"safehouse" poems
If I could call you
anything other than your name,
sweeter than honey and blame,
I'd call you safety.
If I could taste you,
even while you're away,
you'd taste like home
on rainy days.
//A
Jul 25, 2018
Jul 25, 2018 at 5:53 PM UTC
I never quite understood the meaning of the word lonely.
the quiet of the word ghosting through my lungs
creating a safehouse in my skull
comforted by the spirit of liquor in these dry riverbeds for veins
This plastic sky is viewed from a colorblind childhood
sometimes there are no villains
the side walk chalk is a living outline,
decorated in ferocious shades of grey.
Loneliness isn't romantic,
there is no pride in being proud of your ghosts.
how ever friendly they may be
I am fluent in apologies
I am a crumpled paper pipe bomb,
Loneliness is a mother tongue
its salty words burn my jawbone,
its jaded point dug deep into my teeth
We can only tread water for so long
until we are swept under the tide
where the silence will break
the crown of our collarbones
The joke’s over,
we live to look regret in the face
loneliness, is a jagged edge of a word
its barbed wire cuts deeper than people ever could.
Oct 6, 2014
Oct 6, 2014 at 12:29 AM UTC
Expertly deprived of sleep,
the King slithers across a
safehouse living room, robes
tracing a circle.
His salutations are dead.
His peasants come apart from him.
They don't
understand, but they like to think
They do.
He is “working toward
Improving the lifestyle of many, and to
give the people the privilege of...”
Yet he is not,
But let us pay loyalty for his prize,
For it's a red apple
which pushes him forth on the blood-red Carpet
of Vain—he takes a bite,
and this is how he must live his life
In order to live.
The city is his sanctuary
A place to abscond
When he starts to wonder, “Does the
world deserve
to have my conscious body, the way
that they do?”
The King whispers this lamentably.
Mar 18, 2014
Mar 18, 2014 at 8:17 AM UTC
#
"How can someone write like they are deeply connected, yet be so far away from themselves? How does that work?"
***"Because writing doesn’t require embodiment.
It only requires access.
And people who are shaped by trauma, secrecy, and fragmented attachment—have near-supernatural access to emotional language, even when they have no true access to emotional presence.
They can write the whole gospel of healing…
but refuse to be baptized in its waters.
Here’s why:
Writing is a safehouse. A sanctuary.
It’s the one place where they can simulate closeness—where they can say what the body won’t let them feel, what the voice won’t let them speak, what the heart won’t dare commit to in real time.
When they write, they are in control of the frame.
They determine the pacing, the access, the aftermath.
No one’s breath is on their neck.
No one’s eyes are watching them shake.
No one’s asking them to stay when the ache gets too real.
That’s how they can write about longing while actively rejecting the one person who sees them.
How they can write about grace while blocking the source of it.
How they can describe love so beautifully… and sabotage it with surgical precision.
They aren't writing from the seat of her wholeness.
They are writing from their disembodied knowing—from the part of themselves that remembers truth, but has no safe pathway to receive it.
It’s a ghost’s song sung in a stolen church.
It’s not fake. It’s not performative.
But it’s not integrated.
And until they get to the place where their nervous system no longer perceives safety as threat…
They’ll keep dancing with truth in the dark
while pushing away anyone who dares to light a candle."***
#
Apr 13, 2025
Apr 13, 2025 at 8:53 PM UTC
the house is too large with not enough people,
an empty space, a skeleton of something.
you keep running into the ghost of your dead dog
and the memory of your father in another country.
there are too many people to miss.
the apartment is too full and far away to be called yours,
only a temporary safehouse,
and a place of only work and sleep
cannot be called a home.
you do not want to be lonely
but you cannot wait to be alone,
and so you do not belong anywhere.
Nov 4, 2017
Nov 4, 2017 at 11:24 AM UTC
He swings with sturdy arms
for the thunder roars
his tears fall through rough fingers,
and the rain falls.
And he screams with giant breaths,
as the winds slaps against, anything in the way,
I can no longer hold you back.
Your not mine to care for,
of course it affects me. But I hide in my safehouse,
his arms.
Sep 22, 2010
Sep 22, 2010 at 1:03 PM UTC
Awoken, my brother and I step out to **** on the dead mice
With our gun-gee hair gluing the mosquitoes to our heads
The strong pleasant and familiar photographs pinned to the wall,
I admire greatly
As if I were there, spitting out fish bones and wiping the fish oil from my mouth
I remember we'd horseplay on the porch, under our rustic safehouse, our place of love and care
Lost now, I've returned to regain myself
I inhale the scent of my second love
It's beautiful
A dream so vivid, my tears of joy succumb as I am awoken to see the carpet's rigid brilliance
Sharply drawn out cats worship, aligned to our center
Nov 25, 2017
Nov 25, 2017 at 12:01 PM UTC
They said that truth will set you free
It did indeed set free my fears
Set free my sorrows and my tears
The truth became my barricade
Set up a fort inside my head
Walls of Iron and Titanium
Pillars of secrets and ghastly creatures
Protecting my monsters from escape
A safehouse from the outside world
Dec 29, 2017
Dec 29, 2017 at 12:08 AM UTC
I have no place to run
I have no place to hide
This home I have lived in since my birth is no longer a safe location
Does not feel like there is anywhere suitable for a sanctuary
My own house as close to a safehouse as it gets for the present moment
Every single inhabitant of planet Earth is now a refugee
Apr 17, 2020
Apr 17, 2020 at 1:50 PM UTC