RunawayRunaway3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Sunlight and shadows
wink and wave
as you loosen your
grip upon her hand,
fingers slipping to tips
to a memory
to an ever increasing
thin sliver of air;
cool air and space
without a kiss goodbye
or backwards glance,
amid the cool golden wood
a place where
low in the sky,
spu t t er
glistening graceful raindrops
beyond the heavy veil.
from crimson and orange reflections,
onto the multicolored carpet below.
nature cries her tears upon
summers lush verdant
of weeks gone by.
away she goes,
lost to the forest
feet balanced upon
Boxes of dead poetryIt will always hurt to think of you.Boxes of dead poetry2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
No more does the rain simply chase each other
on the frosted glass of the car,
parked under streetlights that no longer work,
but they fall through the roof
and keep me under until I can breathe no more.
No more do the scents of wintry lakes
and haunting sounds of bodies pressed against
varnished logs keep my fountain of sanity plugged,
but I try to hold my words under my tongue.
I choke, I regurgitate.
No more do open mic echoes flood my playlists
but the shriek of what you no longer mean to say
keeps me awake, my face hidden in the dusty cotton,
coughing up all I became after you.
I regret. I remain.
And I hang off the veils,
tasting her lips, feeling the flow of her shoulders
to her hips and burying my rare smiles
in the soft wave of her golden hair.
I will never be your forest girl.
You stay, a pillar of disintegrating promises.
Saltwater Burnsmend your brittleSaltwater Burns11 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
poet fingers &
nurse your static head
cherry lips &
blue, blue fingernails
[girls like you are
HistoryIt's easier to generalize a century than it is to generalize a day.History1 year ago in Philosophical More Like This
dear emmalove is a person.dear emma2 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
he is a man with cocoa skin, writes with weak hands and a strong mind, tuned ears and speaks in a placid voice. it sounds of ivory, smells of coffee, and is music in a silent world with unmade beds and the typing of keys, the quiet hum of black and white re-runs speaking to the crook of his back.
he is a boy with fine, chapped lips and a thin cigarette between the thin cracks of his teeth, a being seen in dimmed lights and close things under stars, the ripple of cars passing by, the tapping of cooling engines. lit, green eyes under night sky hair with a starry shine.
she is a girl with fireflies to dawn skin, a burned nose and pale scared knuckles. she is speaking under the monotones, cities of skinny, magazines she curls in balls at the foot of her bed when she sleeps, with rose cheeks and the hiding of doe, scar eyes.
she is a girl with vertebrae fingertips, cracked red fingernails of resin; one with bracelet wrists and rings on her lips. the type that has a naked f
give it up.- how to guarantee a panic attack in the next 24 hrs -give it up.9 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
admit out loud how you think you're doing okay, you haven't had a panic attack in at
least three days, and it feels really nice to be calm and in control for once.
- how to sob violently in the cab -
drive through that one street, because yes its shorter, and yes you can
just not look out the window. but come on, did you really think that would work?
- how to sob violently at home -
kid yourself into thinking that you can handle that song/albun/movie/book.
you cant; and you shouldnt. besides, didnt you already tell yourself to toss that out?
morningssunday.mornings3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
the croissant crumbles in my fingers
buttery flakes drift towards mismatched
and your lips are stained with
sleep clings to your eyes
like a shadow
and i watch you breathe, while
i trace your collarbone with
we wake before the alarm
and count how many times the
neighbor's dog barks
before she finally lets him in.
your soft laugh blends perfectly into
the early morning sun.
your fingers trace the curve
of my spine
the old window rattles
in the wind
and i press my cold toes against your leg.
i mumble how the faded, flowery wallpaper
looks pretty in the sun.
you tell me i look prettier.
i tickle your cheek with my eyelashes
and make my fingers do
off your nose
and wonder out loud why
the room smells like oranges
[you tell me you ate some
for a midnight snack.]
now here's to you, tomorrowDear you,now here's to you, tomorrow8 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
this is just to say that you are beautiful;
that the earth you stand upon is as old as time
and you are not, for you are simply a moment
a star shining sand speckled pillar of brilliance
for which we make up stories to tell our children.
