-52... ooh hey yeah! things
are bewildering enough to be celebrated...
another mother ****** bites the dust!
a staff has two ends in eastern martial arts...
as it does in western conception
of love, never reaching the billionth
mark... a smack across your ********
orangutan diet of silicone, just to move those
down-syndrome eyes together
i took aim, and... SMACK!
hey presto! George W. Bucks!
some said it looked like
Picasso's impression of Frida Kahlo...
some said i discovered the famous
stone of alchemy...
************ you have't
even tasted the bile i'm spitting
using the pop-culture covert method;
get you jiggling the jingle bells
for a Christmas choir and a prostitute's
suicide worth of sainthood and helium
sweet talk: Bobby Helms:
jingle bell jingle bell jingle bell rock, jingle bell swinging,
jingle bells ring; snowing, and blowing...
******* minds you get the present...
but not the family;
well, take it from a cat and a person concerned
grooming, days after having solidified its presence
in the garden, thistle needles near the ****
a bit like a grizzly bear with Dr. Dolittle taking out
a myrrh thorn taken from its paw... more meow
than conversation, and all the better for it being so.
Aug 19, 2016
Aug 19, 2016 at 9:06 PM UTC
Nobody lives
In the Here and Now
We live in a past
As it rips and trips
It's way
Through a future
Like an arrow through air
Never actually existing
In any absolute
Parameter
Of space or time
Hurtling through
The ever-present
Modulating waves
Of the eminent existence
Like the waves
Of water of an ocean
Upon meeting its own
Inevitable resistance.
Zone
The rocky shores up ahead
With nowhere to continue
Falling back
In futile retreat
Absorbed
Battered
By a past
Catching up at last
As the once
Forward-thinking
Now..... Ever shrinking
Mind
Of the actual
Factual
Suddenly reactional
Mortal
Who's
Primal human thoughts
That were
In the millionth
Of a millionth of a billionth
Of a second
scattered
When they were splattered
Upon
Slamming headlong
Into the time wall of Eternity
Like the seawall of an ocean where the Timeless spirit lives
Spinning out Reams and reams of time to be flung
Blown Away in the nothingness
Smiling as it works
time and time
Forevermore
listening to the past
As it
crashing upon the shore
May 7, 2016
May 7, 2016 at 7:56 PM UTC
A strong rhapsodic feeling
when your face just pops
up for the billionth time.
Emotions just find their way
through and along with it
comes the impermissible pain.
I have started to find pleasure
in pain.
Dancing with the execrable
devil, bare footed on the pieces
of broken glass gets me high
on the poison my soul's dripping.
Reminds me how the wine in the
bottle was replaced with blood
and the scars you left on my
body remained untouched.
The night when I saw fire
in your eyes a feeling was born.
A feeling that brought excruciating
pain.
Fire in your eyes and stars in mine,
we overdosed on **** We danced
all night on the dolorous monody
and bled to death.
Death was only the beginning,
the beginning of pain.
Sitting in a stygian place trying
to find a way to reach your ******
soul, I denied heaven.
I walked alone on the path that
led to you. That led to hell.
Loving you was wrong. It was
painful. It stung me and injected
venom into every single atom
of mine.
Pain o pain you have never left
my side, all the roses in my
hair have wilted and the violets
have died.
Just leave me alone. Just leave me
alone.
Nov 16, 2016
Nov 16, 2016 at 12:28 PM UTC
I walk down the ***** populated hallway with the vines growing inside and out of it and I see my reflection in each passing door. I live just down there — not five feet; hardly taller than me, but not older. I exemplify my worries of the dark by shivering away, jammering teeth and tingling coins in pocket screaming familiar songs into my ear.
A door opens, and for a second, we all hear the universe: all of us, out in the hall. A crystalline rod – the thin kind they use in labs or bars to stir drinks together (both of which are alchemy) – snaps, pouring a silver liquid into the hand of the person who leaves his room. With insanity he glowers at the speed of the gods. Echoes of the word “quicksilver” mutter down the hall, motors flare, and explosions go off.
Each room is the same, but different: infinite capacity with different chemicals, different chemistry, and different emotion.
Afraid, I turn the **** of my own cell, and I enter one billionth of myself, and I am myself. Stammering within my own mind, I quell my heart with symphonies of norm, letting flow thousands of flying fish from the forefront of the fantastic sound.
It does not matter that other people have the same room as I do; it only matters that their rooms are different. Their rooms are cages, as are their hearts, as are their hands. The man in the hallway (short, stubby thing with eyes like a deer) blows ether from his mouth upon the liquid metal in the palm of his digits, and it floats down the way like baking powder or how I’d always imagined snow would look in a blizzard. I can hear all this, and I must divide myself from the whiteness it brings. I hate the bleak mornings it makes.
I would like to open the door and show the silver-to-white stuff that I, too, can throw a gust at things and have them take flight, but it is not the same. Today is a world with solemn toast -- intimidating those with brains.
