"slitted" poems
Hometown girls
are real with you.
If they don't like you,
they'll even make their *****
look ugly;
pulling them in all the way
to the tops of their thighs
through their buttholes
and you can smell the stench
in your brain.
But when they let you in,
when they let you sit on their ears,
it's like warp-drive.
They smoke virginia slims,
because that's what their mom's smoke,
and the bags under their eyes
are filled with nicotine,
but they're pretty bags,
purses of flesh
full with the kinetic beauty of coal.
Hometown girls are mostly black,
mostly white,
fifty-fity,
but nobody's checking
and when they whisper something nice in your ear
it's colored with a microbrew
or a wheel of Jim Beam.
Sometimes they'll take you by the wrist
into the bathrooms;
sometimes they'll take your drink
when you're not looking
and smile when you catch them
with it on their lips.
But that smile is good even,
on par with a supernova
in its ability to crush
and make beautiful.
But most of the time,
they stand around
outside Casbah
and Motorco
--if they're bougie
it'll be West End--
in the middle of the night
under the porch of the sky
looking out with amber
slitted eyes
like cats,
their legs twitching thoughtfully
as they wait for cabs
and pick at the night.
Hometown girls
are sexy/beautiful
because they'll watch your every move
from the gallery
out of empathy,
knowing they've been that ***** before,
knowing they've been that lonely,
knowing they just want to get drunk
and want to be around randoms
that aren't so random.
Mar 9, 2012
Mar 9, 2012 at 6:37 PM UTC
On the curvy shoulder of my (i want to say, girl but
know that offends her) presently both of us red-eyed
looking so un-real on this back-assed country
road with only shoes for transporting
a long way from being home
smiling all the while
hitting it again
smoke arounds her green red eyes slitted
baby, I cry, as we walk again,
Are you my girl?
She keeps walking.
Sep 26, 2014
Sep 26, 2014 at 10:57 PM UTC
I've walked into a tunnel.
Following coats,
Dragging behind in
Abandon
The light is slitted
The shape above is
Too Close to my head.
The sharp,
Undecided angles bother me
And a nervous twitch begins.
I imagine it like a funnel,
Sorting population
To pass through in
Close quarters,
Contact guaranteed.
I sneeze
And cough.
My fever smolders
Making my skin chill,
And the thought of disease
Enters, and crowds with me,
Suffocating me to one side-
But not too close-
Don't touch anything.
Fear grows.
I am already sick
But I could get sicker.
Conspiracy drips over my thoughts,
My fever leaving the
normal functioning funnel
In my mind
To be burned away-
materializing in the city-
Around me.
My thoughts bunch
In clusters
And pass all at once,
Leaving waves of nausea
And claustrophobia
As I continue through the tunnel,
Paranoia worsening my symptoms
By the step.
Sep 30, 2014
Sep 30, 2014 at 7:11 PM UTC
And the trees about me,
Let them be dry and leafless; let the rocks
Groan with continual surges; and behind me
Make all a desolation. Look, look, wenches!
Paint me a cavernous waste shore
Cast in the unstilled Cyclades,
Paint me the bold anfractuous rocks
Faced by the snarled and yelping seas.
Display me ****** above
Reviewing the insurgent gales
Which tangle Ariadne’s hair
And swell with haste the perjured sails.
Morning stirs the feet and hands
(Nausicaa and Polypheme).
Gesture of orang-outang
Rises from the sheets in steam.
This withered root of knots of hair
Slitted below and gashed with eyes,
This oval O cropped out with teeth:
The sickle motion from the thighs
Jackknifes upward at the knees
Then straightens out from heel to hip
Pushing the framework of the bed
And clawing at the pillow slip.
Sweeney addressed full length to shave
Broadbottomed, pink from nape to base,
Knows the female temperament
And wipes the suds around his face.
(The lengthened shadow of a man
Is history, said Emerson
Who had not seen the silhouette
Of Sweeney straddled in the sun.)
Tests the razor on his leg
Waiting until the shriek subsides.
The epileptic on the bed
Curves backward, clutching at her sides.
The ladies of the corridor
Find themselves involved, disgraced,
Call witness to their principles
And deprecate the lack of taste
Observing that hysteria
Might easily be misunderstood;
Mrs. Turner intimates
It does the house no sort of good.
But Doris, towelled from the bath,
Enters padding on broad feet,
Bringing sal volatile
And a glass of brandy neat.
