happy happywhat a super duper feelinghappy happy10 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
what a happy fucking day
what a sunny disposition
what a cheery sunshine ray
its all daisies and kittens
its peaches and fucking cream
its sugar sweet and rainbow bright
its like a fucking dream
my brain bubbles hopelessly
my smile speaks for me first
my happiness on overdrive
my heart might fucking burst
i want to run and scream
like a fucking maniac
i want to do a backflip
but i'll break my fucking back
poetry like teaI never want to know you.poetry like tea6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
I want to wonder, want to slide back-down and backwards across your glissandos,
linger over the breaths and pauses,
pour into the warm and dark hollows that you curve into your words,
nestle there like water or skin:
I want to sink into the cracks between consonants, smooth them over,
find the sighs folded into the velvet roundness of an O,
contemplate each brightly fractured e in your name, how it
is wrenched open to the world, wounded, and still
curled tight as a fist over the wound:
I want to drink poetry like tea,
in sips, with sugar,
and then in longer draughts until it washes down my throat like heat
and I forget, for a moment, that winter lasts longer than this
and I am far from home:
I want to find you in dead trees and bathroom stalls,
carved with some memory of permanence into the flat surfaces of my world
accompanied by numbers I will never call
for fear of breaking the intimacy of anonymity:
I want to picture you (a picture of you) wi
I dreamed of a door...I wore the thread that slipped from my daughter's baby blanket around my wrist,I dreamed of a door...4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
white against tan, bumpy yarn, it's been four years
since my mother patiently crocheted the stitches together
while my daughter rolled in my belly,
impatient. I dream and there are doors under my fingers and
I am alone.
I go down to watch the water rippling slowly past, carrying barges
for hundreds of years, my shoulders tan darker, I am absorbing the sun,
eating strawberries, writing a will. I wonder what will become of you.
I pray to old Native American gods, they do not see the world in black and white.
I investigate the trickster gods, in my dream a coyote trots across a field of waving grain.
Why does anyone go home? There are places that we live, places that we've been,
places that have never been exactly what we are looking for.
Skipping rocks out across the water,
bipolar or in love?i ate lemon cake for breakfast today, well actually it wasn't lemon it was vanilla. not that it really matters what flavour the cake was, only the cake itself mattered. it would be like saying you had jam on toast then freaking out over whether it was strawberry or raspberry. its like having a bad trip on acid, but what's a good trip? if its not losing all of your money gambling over a peanut butter sandwich, when you don't even like peanut butter. or losing your virginity in the back of a limo, to 'wonderwall' by oasis. if its not all of that then, no, i've never had a good trip.bipolar or in love?5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
but hey, maybe that's just me.
i'm like a car crash
only slightly sexier
and with a better sense of
there is a humming bird sitting on my window sill
next to my clock which refuses to keep time
but i don't really mind, 'cause who really wants to be on time for anything?
other than your period.
if i were an animal i would like to be a magpie
mainly because i like the reference to pie
Last SeptemberIf I could see you again I'd stick my fingers into your navelLast September6 years ago in Other More Like This
to feel if your core was soft
or if you even had anything there at all
I'd hold your lungs in the center of my hands
to see if they were black purple blue
from all that cancer
I couldn't make you spit out
I want to see you again
To tell you,
"I hate your hair like that"
"I hate that you left me"
"I hate what you've become"
Then I'd take it back
and say something nice
You'd still borrow my perfume,
because from the ends of your hair to the tips of your shoes you smell like tobacco
and you don't want your mom to know that you've been killing yourself
You don't mind that I know
I won't scold you
I feel like you have no power in your life
And it's not my place to say, but,
I feel like you've tangled your talent into spider webs
and thrown them away
I feel like you've bitten off your nose
to spite your face
and I wish it wasn't true but
you deserve it
you deserve everything you get
If I could go back
My Heart Always Returns To MeMy sagging heart alwaysMy Heart Always Returns To Me5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Returns to me; cringing
Like a wounded animal,
Tail between its legs, an
India-ink river of blood
Mapped across the kitchen floor.
I blindly follow these maps
Back to myself.
Like a wounded animal it lies
Whimpering and grotesque
On the tiles, flayed and shaking,
Reeking of iron and fur.
In my arms, my little animal
Slackens, shudders, is still for a while.
In it I can bury my breath, my face
As I wait for it to howl.
