pandemoniumdo you know that feelingpandemonium6 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
the one where everything just sort of
stops and you're left
alone in front of the mirror and it's not
the same person you woke up to
but instead they're just this delicate
porcelain statue will shatter with
one touch into more pieces than there are
stars in the sky and the scorpions scuttling
up your throat keep stinging and burning with a
fire that you can't swallow back down into the
storm that's churning at the very bottom of your
stomach and the wolf in your chest is howling
and threatening to gnaw its way through your bones before
it suffocates beneath the desert stretched across
every inch of your skin and your fingertips
twitch over and over again at the thought of a mere whisper
passing between your lips for fear of the
demons that they may invoke because in all honesty
being human is a cruel and
complicated thing and sometimes
it would be better just to close your eyes and
pray to forgotten gods that maybe
someday the wings lurking under your
Untitledwe are in Rome telling the dirt how it murdered its brother.Untitled2 years ago in Stories & Vignettes More Like This
we are shouting at every historical monument from the books with affection and insult and nobody cares about yesterday.
"he wants to kill himself but he just writes a lot of stories with sad endings. don't talk to him."
i believe in love now. i don't know if i've grown up at all or learned from my mistakes or just lost and lost and lost. i'll write something. i'll write you stories. i'll mean it. i'll run away and never come back. some things never change.
"well the boy was found to have consumed the full body of a small mouse, a penny, broken glass, dirt, whisky... then hanged himself."
i am an abandoned house, i am here, i am still here.
The Way That You Love MeIf only I could learn how to love youThe Way That You Love Me6 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
I'd love you the way that you need me to
I'd do everything I could to make you happy
But I don't love you the way that you love me
I can't bring myself to just up and walk away
I don't want to hurt you, but I don't want to stay
I don't want to be the one who makes you cry
So I keep holding off on telling you goodbye
The longer I wait, the harder it's going to be
But I can't find the strength to set you free
How am I supposed to just break your heart
And leave you there as you're falling apart
It's not the way that this was supposed to end
But I can't make myself fall in love again
I wish that somehow it were just as easy
To love you the way that you love me
we interrupt this program to denounce innocence"i'm tellin' ya sweetheart,we interrupt this program to denounce innocence3 years ago in Comedy More Like This
that don't know the difference
between suicide and love
are a fucking riot"
"either way its erotic
-- or grotesque"
"what do you mean
i'm speaking in
i hear that's the first sign
railway songim picking at the scabs on my knucklesrailway song3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
and they itch and bleed
and all i want is to get off this damn train.
at the station
i ask a honey eyed junky with decayed teeth for directions and
all i want is to curl up on the train tracks like a cat and sleep
because he's charming
and i'm confused
and theres an abyss at our feet.
we're both going the same way
and i'm younger than i think i am
he's sadder than he seems
and when we part im left wondering if
i should have went home with him.
The Things I Don't Write AboutOn the last day of class, she had us copy a poem into our journals.The Things I Don't Write About2 years ago in Emotional More Like This
The wind, one brilliant day, called
to my soul with an odor of jasmine.
'In return for the odor of my jasmine,
I'd like all the odor of your roses.'
'I have no roses; all the flowers
in my garden are dead.'
'Well then, I'll take the withered petals
and the yellow leaves and the waters of the fountain.'
the wind left. And I wept. And I said to myself:
'What have you done with the garden that was entrusted to you?'
And to each of us she wrote a message. To me, she wrote that I should not be afraid to visit the dark parts of my mind, for that is where I would find my best writing.
I unravel these things and weave them into other stories. Other voices. I use them, in bits and pieces, like an archeologist uncovering the broken shards of a pot and never finding the whole. I write the stories that belong to other people, but never my own.
I don't write about how it hurts. How the