try to understand.so, i guess thats that.
i guess it is.
i want you to know that im going to think about you. every night.
i imagine ill think about you too.
ill probably cry in my pillow when our song comes on my shuffle and ill dig up that picture i buried in the back of my closet when i threw away the rest.
why will you keep it?
because we look happy and somewhere down the road ill be happier for having kept it. not at first, because at first its going to sting like hell. which is why ill bury it. but in the middle of the night when i dont have the sun to shine in my eyes and distract me, ill need to look at it and remind myself that the tears are worth it.
i dont want to make you cry.
i know and thats part of the reason why theyll be worth it. you arent stealing them from me, im giving them freely. i wont
my wild and reckless heart.You know what I love? I love my heart—oh, how I love my wild and reckless heart.my wild and reckless heart.2 months ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
Because my heart is not a beautiful one nor a pure one nor one to inspire sonnets. But it is strong. It is scarred. My heart is ever-thirsting; it yearns for beauty and sunrises and shooting star wishes and things that it cannot comprehend. My heart has tremors that rock it like earthquakes; it twists and shakes and tightens in ways that cannot ever be understood. It is not satisfied with the now nor yesterday and, in truth, it does not even grow fat and happy on the promise of tomorrow. It is forever in a state of want.
And I refuse to believe that is not okay. I love the urgent press of my pulse that nips at my heels and forces me to dance faster and wilder; I love the thump-thump-thump of that desire and the hold-me-tighter whisper that rips from between clenched teeth. I love the way my heart has flung me over cliffs and expected me to swim—and I love it still when I washed up on the beach
decay.please (oh, please)—don’t pass this over.decay.2 weeks ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
please, don’t fold it under your pillow or stuff it down the drain or wipe my mouth with the ragged corners as if you could clean the sin from my lips that easily. (if only, if only.) i know it isn’t much; i know the edges are torn, the ink running, the words blotted with blood and spit and tears. i know that you can run your fingers down the creases and find where the paper has been folded and crushed. i know you can close your eyes and find the weaknesses as easily as one might find my own.
i know; trust me, this i know.
but that does not make the plea any less important—it does not make it any less real. (are the cries of the feeble less valuable than the cries of the anguished? does volume drown out sincerity?) these words have been carved in marrow and dragged forth with the last breath of life as it rattled from my lungs. they are disjointed and bent, but the uglies—oh, the uglies—are they not wha
the sun thief.this is the point i'd like to tell you how i really feel about you:the sun thief.4 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
this is the point you sit down and shut up and keep your wandering fingers to yourself. put them in your pocket, in your lap, shove them in your mouth, down your throat, in the fire, under the knife. frankly, it doesn't matter to me -- just keep them to yourself. you have a nasty habit of trying to pickpocket emotions that aren't yours to have and trying them on for size when no one is looking. you have nervous fingers that pluck at loose strings to see if you can unravel the tapestry. you have a terrible way of picking at the chipped paint as if you have the power to erase the beauty spread across the sistine chapel. let me clue you in: you don't.
so be quiet, swallow your tongue, understand the forever trapped between the glow of his words isn't for you to capture. you had your chance when the world was new and the passions were leaking out of his pores and you turned away. you had the moment for the span of a breath
life lessons in death.i didn't know what pain was.life lessons in death.4 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
pain isn't sitting in your room with the music blasting and the world going in slow motion, because your heart's been metaphorically ripped to shreds and society doesn't understand you and your clothes don't fit [in] and your tongue has unraveled and you're too tired to try and pick it up again.
pain isn't watching your friend walk away and your dog lie under the sheets of autumn leaves and throwing your moth-eaten book into the cardboard box next to him, because if you're going to lose one friend then you might as well lose them all and your arms are sore and your chest hurts, but night is coming and somehow you're sure you'll remember how to breathe by then.
pain isn't sitting in the kitchen with your sister sobbing in the corner and the lights being too bright and remembering the way there was a full bottle of vodka on the shelf yesterday morning, and wondering what it's doing broken and empty on the bottom of the kitchen sink when she's screaming so lou
michelangelo's wife named godyou've met karma in the boxing ring,michelangelo's wife named god4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
vincent van gogh is helping me
form my own starry night,
staring the queen of england
soviet dictators all in a line,
gorbachev is just a fun word.
if suicide is an art,
the moths are
lights so beautiful
are killers masked
ballerinas have taught
insects to perform
nothing is not okay anymore,
not that anything ever was,
what ever happened to
two plus three,
and the color blue representing
what ever happened to holding
hands or making
something more than nothing.
is the only math
i do these days.
no more crying now,
this isn't another pity
poem or heart wrenched
fucked over prose piece.
the broken hearted
aren't fucking reading this.
because guess who is.
the people who are broken
beyond repair, so fucked over,
they invented the word fuck,
they etched its definition across
they have a right to,
for inventing the damn thing.
