"winona" poems
He looked at her like she was the most beautiful thing in the world,
not like a piece of meat that is waiting to be devoured
more like he needed her like plants need sunlight
it almost seemed like she is oxygen and he needed her to be there and fill his lungs every time he took a breath
with every glance you could see the love in his eyes and the smile that played at his lips like he wanted to love her until the end of his life
and to be without her would be the end of his life
The way he looked at her said "I will never leave you"
like every moment with her could have been his last, and every moment without her was utter torture
She looked at him like he was the blood in her veins and every time she met his eyes it was the first time
like her love was unfathomable and without it she would not go on
She looked at him like she saw every moment they ever had together in the curve of his jawbone, every kiss they ever shared in the color of his lips, like all of the love in the world was resting on his brow
The prelude of their kiss, where their foreheads rested against each other and their noses touched seemed to be endless and peaceful as though nothing else existed
The moment they kissed looked like it lasted forever in their eyes, but felt so fleeting
like it kept them grounded and without it they would be 10 ft off the ground
"When I met Johnny, I was pure ****** He changed that. He was my first everything. My first real kiss. My first real boyfriend. My first fiancé. My first guy I had *** with. So he'll always be in my heart. Forever. Kind of funny that word." Winona Ryder
She sounded so nostalgic and soft, he meant the world to her
As though the world would be off centered without him
"I'd die for her. I love her so much. I don't know what I would do without her. She is going through a lot right now. I wish I could just kiss away the pain, make it go away, stop it, **** it! If she, you know, I don't know what I would do. I'd **** myself. I love that girl. I love her. I love her almost more than I love myself." Johnny Depp
He seemed so passionate, like without him he both couldn't and wouldn't want to go on
Like the world wouldn't stop, it would just cease to exist
"Believe me, this Winona Forever tattoo is not something I took lightly... Her eyes **** me."
I believe they did **** him, that just the thought of her cut him like glass
that every moment he spent with her made him love her so much it hurts
I want a love like Johnny and Winona
a love so strong that it'll leave me thinking about every kiss, every accidental brush of their arm against mine, every second since their eyes met mine. I want a love like music, a love that makes me feel like with it the world will slow to one beat per measure.
A love that feels like the ocean, they are the shore, and I am the seashells that get swept up in it
A love that is completely undeniable on every account
A love like Johnny and Winona
Mar 2, 2015
Mar 2, 2015 at 3:31 AM UTC
What does a person do?
In a funk.
All full of funk.
You just feel funky..
And not funky fresh..
And no I'm not from funky town.
But in a funk..like funk, my mind, apartment, winona, mn, usa
Long address..
I would ask you to send me a letter,
And ask the funk to leave my head..
But I'm sure the mailman will be confused.
But I hope you all know,
What kind of funk I am in?
It's a pretty funky one.
I can't even get my head out of the funk.
Nov 12, 2011
Nov 12, 2011 at 2:24 AM UTC
I want all kinds of love with you. The kind that leaves a holy mark on distant, ivory skin. The kind where daylight blurs your edges into something soft. The kind where a kiss is a chaos of storms. The kind with orange butterflies — the kind where they're consumed by flames. The kind that hurts and leaves you writhing — fragile, broken, and covered in wounds. The kind that screams under the rain. The kind that yields, like sunlight in February's palms. The kind that poets do not know about. The kind that leaves and finds it way back — the kind that always does. The kind that never leaves at all. The kind that's an almost. The kind that I'll pay for with my bones. The kind that haunts you after the years. The kind that holds on. The kind in wrinkles. The kind that lasts. The kind that stays. ❤
I want all kinds of love with you.
Aug 1, 2021
Aug 1, 2021 at 9:02 PM UTC
My antidepressants don't work
the way I want them to.
I tried to imagine watching each film
with anyone but you.
Your flickering eyes,
they project the world.
Hidden reels
inside your soul.
There's too many people
inside your bones.
You don't have to be
in your theatre alone.
I forgot how to sleep
under the same ceiling.
I watch movies in the dark
to remember the feeling
that made me confide in her.
My eighties film.
My Winona Ryder.
There's too many people
inside your bones.
You don't have to
be in your theatre alone.
Five after dawn
and your movie's still on.
Christian, **** the popular kids,
because they don't understand
how her brain works,
how her glances steal,
how each death
can't make her feel.
