i can't hear lies from 6 feet understicks and stones may break your bonesbut words,will never hurt youtell me, did it hurtdid your chest constrict,did your lungs threaten to fail,did your eyes burn,did your stomach drop,did it hurtto read those blood stained wordsand know they were the last
In The DarkYou tookA knifeto the moonIn the night skyI saw the piecesthat weren't beautifulenoughFor youAnd the fartherTheyFellThe darker they gotthey fell away from the lightAnd joined me
Ghosts in your eyes we used to pretend we could see ghoststhat's why the swings kept swinging-we saidwe swore we saw somethingit looked different every time butit's got to be realbut we don't have to pretend anymorethat's why the blood keeps drippingi knowi think i saw something againit's different every time butit looks like hope
oh, i love you, i'm sorryi will pretend not to knowwhat heartbreak feels like, i will pretend that a smilefits right on my lipsi will laugh because,i know i have failed as your childyou dont have to knowyou dont have to know
bloodstained petals know my secretsi am so sorryfor all the petals I wastedwondering if you loved meand I am so, so pitifully destroyedafter you tore the wildflowers from my handsaid to let looseI am lost nowbecause home is with youand homeis a terribleterrible placeI don't miss youI miss myself
Poetic (more like Painful)My blade is not a paintbrush,and my skin is not porcelainbut if I must be so poetic,let me tell you thismy blade is sharper than a sword,cuts closer than ever before,my skin is scarred and torn,New blood spills over oldand i'm always wanting moreso, my blade is not a paintbrushand my skin is not porcelain,but I hope you never know thisjust let me be poetic,and hope you'll never be addicted
Spotlight"it's all for attention"but silence is not a spotlightwords unsaid aren't pleading criesdark clothes do not draw the eyeblood drips silently, slowlyscarred flesh is held close, concealedpills are small, in light of how they'll end it all(razors don't shine in the dark)"it's all for attention"but silence is not a spotlightsilence is a suicide note
Moments Are Addictingi've recently realized something,moments are addictingbecause you are not addicted to the nicotine or the blood,not the white powder or the burning alcohol,you are not addicted to the drag of the cigar,or the shining of the blade,you are not addicted to the particles of crystal,flying through a straw,or the tilt of the bottle,as it cascades down your throat,you are not addicted to a substance, or a pain,you are addicted to the momentsthat one single moment,of peace
She's A Star Studentshe's intellectually blessed,(but emotionally a mess)she's always so tired,(but the red gets her wired)
The WandererI met the Wanderer once, in my travels. She was on foot, and I on a horse; her pack looked heavy, her sword sharp, her eyes shallow, and so very gold. Her tongue traipsed over words like a dancer, and her lips, when she smiled, were like the bend in a river: fluid and lithe, but gone in an instant as I passed on the current.Would she sup with me? She would, and she and her melodious tones sat with me to share what I had, which was sufficient. We talked; I told her of my home and my wives, and the honey that I carried to the winery. I told her of the valley I lived in, and how green it was, how blue the mountains could be, how the river cut through it like the most excited of knives. I told stories of my children, and how they played. She described golden pools and mountains that breathed like they were alive, and cities that shimmered like pearls, and beautiful races graced with wings, long dead, but alive in legend. She made me wish to see the world, but told me to stay with my delig
MasksIn the summer,when the air was bright with the scent of nectar and sunshine,she was called fat.Her friends stood away from her,and eyed each other with discomfort so palpable that it hung,suspended in the Gothic hues of the warm evening sky.She laughed,as it was all she could do to hide thepain that gnawed so badly insidealmost immediately, it was joined by that of her friends.It was there,she crafted her first mask;imbued with betrayal and hurt.She named it confidenceand put it on In the fall,when the carnival left sweet aftertastesreminiscent of a fragrant dream,she was called ugly.The fragile and furled leaves cascaded over the dying summer breezeand as she closed her eyes,she wondered to herself,"Where are my friends?"When no answer came to her,she slowly took out a blank mask,from the hollow expanse inside of her.She poured her sadness into it,slathering it with the color of frustration.She called it "desirable",and she made it hers In the
Lullaby ByeTwinkle twinkle falling starOh, I wonder if you areHe who called with steady voiceOffering me one simple choiceShall I stay or better leave?Contemplatively I breatheNow to bed I close my eyesThink of you across the skiesI forgive you, now you knowMy chosen path is that I goOne breath. Two breath. Three breath. FourEternal sleep, forevermoreTwinkle twinkle trusted friendTake me there, to where it endsShining down your soft, white lightIt calms me now and dulls my frightDown below in bed I lieWith comforted heart I say goodbye
desolateyou are a broken house with smashed windowsand ivy growing between your fingersyou are fragile and with everycreaking footstep on the stairs you pray so hard that you have let the right one inthere will be people,people with minds so blissfully ignorant thatthey walk right through you and do not see the splintered furniture residing within yourbody, you are invisible to them,and sometimesyou wonder if you are even therebut then there are other people - people worth staying standing for,people who will walk in and gently run their fingers along the parts of yourself thatyou forgot were even there,people who will explore your anatomy likeit is an undiscovered world. let them find the stale cup of water you leftbeneath your bed 5 months ago,let them find the brittle treasures you hidein your fireplace, and how you masochisticallyadore the way that you could justcatch on fire at anysecondbut do not let them break you,not ever again.