Wounded muse - A PoemWounded muse - A Poem3 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
Her skin is like fresh paper,
frail, unwritten, white;
it whispers of a story
I might want to write
I find no flaws, no traces
upon this tempting skin;
the bruises have long faded
the scars lay now within
But as I trail my fingers
across the trembling shapes,
I can feel her haunted
by all her past mistakes
What manner of a story
could I possibly write
upon this wounded landscape
now seeking to take flight?
How could my clumsy affection
erase her hidden ghosts?
Tell me, how could I guide her
to pleasure's sunny coasts?
I'm powerless before them,
those scars she hides inside,
those lingering compulsions
to which she must abide
Her lips part in the silence,
her eyelids flutter still;
her body speaks of longing
and of dreams to fulfill
I gather, thus, my courage
-her eyes are now ablaze-
and I set out to love her,
her phantoms to erase
As I caress her figure,
her kisses as I steal,
I hope I can be good enough
for her, that she may heal.
Her skin is like fresh paper,
frail, unwritten, white
You Poor ThingI am sorry for your skeleton,You Poor Thing4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
the way you carry yourself when you walk into a room
like your arms are tied and your mouth is empty and you've been
kept prisoner for a year, waiting for a bird to arrive
at your window. Your eyes are full and I spread my hands and say this;
sorry, like a man abandoning his lover in a cloud of dust. I am sorry for
your eyes, resentful like a North American river.
Sorry, for everything, for your breasts and womanhood.
You are standing on the edge of eighteen
relunctant and awkward; you do not want
to spread your legs wide and let the world drop its' pants
to fuck you. You are standing on the edge of something
looking afraid and saying no,
I don't want any spaghetti. I'm not hungry.
I'm hurting and horrible the way that a person feels
when they shatter the shell of a snail by
accident. I cannot say sorry
enough for your hands, scrabbling at the surface
of a wooden panel unheard, clawing at one another
like you're putting a deer in the headlights
The irony of poetry and sexShift things around in your head and you're single with skin to skin contact attaching heavy breath.The irony of poetry and sex4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
You're flexing your body, eyes rolling, jaw lifting there is nothing but increasing pressure on your hips.
The guilt is left inside your chest propelling your heart and jolting adredelaine showing up in your heightened
movements and sinking lungs.
Thoughts are only given the power to let you know it's wrong not the right to connect to your heart
when you have pushed it below the surface. The wrong is what makes it so good too. It's the pressure
on your hips that activates the thrust not the pounding of your pulse or the dividing of your mind
between your id and your superego.
You know nothing but what your body wants you to know and that's what feels good. Shadows are
crawling throughout the room hollowing out cheek bones and hips, you end up thinking it's something
fucking beautiful, when it's just fucking. There is nothing poetic about fucking a body when it's only
a body, there is no
Seasons of Violet.We called her Violet, and she was.Seasons of Violet.7 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
We knew her when she was young and pale, during Fall
And when we'd climb old trees, their brittle branches
Like welcoming arms
Would snap in two
And we'd cascade to the earthy ground
Carpeted with golden and red and orange
And as we fell,
Secretly, she'd wish with all the goodness in her heart
That she were a leaf as well
That like a leaf, she could be swept away to some distant place
In arms that would not break
In arms that belonged to people who truly loved her.
We called her Violet, and she was.
And with the changing of the seasons,
Winter had taken away her smile and replaced it with the cold blank
A frown that could only belong to a soul like hers
To a soul that had wished to be a leaf
But had became only the scent of pomegranate and midnight
Perhaps people would embrace her only to get drunk on her scent
But my love was sincere, and it mingled with her berried essence
As I would try to will life and warmth back into her.
A gift sh
the lonely planet's guideIt was three AMthe lonely planet's guide6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
It was three AM
we were talking about
and I was too ashamed
to admit that I couldn't
remember how that felt,
staring stupidly at the
piss-stained bed and then
at the ceiling. There was a moth
the size of my heart and coloured
in like autumn and pain. That's me,
and then threw my shoes at it.
The next day on the metro
somebody had scratched C'EST
A CHIER onto the window
and it was only then that
I felt the papery beating of
winged grief in my
You might think that it's
pretentious to write about
Paris, but that's where I was.
nique ta mère.
lioness.you are my artform.lioness.4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
there are days when my stomach is not tucked in
and these attempts at spanish translation are too feeble
to dredge up verb conjugations
and i am just a fool.
i tried walking off this stupor
but it was like skipping off a cliff
(too easy, and anyway the philosophers
in my mindtunnels were too fat
too heavy to make action practical)
it's a sluggish sort of progress,
this growth into an orange-maned
and daily i stoop to rebuild the walls of my illusions.
