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
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
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
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
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
Angel From My Nightmarethe angel from my nightmarehas pure white silken hairshe loves me more than them,the devils from my daydreamshe helps me keep it in,the darkness never slipsmy angels wings drip,she must be so pureand today i saw her room,there was buckets of paint in therewhy does the angel have that?the angel from my nightmare,found me with my fingers in the paint,my angels wings are slipping,in the reflection of her halo,there is a glint of pointed redno one can know,she saysthere is an angel in my nightmare,she wants to keep me here
MagicEveryone saysmy pen has no inkthey're shaking metrying to make meunderstand somethingbut I don'tmy pen must have inkbecause how elsecould I write so beautifullyi write with silver andit comes out red(i think it's magicthat they don't understand)
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
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
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.
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
Let Your Daughter Be a PirateLet your daughter be a pirateif she asks for a wooden swordhelp her build her ship from empty boxesand sail the vast backyardbecause a box doesn’t onlyhave to store dead dreamsand she is so much morethan just a vessel.Let your daughter be Robin Hood,if she wants to be an anarchist,a hero, a rebel, a rogue,give her bows, and arrows,and arrogance,let her fight for the plight of poorer folkbecause Robin isn’t just a boy’s name.Let your daughter be a princesslocked in a tower so highlet her be her own prince,don’t tell her to wait for a hundred years,let her swing from her own hairand grasp her own freedom.Let your daughter be whatever she wantsespecially when she’s youngand you’ll be enamoured bythe woman she becomes.
a hospital bird with soot in her lungsshe slept through a car crashthat almost killed her.through whitewhite walls,and dreamswhere her lover dies.nobody thought she'd make it,but she woke up a few months laterwith flowers in her hairand ash in her airway;trying to remember how to start all over,but forgetting to remember how to live.fall slipped from her open eyesand winter crawled in for a long hibernationof not-quite-cold-enough-for-snow.to her the clouds looked sickand pale like they mightlet everything inside them out,but she opened up wide instead,spilling blood where there was none to be spilled.her heart slipped down the streetand with unsteady handsshe stitched in a bird and cut off its wings.
You Were Not An Aquarium BoySea-glass became your bones,brine your blood, and seashellsmelded into your skin.You were not quite an oceanwhen you said "This is your sign to love me."My body was like a building;tall, cold, almost unbreakable.I was metallic and sharp,towering over your waters.I remember taking your hand in mine,conch and coral shells scrubbingmy skyscraper wrists, and laughingabout how one day you wouldsubmerge every last bit of me.Your lips, riddled with argonauts,found my cheek and I cringedat the coarseness.You asked if they bothered meand I finally told you "Ithink I love you."
Lost and foundI used to fall for boys who were lost,wandering aimlessly between the mountain-folds of reality.nomads, they spent the days counting stars and the nightslooking for the sun. their eyes roamed and their hands travelled,staying in my heart for days or weeks, before continuing tosearch for the way to their various destinations,to the clouds or to the groundleaving me in place, in a city I could traverse with my eyesshut.Until I met a boy who was found,had the universe tattooed on the back of his hand.he read me like a survey map, knew his way aroundmy tangled forest of a mind, could trace paths throughmy bramble eyes and he could follow the bluerivers of my veins, would not fall into the railwaytracks scissored across my elbows,but he was a city I could not traverse with my eyesshut.I went from being found to being lost,swimming in his mouth unaware of which way was upwhich way was down and I pitched my tent in his heartone night when he was telling me the way to rome
twothese scars will meltwith time, but the emotionsare forever branded tothe hour that birthed them andthe strangers they belong to
Hath No FearGiving yourself completely up to fear is kinda like falling in love: You can't pin point exactly when it started and by the time you realize that you are surrounded by that sensation it's already game over. Just like the image of the person you are in love with starts creeping out from every unexpected corner, fear never leaves your side when you give it a welcome stay. After a restless sleep, it starts beating anxiously in your heart the moment you wake up in the morning and commands all your thoughts and actions throughout the day. It is nothing short of a prison, except you are the only inmate and the warden never takes a break. Ever.I do not exactly remember when I let fear occupy my being but I remember the exact moment when I realized I was ruled by it. It was late in the afternoon, everybody was out there 'getting busy living' and I had locked myself inside my bed half awake, not particularly finding any valid reason to get out of it. Then I was awakened from a nightmare by my
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
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
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.
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
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
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?
HomesickI am the river's son,my arteries flowing turquoiseand turning to rapidsrushing around my frame,filling me with this senseof buoyancy, minnowstickling my sternum.I am the river's son.My palms caress eachsilty shoreline, everybattered bank and bend,and these places I knowso well become meas my fingerprint,even the bridge above meinflamed by the afternoonsun-glow, burning rusty andblood-orange againstthe steel blue sky.I am the river's son;I bring my home alonglike hermit crab,where I stepI pull water from the earth.
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