I, too, began the journey of scholarhood ripe with
perhaps too many
good intentions, a loaded spark rather than a
breathing ember, looking up & out for the scorching
radiance that lay just below the skin;
This is not to say that yours will bear any likeness to
mine or that you are governed by any relevant principles,
only that we share more than you might think
—the present is a gift to us from the invariable past,
from us to the inevitable future,
to be held without expectation except to live vicariously
through the blissful momentum of experienc
on clarity, seeing yourself as you arewe're all hypocrites here.on clarity, seeing yourself as you are1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
and we're all artists.
we paint ourselves
onto someone else like
it isn't painful for them,
like it isn't killing them
in the process. we give them
ownership of our failures,
we lay our flaws under their
tongues so when they speak,
more often than not, we hear
some distorted version of
ourselves. we expect them
to love the way we love. we expect
them to fight the way we fight. but yeah, we're
all fucking artists, right?
and we're all individuals, of course.
we're all on our brave, one-man
trip to enlightenment,
we're proud of the way
our word has been shaved
down to feelings, and moments,
mood swings, and oxy
off the bathroom sink.
well i can't be the only fucking
one who's tired of being an artist.
i can't be the only one tired
of seeing my skin stretched out over
everyone i know. i am tired of watching
my reflection shimmer and fade in their
smiles, in their wrath. i am tired of becoming
silver in one moment only to tarnish in the
next. i am tired of asking
my artistreach into the night skymy artist1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
and smudge the moon and stars
with the pad of your thumb
like you would charcoal,
like i want to do
to your lips.
make the sky blue-black
for us, love.
if death is a sentenceif death is a sentence,if death is a sentence2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
let mine be
worth reading slowly
in the early morning
and bring to your heart,
the ebb and swell
of the sea
adamantine Atlassometimesadamantine Atlas11 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
I think I used to be an architect,
in a past life or a
I know it
the way you know things in dreams.
I have this urge
to make things exactly perfect,
straight and angled and curved,
every line clean and direct
as a functionalist fantasy.
but my armature's tired of
holding the weight
of the world on its
my cast-iron limbs
no structure can perfectly embody
form does not always
all the concrete in the world
wouldn't match up
to the pillars
I've placed myself on.
AlgebraI used to think love was likeAlgebra2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
a negative parabola:
gather passion and peak,
wane in the months following.
Today, I read some faded notes
and I think love's more like
an odd-degree polynomial with
a positive lead coefficient:
enjoy the ride because it's worth it.
innocent[dear december]innocent3 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
my neighbor lights cigarettes, stands on her porch and smokes them as the dawn spreads, pearly grey and simple, over us. the embers are a small sun, burning in the stratosphere of her interwoven fingers, and i wonder if she likes the bitter taste, the sensation of smoke staining her lungs black.
you carry the scent of it down the road to me, wrapped around your fingers like ribbons. it reminds me of my great-grandfather, a man who smoked cloves every sunday after church. the last memory i have of him is the chirstmas service, his head haloed by the weak winter sun, smoke trailing from his lips.
his skin was beautiful and delicate, fanning his eyes, showing the dusky threads of his veins. he touched my temple with slightly trembling fingers and whispered an irish blessing.
i don't believe in god anymore, but i remember the way his faith felt. i remember the way his words curled in the air on the plume of his breath, physical proof that he loved me.
citronellamy citronella soulcitronella11 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
corroded and eroded,
cracked and bent.
you've seen my soul
dripped in the grass
to speak so low.
it leaks and slithers
do not pass go
(i told you so.
i told you so.)
don't pick the locks,
my dear, just know---
ripped up with glass
a sick so high.