6.43-6.431 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
my love is not
but i fade with
the sun, like you
bones that shake
in the wind and
under the weight
of the world that
we have built
my love is not
but i am
poetry for non-poetsI guess he was wrong when he saidpoetry for non-poets1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
'you are poetry'
because all you were made up of
were line breaks and phrases
that never, ever went together.
The disharmony between your heart and lungs
was something he liked listening to,
just thinking there was a thunderstorm in your chest
but never considering that maybe
you were hungry or drunk or hurting.
No. These were all so beautiful
and worth writing about in the dark.
But I guess the best decision he ever made
was to pull his head away from your shoulders,
take a good long look at your shaking form
and run farther than he ever thought
those bent knees could take him.
gravity carried us the way we once carried the seaI found one of your messagesgravity carried us the way we once carried the sea1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
But it wasn’t in a bottle.
I’m staying up late to
About your big-city dreams
With brick-wall apartments
And after-shave collars,
Social constructs and pink salt.
I bought sunglasses tinted pink
For a point
So people don’t waste time
On people like me—
People with hope.
So why did you?
What’s the point of messenger pigeons
If they get here on time?
Wasn’t that supposed to explain why
We were found beneath the sea?
you were the only ache i had
when i wasn't aching
nothing pleases me more
than to know you found at least,
a bit of me somewhere
crusted in the oceans' sadnesses
but i am still just
of so many.
time spent away
is never time wasted.
our pink salts sweetened
when we fused our temperatures
and it was fiery until the
i am lukewarm now;
the Atlantic disowned me.
i wrote letters in hopes
of finding you doing the same but not out of
no, my dear, never
out of spite.
Condors and Micerockaby, a harvest moon.Condors and Mice2 years ago in Urban & Spoken Word More Like This
craters flicker, brim
with the grief of a man
lying down in a coming phase's shadow,
sickly and shedding his jaundice light
on scarecrow-armed cornfields.
crickets rest in a chest made of hay,
and they shiver,
heart murmurs in through the slits
of his plaid shirt.
nights in his skull,
between his own lugubrious dreams,
their cowardice for condors known.
from condor's beak,
can you mourn
or can you speak?
this is not a lullaby
for the man on the moon
who lounges on crescent phases
strumming at his ukulele,
an implied constellation,
this is not a lullaby
for crickets causing heart attacks,
crows taking flight in the dark
and slipping shadows under shadows,
this is a lullaby
for condors and mice,
this is a lullaby for those
who live to feast,
for those too meek
to think for themselves
so they spend their life
dreaming in someone else's mind.
rockaby, a harvest moon,
tonight the scarecrow
waltzes with a mis
it ends you.It starts from nothing.it ends you.1 year ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
The pull of the heart, the twist of the stomach—what should be nothing but isn’t. Instead, it creeps up your toes and around the back of your calf, pulling up your torso. Your heart contracts and simultaneously swells, taking up all of the space in your chest and then drowning. You can’t breathe or think around it, can’t feel anything but the amplified pounding of your pulse, the way fingers tremble as you press them to your neck.
Alive. You are still alive.
You cannot decide whether or not life is more stressful than death with the way gravity is pushing down on your shoulders and the way the ground shifts and grinds beneath the calloused soles of your feet. Some part of you wishes for the peace of slipping into the ocean—the quiet of being dragged into the undertow.
Instead, you are left naked in the middle of rush hour. Your body is burned and twisted and turned as sleek metal roars by you on every side. You can’t feel anyt
maybe we'll cycle like seasonsSummer never came this year.maybe we'll cycle like seasons3 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
It got hot, uncomfortably so, and you would call me every Thursday like clockwork. Like always. But the taste in the air was different, so were the things you would say to me.