Oct 15, 2010
Oct 15, 2010 at 1:12 PM UTC
Ten minutes
Ten minutes till my shift starts
Ten minutes to think of the hours spent thinking of you
Ten minutes to try and figure out how this, we will work
Ten minutes to think of the tens of thousands of reasons I want you
Ten minutes to dread the millions of reason why we can't be
Ten minutes to try to forget briefly how I feel about you
Ten minutes to pull myself together
Ten minutes to tell you for the billionth and last time, "I love you"
Ten minutes
Nov 30, 2013
Nov 30, 2013 at 1:49 AM UTC
'Body Parts in Backfields Buried by the Mexican Drug Cartel'
I am
a hundred-
billionth
of a bigger picture,
a single piece
necessary to complete
the puzzle,
my only trouble
is I got lost &
ended up locked
in the wrong box,
nauseous, distraught
by lots of toxins
perhaps
as some
plague or pox,
a caustic
act of an
obnoxious god
that I should be taught
some kind of lesson
for expressing
some interest in
an interesting thought
brought up
from the
bottom of the bottom
- bottoms up -
to Shambala,
to Shangri-la
run, young one,
run,
faster & farther
and you can disregard
the ******* bars &
marginal martyrs
made to crack and detract
fallen stars like us
from returning to the sun.
speaking in secret
snake tongues,
worthy enough
and deserving of
all the worldly love
that money can buy;
& it
crossed the heart,
but it opened the eye.
lost from the start
now we only hope to die.
well, you can admit
it's a terrific lie
Apr 18, 2015
Apr 18, 2015 at 9:03 PM UTC
Is there something wrong with you?
Are you okay?
What happened to you, Lina?
You seem depressed.
Where is your strength and determination?
Why do you sleep so much?
Get up and do some work.
I work several hours a day.
You don't see me complaining.
I feel perfectly fine. Perfect.
Maybe you should try to be too.
Be perfect, Lina.
Be perfect, just like me.
Stop wearing that dark eye makeup, and listening to that horrid music.
You only get one shot at life.
You need to make the most of it.
Stop lying around and wasting your days away.
You aren't gonna get anywhere.
Stop devoting yourself to those stories, music, and those god ****** angst poems.
Stop spending your time writing that ******** in a world where people that get degrees, succeed.
And stop picking at your lips and chewing your nails.
It's disgusting.
I don't care if you think it helps or calms you down.
It looks disgusting.
You're ruining your lips like you're ruining your life.
My lips are perfect.
Smooth and glossy, like the hair that sits upon my perfect head.
Why are you so far down?
You need to be up here.
Maybe listening is some kind of crime to you.
Otherwise, you would have listened to the billionth time I told you to stop picking at your lips!
Stop picking your lips like some kind of garbage.
You cannot be garbage.
You have to be perfect.
Be perfect. Just like me.
Stop telling me how you feel.
Because you need to be perfect.
Pay attention.
Stop daydreaming and staring up at the sky.
Like the clouds are supposed to give you all of your life's answers.
Because it won't.
Because your life is a mess, just like your lips.
Cracked and broken.
****** and red.
Stop writing Lina.
Stop wasting your life away.
No, I don't hate you.
No, I'm not mad at you.
I'm just trying to help you.
Trying to set you up for a bright future.
Trying to let you be successful.
You have to let me love you so you can be perfect.
Perfect.
Just like me.
Jul 12, 2017
Jul 12, 2017 at 7:50 PM UTC
I shaped you like a door handle,
washed you out with cerulean trees,
I took the clippers to my head
to make myself clean
I stared in your sigh as I
I grabbed your waist and swung you in
rope coo-coo,
eyes you described as muddy pools
turned lime-green cats in bathroom light
there,
you had blond hair,
barely-visible eyelashes,
tall, norwegian beauty,
outer-universe olympian
I was not right within and
you saw, unphased moon again
for the billionth time,
you rolled at my tiny bubbles
and I
waited, baitable breath
every clock was digital 80’s
and you, polite queen,
were tired of holding your spoon—
candy bride
with this candy man,
little bride, little
my worms festered
as I pulled the hair from your neck
and saw my own eye on your spine’s skin—
frail, too deep, and shy/additives to pain
I heard the big crunch
in that mental hospital bathroom,
my universe went back to no-space,
so far from you as we danced
and you looked somewhere else—
much
smaller than an atom’s nucleus
we were everything
but neither of us knew
the gift of dying
to be born again—
Feb 18, 2019
Feb 18, 2019 at 8:50 AM UTC
It was like
you were like
making music with words
that make me
feel again
I have to practice
being happy.
I think.
you think?
because at the end of the day
when my hair is one billionth
of an inch
lon
ger
than it was yesterday,
No one notices
except you.
Oct 3, 2011
Oct 3, 2011 at 3:42 PM UTC