(because i want to keep this sunrise radiating
from my smile
and i want to stay happy.)
i try hard not to be a realist.
all the way home.this is a poem at midnightall the way home.4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
a walking away of hands.
it is beautiful
we will never run out
of salt the way we
run out of love
we are children of the sea
oceans inside our
glass bodied vessels
and drifting along rough sands.
i want to touch you
a hundred different ways,
to kiss you like i need it to breathe.
you just tell me about making magic
i can tell you about making love
(and how they are both the same).
i love you more than i love myself
and i wish that actually meant
something. instead i rely on
poorly structured letters
and wrap my head round the wildflowers
in hopes that we can lie
until it is uncertain where
i end and you begin.
make me laugh and you have my soul.
the way your heart beats in my ribs,
around my spine,
you are magic.
EdieEdie5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Her skin of powdered rice paper
the scent of rotting orchids,
a drug-induced Noh dancer with
slow-writhing limbs akimbo-
silver-gilded girl of the moment
at the factory that turned out
Monroe silk screens, and porn
to the drone of a refrigerator,
from asylum to the Big Apple,
the apple of her father's eye
and of his desires, she'd sleep
among the gay lovers, pretty boys
with erotic names of exotic birds,
knowing she was safe for a while
as they quarreled amongst themselves-
who'd bring her chocolate shakes,
and chauffeur their princess
to her doctor's for injections
(she was too much a lady to do it herself)
until her fingertips became match-heads
setting fire to hotel rooms,
flailing from inside a closet
while bellboys stole her furs-
face of a comatose junkie drawing deep
on filter-less cigarettes
(she wasn't afraid). And yet, what deeds
have you, Edith, what deeds?
But wasn't she fabulous! remembering
back when she and Suky spent trips
screaming from an open convertible
of storms and skysee my hair dance wild as wind-strings jerk it about//hear the ocean-wind heave itself against us all- crashing into our eyes and mouth//feel the winter-wind brush our skins in summer//then inhale the heaviness of air and sink through the dirt- because darling, you dont deserve gods beautiful violence.of storms and sky6 years ago in Other More Like This
(it drags the tree by its leaves saying kiss your trunk, kiss it and it does; releasing with a snap. the other trees flitter-flutter violently, crying within the cacophony of rain on concrete. white stars fall where light exists, and only sound where it disappears. the sky -the colour of sunburnt skin- watches it all with hunger. and then a moment we are swallowed. gumtrees, rain, earth; we are all night sky now. but our eyes open and the rain is no more, dew on grass. and the wind is no more, only breath.)
Reservationsyour social vicesReservations7 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
dont convince me
you drink like a sinner
but you fuck like a virgin
you sing like a sinner
but you cry like youre innocent
you pray like a sinner
but you die like an actor
you sell like a sinner
but you hurt like a bitch
you cheat like a sinner
but you bleed like a victim
you dont convince me
UntitledTo hide in sweet subtlenessUntitled4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
and find pure innocence
The heart has been tried,
the poor mind scorched every second it lied
All for one forbidden moment
On your lips
Our Ambiguityone.Our Ambiguity5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
He wears cargos and goes barefoot,
even though it's only March.
He asks his sister to shape his eyebrows
(she's better at it),
and hums to himself
while he smudges on eyeliner.
His nail polish is chipped
but he likes it that way.
After two hours of walking around shirtless,
he pulls his favourite t-shirt over his binder.
"I am here to make you question," and
"Pronouns just get in my way," and
"If you're confused, I
He writes his name in the fog on the bathroom mirror,
then writes a girl's name underneath it.
Then he wipes them both away,
and scrawls his favourite nickname instead.
The Tide's ComingThe bugs whisper of your coming with their legs,The Tide's Coming6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
As the moon hides
Turning my edge of the world black
I cannot see, but through the pinholes of stars.
The trees rustle,
Shivering as you pass
Your heat removed.
I hear nothing
But nature rebelling against you.
But then all goes silent
The sea stalls,
The crickets feel your vibrations
Stopping them dead.
The trees hover in stasis,
Wishing they could uproot
You cant touch.
I welcome your chill
My bones make music enough
To fill the air,
A sea roar, its own.
I am as aware of your presence
As the sea the moon
It cannot move
Without the other.
ObituaryI will write your obituary tonight.Obituary7 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
A simplistic ending
to a complex tragedy.
Three paragraphs filled
with dates, accomplishments and
the final act.
A conclusion fit for a queen
laying beneath the coffin
of a traitor.
Your end has come,
My new beginning