Your flickering eyes,
they project the world.
I watch movies in the dark
to remember the feeling
that made me confide in you.
My eighties film.
My Winona Ryder,
let me forget you.
Maybe you're crazy
with your cleaner.
Maybe each swing of the mallet
made you meaner.
Maybe reality bites because of Heather.
Maybe it scared you that we were in love, together.
Maybe it scared you to stay together.
Maybe it scared you to stay together.
Oct 23, 2014
Oct 23, 2014 at 1:23 AM UTC
Pencils
And papers
And fancy erasers
Rubberbands
And soda cans
And ratty old pairs of Vans
This and that
Or 'maybe' something
Equaling all sorts of nothing
And then I met Winona Ryder...
Jan 25, 2020
Jan 25, 2020 at 7:08 PM UTC
will I keep my secrets?
shave my legs on the shower floor
imagine how things can be
cool **** by chastity belt playing on my apple tv
check back soon, check in with me
a vegan soup diet
black coffee
diet coke from the bottle
one potato cake
and savoys: an australian classic
poems, poems, poems
words that rhyme
off rhymes — no rhymes
forced a non sequitur
confess, confess
confide and abort
remake dating app profiles over and over
pictures of me: two years old
women - women - women - women
a cup *******
not even a cup *******
***** mirror — bathroom sink
want a cortado? — past memories
mediterranean wholesalers — sydney road
buying glassware in south melbourne
i dream of mozzarella
dairy — unethical
and oysters — the cruelty
be cruel to me, be my bully
kiss me on the lips softly
your tongue in my mouth
you taste like campari
my americano
negroni lesbians
discuss films
you'll mention jim jarmusch
coffee and cigarettes
winona ryder — taxi cab
in los angeles
and i was once an actress
consider me retired
break down the barriers
scream inside yourself
let everyone in until you can't take it
be left alone
Feb 9, 2020
Feb 9, 2020 at 2:04 PM UTC
Burn In Reality
Welcome to the promise land,
enter people and take my hand.
Nobody helps, nobody cares,
friends are just like musical chairs.
It's a selfish and cruel world,
at a young age, you see it's unfurled.
No one seems to have enough money,
the government laughs, they think it's funny.
The ones you love, stay very close,
in glass houses, always wear clothes.
Shooters and drugs on every corner,
don't wanna be a victim or a mourner.
In this world, it's a dog eat dog,
going blind from all the dense fog.
All you can do is try your best,
don't let yourself get obsessed.
We all done some bad things in our life,
people are always stabbing you with a knife.
Play with fire, and you soon will burn,
what others do, is not your concern.
Look in your soul, what do you see,
is this how, you want to be.
You can decide your own fate,
choose it soon, before too late.
Always work and never play,
reality ***** is what I always say.
Hear no evil, seek no evil,
maybe it's time for a reality retrieval.
Is life fact or is it fiction,
let's bring back the crucifixion.
Reality bites, just ask Winona Ryder,
for your kids be a good provider.
Reality shows are just a joke,
after fifteen minutes, they too are broke.
The older you are, the worse it gets,
everyday you're hit with a defensive blitz.
We are all burning in Reality,
Hell will be just a simple formality.
Jan 2, 2014
Jan 2, 2014 at 12:46 PM UTC
In the smallest winter nights,
sailing in the eyes of Stan Lee,
Winona Rider,
Joseph Stalin,
the slightest cross unfolds, unfurls into a tree.
Jesus's face is written in the leaves.
Don't believe me?
Look into your mother's eyelashes.
Aug 5, 2016
Aug 5, 2016 at 3:40 AM UTC
Your hands were crisp with the cold chill of autumn;
The spherical time bomb had transitioned into winter,
And your hands had crumbled into nothingness-
Only remnants of frozen ash had remained in the palm of my hand.
I saw far more in those ashes than most though.
I saw *** and lust and passion and want for hands to be against skin and skin to be against hands.
I saw the ashes as lust-full summers;
pure ****** and rose cigarettes.
Every time a cold wisp of winter air brushed against my scarred and pink knuckles,
I was reminded of the loneliness your hand had once provided me with,
And the way it simply gave up into mine, never to return again.
Goodbye said your hand,
And my hand soaked in all of your absolute nothingness,
Leaving me as absolute nothingness too.
Your hands were tight and hot and sweaty with the blinding scent of summer;
Pollin living within the beds of my moist eyelids
and cheek bones swollen with exhaustive heat.
