To my lover, that she might escapeI've held you here, close in-betweenmy knuckles, so bruised with mutemutiny, they beat at the thighs and the ribs of mewe can pretend that we're lovers, notdrowning together to gatherlove scraped from under nailsor concrete halls, frompainted walls beneathhigh-way-gray ships of the sea,that are skies that are meant to beburning with passion and puritybut wreck the horizon with infantile agonyand sails to the endless, oh, anywhere at allI'm sorry, this placewill get the best of us yet
Beach Poemthe sunthe silver crowsmy hearta pair of ragged clawsthe wavesthe dunesdesire
On forgettingThe worst part isthe books that are unwritten as you speakthe letters writhe themselves off paperfly off like carrion birds,drown themselves in inkwellsAnd our conversations fadeinto meaningless noisethe syllables force themselvesdown your throatand mineand have no longer been spokenstaticI am forcing your bodyinto air, a ghostseen in some crowd
A meditationi will reachlike a breatha body
Letter to a former loverI wrote you lettersof these hollow woods,perhaps your tongue was tiedor planing out your teeth with supple motionlicking forth a better smilea brighter future, at leastyou never answered or gave wordthat you had seen the fog ridingfrom beneath the trees on grey stallionsor that the woods themselves wereleaning out and giving way andturning grey, mist breedinghollow spines on brittle branches.
On farewellsIt is not that your handsare not here to be held, but thatthey are pointing over hills I cannot crossto seas that are salt with excitementjust asthe trees do not grieve the passing of the leaves,except that they are over the horizon.
You Are BeautifulHey there friend,I have something I need to tell you -You are beautiful.Whether you are a cute little pixieOr a voluptuous goddess;Whether your body is a rolling landscapeOr a smooth, flat tropical beach.This is something I really must stress -You are beautiful.Whether your hair is blondeOr brown or blackOr red or green,Long or shortOr tied up at the backOr not there at all -You are beautiful.Whether you wear short skirtsOr button-up shirts,Or torn up jeansAnd band t-shirts;Whether you dress all in pinkOr blue or blackOr every colourTo the sky and back -You are beautiful.Whether you don your make-upLike war paint,Or you wear none at all -You are beautiful.Whether your body is an art galleryOf scars and stretch marks,Or as smooth as honey;Whether you hang out in parksOr libraries or malls or bars -You are beautiful.Whether you stride aroundAs the magnificent force you are,Or you ride a wheelchairLike royalty in a carriage -You are beautiful.Whethe
For those who are teasedPity thosewho throw knivesat your back,for you'vedevelopedsteel armor,and they're leftwith porcelain skin,and broken knives.
he saved me, but he killed me._i. first light- i met you in a crimson forest. it was a rose garden summer, and out of a black mercedes you walked out, your five year old eyes greener thansunlit saplingsyou reached up to pluck a rose from its stem, and offered it to me."what's your name?"daddy told me that i couldn't tell strangers my real name.I looked at the rose in my hand."Rose."you smiled, you were a seastorm of now long-gone innocence.i didn't understand but I knew.ii. i forgot about you for 1562 days, 11 hours, and 22 minutes,you shoutedmy name, but i didn't recognize youuntil i saw your eyes.iii. my father fell and didn't stand back up again.i screamed, and you carried me home.iv. i didn't talk for a week. i stared at the gray of the sky. it was the color of my father's eyes.you sat next to me in the pouring rain,your war
Humans Are Like RagdollsMaybe humans are like ragdolls.Some of us are manufactured,With stitches that are a bit off.And we get put back on the shelf.While others are made perfectly,Included with bows and pretty dresses.But eventually we all get loose strings,And we become such tattered, worn out things.We all eventually pull at these loose endsUntil we all unravel.And some can be sewn back together,While others are broken forever.
StardustYour body is made of stardust.How cool is that? JustThink about it. Stardust.Your body is a universeWith your heart as its sun,And it has been pumpingTo keep you aliveSince you begun –A whole sunWants you here.Your lungs are two galaxies;Each an inhaling and exhalingMilky WayAnd they work their hardestTo keep you okay –Two entire galaxiesWant you to stay.Your blood cells are meteors,Zooming aroundGoing as fast they canTo keep you safe and sound –Millions of magnificent meteorsWant you around.Our souls are night skiesAnd our flawsAre constellations thatMake us who we are –Making us each as uniqueAs each and every star.Please, don’t become a supernova tonight.
BipolarThere's that moment when I wake up in the morning,And without a warning.I feel myself plunge into the ocean.As my thoughts drown me,Like anchors tied to my ankles.And I feel the water all around me.I am being consumed by the sea,Of me.My mind is my own worst enemy.There's that moment when I wake up in the morning,And I get that feeling.In my chest,But it's not pain.I feel like I am actually sane.Or maybe a little more than that,I feel creativity and happiness,And just plain joy.I can't describe this emotion,I just know that I actually feel alive.Maybe even more than that.And I can laugh and I am okay.But then there is the next day.And the next,Until it all goes away.And then I am neutral.I am not manic.I am not depressed.I am not anything.I feel bored, irritated.I don't know what I am.Just plain, nothingness.I don't feel creativity flow through my finger tips,I feel this might be a sinking ship,As neutral,Fades to the next hour or so.And I am once aga
God's PaintbrushI've learned that God's paintbrush is incredibly flawed,with lashes picked at, and bristles torn nearly off.I don't think everybody likes what God paints,because we're always trying to smear it away.We cut off a few pounds, or cut up some skin,when we soil the paper, we throw it in the trash bin.I think His paper has been sauntered with tears,or blood, and vulgar language from our peers.Like others have taken His brush and dipped it in oil,and have painted themselves, in a way that's soiled.I knew that God's paintbrush was incredibly flawed,but that doesn't mean that we should change it at all.“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder,” they say,perhaps it would be better to keep it that way.I'm incredibly certain that God makes no mistake,I think that we do, when we try to be fake.When we take His art into our own hands,and when we ruin the strokes that He carefully commands.I don't really think that God wants us to be perfect,if so, then He wouldn't take th
i think of bones encased in goldcall me sisyphus; my wristsgrip napalm nations & i amparasympathetic. i speakin cigarettes, more stippledspinal cord than americanromanticist. sanguinary, pocked,my pleural cavities leakprozac pills & -oh, this body has neverbelonged to me.
10:59if you by chancefind someonelocked away in their ownmind,let them be- it might bemore pleasantthan the outsideworld.
poemI wish you were easyeasy to forgetor to lend a handI wish your eyes had not pierced me(like x-rays)like x-rays, yes, and tumorousis what this love is, draining mecancerously into poetry