Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Patterson Jun 2020
There is something undeniable about this new aesthetic:
Barefoot and barely presentable
as I slow-dance in the kitchen at 3am
Nobody but me, my shadow and a gentle grey kitten who patiently watches me pour another cup of coffee.
I stir in cinnamon,
a taste that's heedy and all too sweet against the roof of my mouth.
So strong it makes me want to gag,
and yet I sing under my breath:
old tunes I have no business remembering
and lullabies brought to me on the wind
[singing] all you have is fire
-and the place you have to reach.

My mother wanted a girl she could put together like a jigsaw.
A girl who would sit still and patiently endure
the effort it took to construct
the perfect plat, perfect updo
perfect winged eyeliner, perfect blush
perfect poise, perfect dress,
Perfect daughter.
Instead she had me
a muddled and confused thing
with a tangled mess of curls and eyes that couldn't quite look away.
Something with ***** fingers that knew the give and take of every leaf and blade of grass
something that couldn't sit still on creaking church pews
because for all the beauty they pursued, she'd seen the unmatched grace of rolling thunder
and the indisputable life of the ocean.
While other girls watched the boy chase the girl to a perfect kiss
she worshiped the women who took up their weapons and refused to keep their peace. - A child raised on a steady diet of Victorian poetry, Greek myth and poison. Stitched together with images of Artemis, Scottish women and a heathenish name.

My mother would lead me in prayer each night before bed, hoping against all hope to change what was in me. But my father made me wonder if I could be a knight one day, taught me to sing their vows of honour and justice during those ungodly hours when sleep was far.
The hours when his blood called to us both in its ancient tongue. The hours where his stories became my Bible. The hours when the smell of lemongrass and rain filled the house.
The hours when I would be barefoot and dancing in the kitchen
Barely presentable yet undeniably free.
It's 12 June and finally I am starting to come to better places. Finally I am beginning to sleep without sleeping tablets. Finally I am beginning to do what's best for my mental health.
Kyne Nov 2011
A town of trains
A town of trains
Rumble, rumble, through the night
Quiet
Underlying the sound of his breathing
The one who loves me
She said it wouldn’t happen if he didn’t.
But it did.
And he asked me twice.
And I knew
When he leaned over in traffic to kiss me
Over the console, eyes open and hands gripping
The steering wheel.
He wouldn’t say he loved me that night
But he did in the morning
Fogged up windows.
Our heedy breaths
The smell of *** is latex and wanton
And longing.
Et cetera Jun 2015
Poison ivy covers the fences holding hedges of rose. Thorny roses with poisoned tips caress the lover's cheek. Blood mixes with the ivy, a bond to last. The rose's scent still makes the lover heedy and the thorns don't matter. The poison ivy does nothing to infuriate the lover. And love only blossoms, as the ivy climbs and the the roses sway.
Poetic prose, more than a poem. And perhaps a metaphorical rant.
Rhea Nov 2020
What is this feeling
I feel when I share
My inner turmoil
Hanging in the air

I want a smoke
A heedy drag
A firm packed bowl
Or stiff red stagg

Anything in arms reach
To smother the nameless
Insidious belly ache
And make a false oasis

Ah I see its vague outline
Hidden in angst and fear
Expected disappointment
Shame emerges clear

Hello lovely old friend
Put your cold hand here
Entwine your clammy fingers
In my helpless ones Dear.

— The End —