3.3k
Darkness, shadows,
Twisted thorns,
Twisted trunks,
Like hunched hags,
Crooked trolls,
Thorns and vines,
Twisted,
Intertwining,
Like a maze,
A thicket,
All around,
Casting shadows,
Darkness,
Creepy,
Thorns piercing,
Blood black in the moonlight,
Shining through the branches,
Tree trunks,
Vines and thorns,
Stillness,
But movement,
Half seen,
Small,
Creeping,
Spiders,
Mice,
Rodents,
Lizards,
Life hidden,
Forgotten,
Unknown,
Where only barrenness was known,
A creature,
Sitting,
Watching,
Looking up,
Through slitted eyes,
Like a frog,
But grey,
Something from deep within,
Clinging to the thorns,
To the branches,
Spirit or animal,
Phantom or subconscious image,
In this forest,
This warren,
This thicket,
Dark beauty,
Life within the lifeless,
The depths of a soul.
May 17, 2011
May 17, 2011 at 10:39 PM UTC
a tongue a knife a rhyme
a slitted try of silence mine
i could never keep it fought
rip the gut right from my life
ill scream the name until i rot
shreik a word so loud ill cry
i tried my luck but missed the cut
a trickled spiggot sputters with it
a soft spot for the eyes that fall out of my skull
flaming pupils burn the crop
the students of the fire
they stop drop and roll into the wretched thought
that comes each time they learn what has been wrought to build this pyre
to eviscerate the weakened soul
the empty rooms inside my home
voraciously in rapture
tearing sinews off my mind
splitting ears and feeding from the captured
nothing left behind my skin no map no muscles
missing compass knees buckled
******* leave me or ill pull the trigger
ill **** the lost and eat the hindered
incinerate your wicked splinters
and in this home
snap each of your twelve ******* fingers
its teeth are gentle on me in a way that only devils can
we're peckish for atrocities and it has given me a plan
a broken handed man within the corridor
his one eye wide
the other in the devils side
a matching type to mine if i still had my sight
the door is closed and i am blind but we can smell the horror more
breaking out we tore into that bodys core
but that devil, him, the house, unborn
as i woke up in a corpse
for i am dead upon the floor
Nov 11, 2021
Nov 11, 2021 at 2:34 AM UTC
Let me walk you through inside a writer's mind.
Aren't you curious?
How can someone write like that?
How can someone have those sick emotions?
How can someone be so dramatic?
How can someone be that suicidal?
How can someone be so sad?
You know what?
Being able to write about those things is a privilege.
If I have no one to talk to,
if I have no one to vent all my sentiments,
poems are going to slap me with a pen and a paper.
And i'm all good.
Once i've let go of that burning pen,
the moment I read what I wrote into that ****** paper.
My diaphragm finally relaxed,
I can finally breathe.
And when a writer doesn't have any inspiration,
that soul must do all thy take to feel everything and anything in order to fill those pages, those ****** pages.
You must value every word you read inside a poem or any kind of literature.
Because you didn't know what emotional ride that living flesh took just to serve you those burning hot raw words.
But aren't you curious?
Don't you want to know what it took?
What it took to serve those emotions to you?
A writer...
Scream, screamed like a mad sicko.
A writer...
Cry, cried like a new born baby.
A writer...
Laugh, laughed like there's no tomorrow.
A writer...
Burn, burned in their own oil.
A writer...
Slit, slitted thy skin and...
A writer...
Cut, cutted thy flesh and...
A writer...
Bleed, bleed until there's no more left.
Bleed until that living soul can write something.
A writer...
Is empty.
A writer...
Is a lost soul who can't find it's way back.
A writer...
Is dead... inside.
Then, viola!
A burning hot literature is served.
And that, my friend, is what inside a writer's mind.
Dec 29, 2018
Dec 29, 2018 at 12:42 PM UTC
Sitting here, thinking about death, about which death to choose, about which passing of time to write about. I am sweating, like, hold your breath or die sweat. It is hot here, but it isn't the temperature that is making my glands leak, it is the memories, it is the death grip that takes my heart when i remember, when i write about life leaving, silence stealing from the night.
Heroine. She's a tuff-tender ***** with soft sleepy skin, the daughter of Morpheus, who takes your breath and holds it inside you. Somniferous, She likes to sit alongside you while you die, she holds your hand and whispers in your ear, allaying fear and slowly she wraps her fingers around your lungs. So tired, of this world, of this life; you think, i'll just close my eyes, nothing new about being on the nod, nothing strange about this tiredness that follows a quick projectile puke in the gutter.