mechanicI want to kiss every aching wound you have,bandage your heart every time it bleeds,and patch up your mind over and overbecause not a single tear deserves to fallfrom your brandy-drenched eyes;This dripping heart of mine can only feel,and the healing honey words it flames get caughtin the back of my throat and on the roof of my mouth,so I only have these passionate guttural criesto tell you that I care all too much.In order to fix you up again,I would need to tear myself to tattersand trade all of my working partsfor your leftover, fading piecesbut I just haven’t figured out how.
never mindI guess it’s kind of funny, if you think about it. You always see in the movies – in the TV shows – people running and screaming and praying and stuff. That’s what Hollywood always thought it would be like. Some sort of ‘death cloud’ or something – or like an asteroid or something like that – that just happened: that just totally hit everybody by surprise.People have known about it for months. It’s not like in the movies. The word ‘inevitability’ comes to mind: and hey, guess what? Nobody cares to run from the inevitable. It’s pretty stupid – isn’t it, if you think about it – how people, in the movies, try to run from inevitable death. Everybody has decided what they were gonna do today weeks ago, maybe even months ago. Say goodbye to family, spend time with girlfriend, et cetera et cetera. As with the Kubler-Ross effect – or whatever it's called – p
shrinkingplease, don't tell me how beautiful it is that i've parted my thighs like the sea. because there is nothing pretty about the tears in last nights dinner, or the way my hands shake around silverware. i am not poetry, but a language lost --in the spaces where flesh used to occupy lies everything i needed to say, kept as the only thing i could ever bear to swallow. if you try to write sonnets about the scars on my knuckles or the arch of my ribs, i will tell you in nine syllables less that this is more than abstinence and foggy reflections. i will tell you how my little sister can carry me in her arms like a child, and how my father can hardly navigate my bedroom floor without touching the brown vomit stains that makes his brow heavy. i will tell you how it feels to hold your own heart in your hands, to feel it break and skip like an old, worn cd. i will tell you how i am nineteen and fishing through musty boxes of clothes from my childhood, only to find that not a single pair of sh
Everything You BorrowedOn Sunday afternoon,after exiting the church,you plucked the sun from the skyand hid it in your palmsso that when I held your handsthey would no longer be cold.When Monday night arrivedyou snatched every single starand used my tears to makea necklace.Tuesday's empty dawn shonethrough the cracks of the door--you stole the promise of whatcould never beand draped it around my shoulders.After Wednesday's twilight passed,you grabbed the cloudsand wove a tapestry of liesthat I hung on the wallsof my prison.Thursday crept through uson silent tiptoes,waiting for us to take notice--instead, we merely waitedfor midnight to come.The dusk of Friday wanedwhile you stripped it of its sorrowsand sewed them into my skin.When Saturday cameyou tried to steal the moon;I watched as you stood on your tombstoneand stretched to reach it.You fell, then--fell, broke your neck,and landed six feet under.I couldn't cry afterwards,for you had taken my agonyand washed it out to
22don't you dareleave fake flowers over my graveallow the weeds to grow and envelop mebecause I will always be a sanctuaryfor infectious things
StrengthMy grandfather was the strongest man I ever met. If you’ve ever seen someone on TV perform some superhuman feat of strength and thought that it wasn’t real, you’ve never met my grandfather. I have seen him rip a telephone book in half. He reached his full height of 6”4’ at the age of fourteen, and by the age of fifteen he had left school to work in the metal works. No one thought twice about it, because he was more than capable of the work and looked older than he was.I am not strong. My joints frequently hurt, although I do not think I can convey to you how much of an understatement the word ‘hurt’ is in this situation. Most people didn’t understand why I didn’t run as long or as fast as the other children, or take delight in the frequent football scrimmages that almost all the boys I knew took such delight in. when I told them “I can’t, my legs ache,” they just told me to be strong.My grandfather didn’t.