I spent the long nights, curled in my front window, watching the fireflies flicker in the yard. Letting them blaze and die before my eyes until I couldn't pretend to be okay doing this anymore so I would pull the curtains shut and hang up on you. Hang up on the only semblance of normalcy to split up these warm days.
The sky was pinpricked with stars--always brighter in the warm evening air and the lawn was sprinkled with violets again. Everything was as it should have been. Even the sting of sunburned skin against sheets as I crawled into bed each and every evening. The only thing that had changed was this year, you weren't here, and so for me, everyday would be as cold and empty as winter.
I never thought of the last time I saw you as a goodbye. I should have been better prep
the emptiest word in the worldyou're the kind of beautiful that breaks down centuries.the emptiest word in the world4 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
you have the appeal of bloodied smiles and epidemics and time winding down on the cliff edge of your poet's mouth. you're holding together shattered dreams between scarred palms and sobbing with the strain, but refusing to let go. you're picking up birds with broken wings and taping them together, refusing to give up even when they teeter off your flesh to plummet to earth like stone. refusing to stop, refusing to give in, refusingrefusingrefusing--
and you keep repeating: one more time, one more breath, one more and you'll fix them.
you're two shades from a sunrise and four seconds from a meltdown and you're still not afraid to go dancing barefoot in the ash. you're choking on smoke and spitting up wine and pulling truths from between your fractured fingers. you're licked clean and scarred and your lungs are ballooning until the air is too thick and your voice is lost in the aftermath. you're falling through closed windows onto
Cosmic LoveLet the sun be the sun and us be the grass,Cosmic Love1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
while the rain remains the same and
we grow where the stars crashed,
rising through layer after layer of cosmic ash.
Let the flower buds blossom when our hearts bleed from our bosoms.
Seeking truth through the sinews every season,
let us be renewed.
i'm never careful enoughThe roads here wind in ways that I don't expect.i'm never careful enough3 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
Sometimes, I think that dashed yellow line is the only thing that keeps me moving the right way. That keeps me going. Because one wrong move could send me barreling off the highway and the freefall feeling that would come next is not something I'm unfamiliar with. It's the same thing that happens every time I think of you. I can't get over how much this place reminds me of you. I can't get over how little room there is between full-fledged fear and being in love.
Sometimes, I think maybe they're the same thing.
I don't know what keeps bringing me back here. But I find myself coming here more and more when I can't sleep. When I can't stop thinking about you. I drive the same familiar routes. Thinking the same familiar thoughts. Going to the same familiar places. I keep retracing the paths we used to take, thinking that if I follow them back far enough, I'll figure out where we went wrong. The absence of you is familiar. Almost comforting.
second chances don't fit here.i never feel coldersecond chances don't fit here.3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
than when i'm talking to you.
i don't know what this says about us.
but i know that i worry about the way
you complicate something as simple as
the beating of my heart. i don't think
i love you. not yet. not since. not
ever but maybe that's just the strong
sense of denial i've built up in the
past few months. i don't think i'll be
okay. not now. not really. not quite.
maybe you were good for me once
but you're no good for me now.
i often wonder what would happen if i
stopped speaking for awhile since all
my words ever do is make a mess out of
things that should be easy. the thing is
that when i'm happy i let myself write
a better story than what i have. i get
carried away and i make believe myself
to be a more lovable character than i'll
ever be. but this isn't fiction and the
fact is sometimes all we get is one
perfect moment. my moment was you.
but darling, when it's over, it's over.
there are no chances left. not anymore.
i don't really think i'm hopeless even
we set the ship on fire.Youre crazy.we set the ship on fire.5 years ago in Philosophy & Perspectives More Like This
Most likely. Is that a problem?
I dont know yet. It depends what kind of crazy you are.
You havent figured that out yet?
Im still working on it. Want to give me a few hints?
No, not particularly.
Alright, duly noted: bitch-crazy isnt out of the running yet.
Arent you clever? I think bitch-crazy should be leading the pack.
Its fighting gypsy-crazy for the lead.
Yeah. The kind of crazy that keeps your feet moving even when youre sitting down. The crazy that explains why when I look in your eyes I dont see lakes, but wild oceans. The kind that would explain why youre ten miles ahead of everyone else with no intentions of slowing down.
Its because Im running away half the time.
Away from what? Me?
Maybe. From feeding someone my heart