Let sleeping dogs lie.
Writing about Overdosing. It is a strange thing, a quick story, one minute your blinking, nodding, often murmuring, then asleep.
Lucky the dog who runs in a pack.
Lucky the man who walks with strangers by his side.
I don't remember much of what happened before i closed my eyes.
A shot, pin ***** relief, then, quickly/slowly/gone. It is night out, with a dark and steady sky, I am watching the stars through slitted eyes and loving my life, loving my wife; ****** how she makes my heart sing. I am glad to be far from withdrawing, i am happy to be in sin with my lovers, stainless steel turemo picks.
It is my first blast for the night and apparently my last.
There is no warning, no red flag that appears in my minds eye. Just silence and a world fading away. A heartbeat disappearing. Short shallow breath and a small niggling concern that soon will come the time when i am not high then...
I am going. I am gone. I have died.
The strangest thing about dying is not dying. The hardest thing about it all is waking up and realising you were finally gone, you were finally done with the rigmorale, the procedure, of living, of life. You had reached the ultimate goodbye. And now you are back. Still high but not high enough to be faced with the living. Narcan gives your lungs back, it breathes back into you what She stole away. Wanting more then ever to ***** but not wanting to puke on the paramedics lap. Fear of police and reprisal, anxiety soars high on the agenda of the recently revived. A trip the hospital, a free ride, then signing out early, i have shots to blast, a past to wipe out, a life to live or die trying.
Feb 11, 2010
Feb 11, 2010 at 5:01 PM UTC
She’s the spider on your shoulder
Holding you, cold and tight
She’s all eyes, slitted blue,
And the longest legs you’ve ever seen
With flaming locks of orange
Which burn brighter than the embers
Of bridges she’s destroyed in arson
And when she smiles, corner to wicked corner,
It’s not hallowed beeswax on her lips
Which gives them that crimson hue
She’s slow and steady wins the race
That your pounding heart
Is susceptible to losing to
Saccharine sweet with a smile to boot
She will have you licking hers
Steeped in honey, polite and courteous,
She spins you into her silken web
Not even of lies, but you fumble regardless
And then she eats you whole
Sep 17, 2019
Sep 17, 2019 at 8:31 AM UTC
finger-paint yourself a picture
on a canvas destined for nothing more
than late-night
one-night
kisses
arrange fabric on a doll
that was store bought
for perfection
owned by jealousy
mocked by
lessers
stain lips
to never speak
gentle words
train lips
to reside
in perfect pouts
school eyes
in fluttering
slitted
hooded
gestures
arrange toes
into smooth, unbroken shapes
to be molded
in a set of high heels
high ballers
high flyers
being higher on the food chain
only makes you
more likely
to be consumed
and if we are anything
we are
consumers
limited
to materialistic consumption
we dress ourselves up like
a sweetshop-confection
topped with gucci
and laced with victoria's secret
lucidity
it's not hard to see
what we're about
if this is a judgement
of clear intentions
we are the clear
winners
our faces are perfect
optical illusions
standing on an assembly line
waiting for someone to take a shine
to the curve of our hips
lips
chest
there is nothing to confess
our cards are laid
only after
we
are
Jun 4, 2013
Jun 4, 2013 at 2:09 AM UTC
We live in a world
Where promises are always broken
Where words leave hearts frozen
Where friends never stay
We're immature, all we do is play
Where happiness is temporary
It lasts until our wallets run out of money
Where we wake up, never feeling the same
From staying up at night, waiting for the reply that never came
Angels have horns
Even beautiful flowers have thorns
People crave for pain
Slitted wrists, tears and blood pouring down like rain
A hello is easier said than a good bye
And forever is the world's biggest lie
We should stop changing for other people
Instead, we should strengthen the hearts of the feeble
Together, we can still change this wretched situation
For we are the youth, the leaders of the next generation
May 7, 2015
May 7, 2015 at 10:35 PM UTC
There’s a dragon lying coiled
At the base of my brain
In a dank dark crypt
At the top of my spine.
It is a foul and feral beast
Degenerate
Self centred as a dinosaur
No iridescent shining scales
No filmy farstretching wings
No soaring spiraling flights
Over legendary landscapes
For this one.