What If We Were Poets?Do you ever wonder what it's like to come face-to-facewith the planets? To curl your fingers in the air withoutmeeting thousands of plaster ceilings? What if I showed youhow to cross Saturn's rings, inhale the atmosphere of Venus?You would enter the Earth (and it's a strange place to call home,really) with ice crystals at the corners of your mouth and ashclouds stuck to the insides of your fingernails. Let me tell you,it's a beginner's worry that you'll burn up in the atmosphere,but I've had helium and hydrogen daubed on the base of my tongue.Oh, and do you ever brush past the windows on train carriagesand wonder what cornfields are like when they're your skyand your Earth's crust? What if I took you to the white cliffsof somewhere or other and taught you how to spread your wingsand not hit the ground? What if I showed you mazes, and becamethe red threads around your thumbs? If you'll just trust me, I'll let yousee that getting lost should only worry you in jungles of co
ChimesA bird,and the edge of winter. There are no signs.I'm tired of this, the searing and the splitting,metal on metal. I'm tired of myths. Won't you just be beside me,be still? Let me picture you, just for a moment. Divineconcentration, that's all you take. Don't ask.Living never felt natural.But here we are, trying-All for this one second,this one flash of perfection. It's trickyto be a person. I can never get the balance right,and the seasons are a quilt,heavy like a sand, dampfaces. Where is your voice, is itbeneath the soft song of the quiet? Your words,did I make them?
handmade lovewrite me a letter,not emails or tweets.blue pen scribblingson sheets of paper crisp.in five hundred words,two pages and a half -tell me you thought of meon cigarette breaks.go on foot to a post office,paste the stamp yourself.i shall be clouds awayexpecting the mail truck.february 28, 2012
EasterRemember what you love,you with sand in your teethand the feral burn of hungerin your eyes.God sends his regrets.He made you grasping and slow,in a late hourwhen the wine washed low.Remember what you love.Fall to your knees in the tossand the swell, quellthe appetite of the cold black sea.Beg blessings for your homeand the salt-sick trees.Reach what lies near:the fat-faced child, the sweet-soft lamb;tether the tantrum, trickle the blood.Offer psalms to what is holy,whisper the name of what you loveas it bobs in the bleak mad sea.
my father lived in Indiamy father is a man of many colors.on the nights when the moon stays asleep,he lotions his palms with pomegranate juice.the sugared blood pools in the creases of hisskin, staining it India’s red.sometimes, my father scrubs his hands untilthey are nothing but flesh & fruit rinds.when he was younger—all skinned knees and pocketknives—he must've slipped on a thousand marbles.my father’s father was a welder who rolled and spunsteel into tiny spheres.when he died, my father’s hands became blue andfree of pocket knives. to this day, he keeps a bagof marbles on our mantle.from time to time, he shakes the cool metal into his open palms and waterfalls it back and forth.see, this is the trouble with blue hands:they never let go of the things that scar them.they try so hard to be red again.my father doesn't like whistling becausean old woman in India told him it was uncivilized.she perched herself on the edge of the Ganges Riverand kneaded
It Is In The DoingI know what she thinks I do in the bathroom when I take a little too long,when I'm a little too quiet.After all, I'm a healthy teenager with access to the internet, what else could I be doing?She knocks on the door and asks, "Hey, what are you doing?"Smile, my dear reader.Chuckle a little.Sometimes she's right.But sometimes... Sometimes I'm on the floor or pressed hard against the wall, my heart a little too fast, my breath a little too quick... my chest a little too tight as I try to keep the sound of steadily falling tears from echoing beyond the door. As I try to keep pretences to the outside world that I do not cry, that nothing hurts me. That always, always, always, I do not fall to the madness of emotions. I have no control of my life but dammit, I am in control of myself.But every now and then the rigid hold of apathy breaks and I am reduced to this. Crying in a place where no one will hear my tears. Where no one will hear how desperate I am. How broken.Broken seems lik
Accept your Candle, Weep for the StarsA light I see, far off in the distance. It's a star, I told myself.No other thought surpassed it, I want to reach it.I struggle in the darkness, slowly heading for it, not knowing, not thinking.I know this is what I want. I want the star.It gets brighter, I can feel its warm touch, though I'm far from it.Joy overwhelms my soul, I'm so close, so close tomy star. It's my star and nothing else matters.I reach with my fingers, to touch it.A candle. A lowly candle, my thoughts shattered.This is not what I wanted. It's not my star.I blink, and blink again, I see clearly. Up above.There are hundreds, no millions of stars.Why haven't I seen them? Why did I only notice that candle?All of them, just there?I reach for the sky, but they start to fade.Why do they fade, but the candle still burns?My candle. I get it now. It's my candle, I can't change that.I accept that I will receive nothing else.But I weep, I'll never have that star.Or the other million that was within my grasp.
Oh Childyour bones are small,but stronglike your heart,they've never been brokenoh child,stay away from the worldoh child,i hope you neverrealizethat dreams onlylast for the night