(you saw my soul
wickering, shy: )
do not pass by,
do not pass go
tomorrowbreathing.tomorrow3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
binding ropes, pointed sheets
and careful skies- i have all the oceans,
new days, richest nights and brightest
when i have the feeling
of the roughest rocks
under the soles of my feet-
the wood and splinters in my toes,
the cold metal to my arms,
the most frozen of fingers
pressed to my back.
arms are poison when they're numb;
ever is different when you can feel.
leaning, i have the air against my skin,
the deepest of skies breathing down my neck,
the poison of cradling eyes.
maybe being human is knowing how to feel alive;
maybe being human is knowing when to be alive.
black and white, knight eyes, shivers
seeking home in my skin-
breathing, i have everything-
even with the trains crashing
in my chest, black seeking
the corners of my eyes
and a slow, dancing conscious,
like magic, we don't only have tomorrow -
we seek tomorrow.
touchi.touch2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
lately, everything is empty; i’ve forgotten how it feels
to be touched. so ephemeral—it’s sad how something
so beautiful vanishes. and i wonder why i worship
Dionysus: wine and ecstasy turn to ash in my mouth.
the world is unraveling like a spool of thread. i write
in clichés, hoping you’ll understand this place, its
white walls and intermittent silence. i took my medicine,
but this disease: i lock me up, straightjacket my fingers.
all i want is something intangible.
trying to hold myself steady—somewhere in-between
past and present selves, my knees fold. vodka-breath:
pour me out, one sip at a time. a bit of soul—so worn thin,
loose threads. i pluck at myself like a child, ‘s/he loves me,
s/he loves me not’.
overflowing with guilt, laughter: the stink of medication.
SerenissimaSlumbering sunsSerenissima1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
take a midmorning nap;
alleyways bright with
their smiles canal-deep.
Nightfall brings guides:
stone sighs and dead light,
(never so alive).
Of BlissKissing daffodils sway,Of Bliss2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
serenaded by the waver of
faces blushing bright
as the sunlight
inspiration suckles in cancer and labworkhave you been writing lately?inspiration suckles in cancer and labwork10 months ago in Urban & Spoken Word More Like This
have you written about the effervescence
spitting up at the surface when you
reach a cadence and still run out of
places to keep your shrouded letters,
all inked and stamped - ready
to arrive everywhere with no return
have you written about a death in the family
and how it plucked each of your villi
till it knotted into a lit-metaphoric
metastasized at your throat, so
apparent it made you choke
on each correct pronunciation
till you lied your diction ways
into another midnight?
have you written about bleeding out
and stitching your wounds
only to see if you could do the same
for another aching Faiz? tell me, have you written
without sweating over what-word-to-use,
have you written about the salts
precipitated to insolubility and sprinkled
into the headache you've been feeding
with your restlessn
a series of letters to destructive thingsto the Rev. Fred Phelps:a series of letters to destructive things4 months ago in Urban & Spoken Word More Like This
it's been a long time coming— I guess you
could say that even the reaper had to take his
time with you
know that you did not die a martyr, just a dirty
old bastard with a toxic heart, organic matter
decaying in the forgotten soil of yesterday
dance, you do, to the beautiful anarchy of destruction,
the most unforgiving of temptations
I know you've burned down cities, souls & all, in
I know you've burned up people, life & all, for much
to the imperialists of history:
you raped the virgin world, stole the birthright
from the bosom of mankind
manifest destiny is a plague to brotherhood
colonization is a serpent with venom enough to kill
a thousand years of progress
you are the reason there was ever a distinction
between us & them
to George W. Bush:
perhaps it may be late to harp on the points of
your destruction, but that is certainly not to deny your
rightful place in this series
please write back if you'd like
defluviumlying near my head, among my braideddefluvium11 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
strands is a dream,
a madescent series of contracts
but if i turn to them,
i become attached, my limbs tied together
until it consumes me
so that all i breathe are what ifs
and shouldn't haves.
i figured your vafrous murmurs
would stay along my spine,
tangle itself in my cotton shirts
and crawl back to the places
i let you touch me last.
if you could learn something from
your thoughts between sleep,
i've learned that you are just as much the disease
as you are the remedy.
AsphodelA beckoning:Asphodel1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
watercolour sky shrinking,
too late, teeth fall; pearls
from a broken string.
Blink and the moon ignites—
but the sheets are still