No it just squats there
Peering out at the world
Malevolent eyes slitted
Watching
If it sniffs
The faintest whiff
Of a threat to its survival
It rushes out
Roaring
Breathing fire
Reptilian talons scything,
Slashing
If you are quick
You may see them flashing
In my eyes
Before I slam the portal
Send my protector back
To seethe silently
Keeping watch
Over me
From the dungeon
Trish Lambert
Jun 12, 2013
Jun 12, 2013 at 4:39 PM UTC
I saw it through the breakage on the pane
Through the cleavage on the drapes
From the back window I saw it
A man has never been this low I promise
You are the architect of your choices
You are a sum of your choices
I remember the boom
I remember the bass
The Shads of glass
She closed her eyes
She wished it pass
Anywhere but here
He grabbed her hand
She screamed and cried
He pushed her to the ground not a sound with his finger on his lips
As he proceeds gabbing her hips
She tries to push him off
But he was too strong
Just like her dad they were brothers afterall
But I said to myself
It ain't a nothing that a baseball bat or golf club couldn't solve
I ram on the door with my shoulder
I heard her cry out to God to save her
But he didn't answer
Something about free will as usual
He ripped her *******
He Unzipped his pants
Every ****** peaked a scream with his hand on her mouth
Until she became numb to it her resistance faded out...
She lied there like a piece of meat
Motionless not even a blink
And every tear that drifted to her chin from her eyes
Slitted a vein and artery in my heart
She was only 13, couldn't comprehend what had happened to her
Your honor
He was drunk, one too many bourbon
He's a man, ultimately human
You know how men are
Boys will be boyz
It's her fault for being drop dead gorgeous
Way too presumptuous
Not taking precautions
Too kind, too friendly, too nice
When those eyes that outshine the stars
Looked at him!
They were asking for it.
A beautiful suicide to an ugly life
A tender touch to a hurtful bruise
Am sorry I couldn't breakthrough the metaphorical glass door to you
Am sorry for what I did to you.
Sep 15, 2016
Sep 15, 2016 at 4:06 PM UTC
She had to reach inside herself
and pull out pine needles. They stuck to
her inner thighs, where his fingers had first grazed,
trailing up. The lights in a police station
post-rape are jarring.
She looked through slitted eyes
and faced a dumpster staring back,
her mouth reeking of stale beer and blood.
The cool infinity of last night loops
into a tightly-knotted ribbon of forever,
a graveyard of bruised hips and phantom touches.
When the story stretched wider than
the picturesque Stanford campus, ivy-covered walls that distract from dark dumpsters,
a news anchor gave the viewers vital facts:
“Brock Turner’s freestyle time is one minute and thirty-nine seconds.”
No media could be bothered to discuss
the humiliation of getting a **** kit. No one bothered
to mention how helpless it is being
too drunk and resigned to walk,
naked,
body like a rag doll left rotting
with banana peels.
The world stepped over a ***** girl
to defend a white boy, to bail out a monster,
all the while wondering where the blood on their shoes could have come from.
She could still hear the music,
a steady beat in spite of it all,
ear pressed soundly into the pavement.
Sep 11, 2016
Sep 11, 2016 at 10:26 PM UTC
Today drunks got up,
on an upended axis.
And wobbled
on driven souls,
driven to ****
and let the hate loose.
A drunk walked in mud
to work,
and his boss sported a smile
of sad pride.
He had done a great job,
and no one knew.
When they were sitting down
on the couch,
cracking the air with laughter,
the country man
looked up
and saw
a daughter of light on the floor,
slitted through the blinds.
He wanted so badly
to cry.
But didn't.
An imp limped
upstairs
and down, back again
to the basement,
and his old ma
heard him sparingly.
So much happened to day,
so beautifully
sad,
clear, and azure,
that the masks
of nails
spiking our faces,
slowly wore down
against steel skin.
When the sun went down,
aching for pain again,
they took the first swig,
then a second.
Sep 11, 2012
Sep 11, 2012 at 9:57 PM UTC
uh now to part two
ya know what im about to do
**** you crew then to ya baby boo
crazy as a Brooklyn zoo
jump up if ya want too
my 1 2 make ya body shake
more than a holy ghost
smoke the most givin a toast
death yea so i hate to boast
haters try but cant come close
makin' most im passoverdose
**** seed n liqour got me drunk indeed
ya know how i flow
gotta make money mo
so **** a ** then check tha **
in the clubs still throwin' bows
check how my caddy spinnin' on vogues
white walls about seven inches tall now why dont ya fall
way back like lebron hairline
ya i like to exquisite dines
with red wine
put that on ya mind when ya grind
i go harder slam ya like Vince Carter
fools think im dumb but my game smarter always a starter
ya rhymes be late so ya cant relate
im.old school fool king of dons know the rules
of war
if ya want it come get it
watch ya neck get slitted
and if ya boys wanna jump too
my guns mad ammos
they can get hit with it
Jan 1, 2016
Jan 1, 2016 at 2:47 PM UTC
I paid for the two coffees and brought
them back to the table, swear they
chinkled in my hands like the music
in my teeth jouncing around when I
see you. You wrote letters in your
bright notebook and as I sipped you
asked me to discover them. High task.