The creases of my hands relishing in vitamin D;
Vitamin D relishing in my human skin-- am I normal yet?
Next to mine, your hand soaked it all in,
I soaked in the yellow, the yellow soaked in me, and you soaked in us both.
You drank our souls through a purple straw and puked us out onto a hotel bathroom floor--
Is this what summer's like?
It hurt how tightly you held onto me and how I was stitched into your lung, into your stomach.
My only escape being a bathroom floor,
And I was just hot.
Throbbing eyelids, throbbing cheek bones, throbbing hands--
I swore my hand would collapse into yours eventually. But it didn't,
Ironic isn't it.
Your hand was warm and soft with the feeling of compassion.
Your hand upon my neck and entangled amongst my falling hair,
It was sympathetic with the feel of a skinny stomach.
Where had mine gone?
Where did my skin go?
You held me and against the frail bones of my decaying skeleton
Suddenly I was feeling some sort of togetherness again.
The way Depp and Ryder had reminded so many of passionate love,
full of furiously mad happiness,
I was now seeing that.
A crumbling hand had now manifested from the fury,
into some sort of crave for my touch for my soul for my love.
I could feel my stomach again
My skin was forming over the once decaying bones
And there I was in your hands.
Memories of autumn and crumbling finger tips and skin and tissue and bones were now vanished.
Memories of summer and sweaty and obstructive hands were now nearly ambiguous to my past.
It didn't make a difference,
Because in that moment your hands were warm and soft and showing me what it was like to be a living, breathing carcass again.
You were now Johnny and I was now Winona,
And this love hate relationship was being felt in my bones, in my skin, in my palms,
And I knew--
You would always be my autumn
You would always be my winter
You would always be my summer
You would always be the forever on.
Jun 23, 2014
Jun 23, 2014 at 8:52 AM UTC
We both know you would've broken my heart until there was nothing left to break, and I would've let you. I would've scattered petunias over the wounds you have re-opened. I would've carved you poems on flickering streetlights. I would've set sunrises on fire — kissed you as it died down. I would've skinned your neck open to know what turns my kiss into heartbreak, and what turns that heartbreak into poetry. And we both know you would've broken my heart until there was nothing left to break. It had been years, my love. It had been years on end.
And still, I would let you.
// "December has a softly cruel way of reminding me this."
Dec 14, 2020
Dec 14, 2020 at 7:59 PM UTC
I don't know if anybody told you
that you look like young Winona Ryder,
or that the skin around your eyelids
looks so perfect when you smile, but
You're a devil
And you move just like you like
And no one can tell you anything
When you bite your lip that nice
Aug 7, 2016
Aug 7, 2016 at 1:56 AM UTC
When you take the hot iron of morning
And rub it along those fences between us
The trees dip down their branches
To listen a little bit more clearly.
I know that the notes you pick from
That wooden box of yours knows
All the hurt in the audience
But when you sang the blues
I looked for all the heartbreak I had
Gathered inside my chest
And let their broken pieces flutter
Away like some kind of winged messenger,
All the way to the ceiling of that room
You made into Harlem just for a night.
Oct 25, 2016
Oct 25, 2016 at 6:45 AM UTC
I tried to write a poem today
But I wrote nothing
Because I feel nothing
Nothing's on my mind
Winona Ryder looks so young
Driving a cab smoking a cigarette
I don't watch movies with plots anymore
Coffee and Cigarettes and Slacker
All random episodes
Hundreds of people I'll forget by the morning
But it isn't like I'll remember if I met them
Or that they'll remember me
We're all stuck in this night on earth
And as the train drove past I rolled down my windows to listen
I was driving the opposite direction
And maybe there's a poem in that
Maybe I'm delusional at this point
And out this newly open window I sing
Of "all my cocktails be Molotov"
But I don't mean it
I don't mean what I say anymore
Maybe things were beautiful then
Maybe they should be now
Maybe they really are and I can't see it
But what prescription makes the people smile back?
My life is a series of random events
No plot no explanation no chaser
Knee **** reactions to every 24 hours and tomorrow I'm a new character somewhere else
I finally wrote a poem today
But it wasn't any good
But I don't feel bad about it
Because I feel nothing
And nothing's on my mind
Jan 20, 2017
Jan 20, 2017 at 11:35 PM UTC