Could barely read your cursive boughs
and sinewy slippery esses, slip slip
sliding off the page as you smiled
with a pixieish shrug—see, can’t do it.
But I sipped a little more deliberately,
slitted my eyes back to you, wrote
you some mischief on a napkin and
you laughed. It was buoyant and I
floated for a second above the wooden
bench, sustained by other voices like
cushions of marzipan I could dip in
your coffee and you would love it.
And back then you were really in
front of me, I should have limned your
lines and ridges onto your notebook,
just to show you. Should have taken
out my camera in a way you wouldn’t
have seen and taken a picture of those
eyes, the way you looked right there,
right then. Maybe you’d have seen
mine being created then—suddenly
rushing, flushing blood to a created
thing, made out of thin air, substantive.
Seen how you gave me my flesh, how
you made me an unknown drinker of
all life’s subtle blessings, peacefully,
even while within the mist of its
peaceless ecstasy and fury.
Mar 27, 2012
Mar 27, 2012 at 7:14 PM UTC
i met a mongol once in amsterdam, we exchanged a tearful stare and said a melancholic hello, as if we were to be brother in cement or sandstone of what the sun rememebred and man forgot but nonetheless carved for enshadowed suave of the shadowing hand on hand upon handed down remnant of the handless kanji... the motherless thus tongueless river of sight utilising hand and hand as sophistication of spying thanks to the hands’ shadows: thus no shadow tongue unless that shadow be thought or the abstract off thought: pre-meditation and the subsequent minded courtsey as requested of the blank page or the buddha’s slitted eyes faking intoxication by western standards of that green plant the mongols despise: and western societies fare to tax and thus exploit.
and it would be easiest to withhold making talks
with the slavs
by compensation of the northern-most mosque
being established
as true progression...
but then having insulated the slavs
who are "primarily" plumbers and electricians
to make any dent in the politics of the other monotheists...
where the european excludes the european from europe
there you will see war as encouraging the asian
or the arab...
there you will see war, should a
european exclude european from europe
there you will see war
caucausian againts the rooster against the morn!
TAR TAR! TAR TAR! TAR! TAR!
(in japanese tora tora tora!)
because you did not cherish our shared values
thus become devalued therefore value your integral anti-economic
evaluations that have no place in my land
but concern of keeping brown in the noun and not in the verb
of racism and sun;
i've become a barabbas among you, you messiahs,
you messiah selfies and messiah implants,
what gave you the jews scorned has given
me you as the "jews" scorned in your disorientation
of the fathomed atom bomb already spoken of in
the book of the apocalypse....
but a man ejecting an european from europe
to fantacise a non-invoked colonialism will halve in carving
this world in half for multi-cultarism!
no pole ever spoke of colonialism to see you speak
of post-colonial re-colonialisation of remote areas so ardently cared for:
conquer... and subsequently fall: your sons the additive bullets:
я и pоссия demand: the caucaucus tribes to
fake unity with the danube fools of erected bohemia.
Dec 2, 2015
Dec 2, 2015 at 11:35 PM UTC
I'm writing this poem because I'm ******
And upset and sad and really **** annoyed
But mostly because I'm ******
I'm ****** because I try so ******* hard to get everything right
Every single thing
I am trying my absolute best
To get it "all right"
And for you, for all of you.
And for some reason that is not good enough
To you, I have let you down
To you, I could have done better
To you, I have failed.
I try to make it through my day
and there is a **** hurricane destroying my brain
and I honestly can't take it anymore.
And you know what makes me even more upset?
The fact that you like it
You, sitting at your computer
You will click the heart and you will Like it
Because this world tells you
that Pain is beautiful to you
Anxiety is complex
and Emotional Destruction is Art
And that ******* ****** me off, too.
Emotional deterioration is not Art
My insane hurricane of internal blame
Is not for you to click the heart and "Like" it
Or for you to share with your Facebook friends.
Why don't you like the love poem?
Or the psalm of happiness?
Or the gentle, giggly limerick?
Is that because we only see internal turmoil as beautiful now?
What about rhymes of sunsets and silhouettes?
And clandestine loves and clinking castanets?
Where are their electronic hearts?
Do those only belong to slitted wrists
and broken heart plot twists?
Well, that's not true
And this ****** poem isn't for you.
This ****** poem is for me
and for what I feel
and for what I create
and for what I accomplish
because what I make is beautiful
and there are so many aspects of this life that are beautiful without being painful
And that little red-clicked heart doesn't mean jack **** to me.
Oct 24, 2013
Oct 24, 2013 at 12:52 AM UTC
Time for chewing sanction chasers
Time for calling out,
All those dogs who run for cover
All the slimes who flout!
Time to spin the wheels of change
To cull the slack who bludge,
Time to look behind the mirror
Spotlight those who fudge.
Time for nailing shirkers
Who employ the wriggle out
Time to hit the finger pointers
And the **** who pout!
Mostly time for settling
This old, outstanding score,
Drop your fool pretence
In standing bare arsed on the floor.
Bare arsed in the spotlight
With your sharpened fangs well drawn,
With talons sprung like drawknives
And your slitted eyes of scorn.
It's time to test your metal
In this avenue of pain,
Time to face your nemesis
Or you’ll NEVER stand again!
Marshalg
On the Razors Edge
Winter Solstice, 2011
Jun 21, 2011
Jun 21, 2011 at 9:50 PM UTC
unsurely, we could have
slept, still: all made
small slitted movements,
all ablaze
in serenade for
something like
life, hanging sterile, like
presheaved diamond litter,
across broken lines
through the dark.
we breathe.
we trek out motions,
taking step in each other's
shadow.
and i, caught, dividing
through the time either of us still
could sleep. well, i
can't sleep. i can't
wait it out. i can't
do this. didn't
you say how i'd
lie? well, sugar,
i can't lie.
Feb 27, 2014
Feb 27, 2014 at 4:21 AM UTC
Sunlight flares across the glass as her face stares out, eyes wreathed in wrinkles and slitted slightly, thin mouth drawn down in pain or bitterness or maybe disappointment.
Blue sky reflects in the faded pupils and silvery hair whispers like fairy floss above the pink scalp.
Pale blotchy skin creases and pleats itself over the bone structure.
She lifts a veined, liver spotted hand, knotty with arthritis, to her lips.
I study the outline of her face, looking for the young girl with long, glossy brown hair I remember.
She of the thrown back throat, ready laugh and warm smile.
The passionate one - forgiving quickly because she loved much and was loved in return.
She's survived her husband by many lonely years.
Ah, wait! - there's the dimple hidden in the folded skin.
Time stands still as we search each other's eyes, looking for a connection until I notice a tear sliding down along her nose.
I turn away from the mirror.
Apr 20, 2017
Apr 20, 2017 at 9:36 AM UTC
every time
i am too hurt to move
or say anything
to anyone
my cat comes
and lays down on my stomach
and purrs
and looks at me
and her slitted eyes
tell me
to be ok.
Jun 13, 2013
Jun 13, 2013 at 11:36 PM UTC
When I dream, I dream of you.
And when I dream of you it's in colors that don't exist.
Mind twirlin, boggling away.
It's in my sleepyhead, in my bed where I wish to stay
and perhaps find a name for these colors I cannot recite
and dream of you for always just like day turns into night.
Still I awake from a fuzzy view and find the pillow I'm holding isn't you.
Salted drops form in envelopes of my eyes that are slitted open when I think of how my dreams lie.
And the letter I cry to you is carefully folded inside.
Ink made of tear drops and moon beams and rainbows that leave me starry eyed.
Sep 24, 2012
Sep 24, 2012 at 6:53 PM UTC
Colors blur and time becomes more than a little unstuck
Lavender and amber pour in through shutters
Slitted and still as my hazy eyes
Cool sharp breezes trickle in with muted light and
Run like the slow teasing slide of knives against my cheeks
Goosebumps and the heady scent of last night's incense
I am cold in the early morning light and it pulls me from a dream
Barely awake, blinded and chilled and alone
But my lips are alive in a memory and though my throat is dry
I find my quiet mouth seeking to fill the
Silence with the momentary ghost of your name
Dec 30, 2013
Dec 30, 2013 at 5:18 PM UTC