11-6-12What a painful thing11-6-121 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
To love someone, and only
Want to comfort them
As you ask repeatedly,
Over and over,
To feel the blade again.
To see your blood on their hands,
And apologize for the mess you've made.
11-3-2012It was the shattering of glass,11-3-20121 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
And the stain of wine on her hands
That beckoned our leaving.
Open wounds laid out on the carpet.
Pitch dark, blue-black love
As a stigmata on our palms.
Fermentation and condensation
Served a dripping eulogy to our
Conversations as the bottle wept.
What a pity to see it
Left out to become vinegar,
And leave a bitter taste on our tongues.
We blame our mothers, and savor
The memories of their wrongs.
Woe unto us, double-crossing
Ourselves, and seeing the blood
Dripping from her talons.
We abandon, as we have been abandoned.
Our mouths too thick for excuses.
stepsI stepped to the edge thensteps2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Taking in the water below
and slowly, I stepped away
and fell in love with the end.
The Art of Moving OnThe trees spread color like psychic airwaves, crisping and tinting and fresh-edging the world for your eyes.The Art of Moving On2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Making the world loud and beautiful in front of your face.
When the green arrives it makes the words "20 days hath September, April May and November" trip off of my mother's tongue and spin around her head.
People brag about their achievements, their next destination now.
Flowers are pressed to parents' chests for ballet recitals, to children's chests because they were plucked.
And when the rain departs from its late arrival, dragging grey-haired dandelions in its wake,
When the sun comes out and spreads itself in crumpled splotches, bronzing with the dawn,
I'm right here.
Locked behind words, obligations, a screen, an assignment.
All the while June--with her dirty fingernails and her grass-stained knees--beckons us forth, calls us on to slide down the last slope of time until we can call ourselves free.
Spring will count for you the time it takes in cricket chirps, in falling p
Dream on LovelySometimes when I dream, I dream in words. I don't see the faces, or details of the grass, in fact, I don't even know if there's even any grass at all.Dream on Lovely2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
I dream in story books, and flipping pages, and in languages I don't even understand when I'm awake, but when I'm asleep they make perfect sense.
I dream in romance and battles, and sometimes I get both at the same time. Romance on the battle field, can you imagine?
Sometimes I dream in grey scale, as though the story has been in the dark for years and years, and was never enjoyed and lightened by the suns rays.
Sometimes I will dream in faces. I'll see a friend I know, a face I don't know but I love, and faces that I don't remember, though I know I've seen.
It's almost a wonder I wake up at all.
Couch BeachIf I released you then you'd seeCouch Beach3 years ago in Emotional More Like This
Who it is that you could be
That you're worth more than what I've lead you to believe
That on your own side, the grass is a vibrant green
What was it you thought
Would untie this doubled knot?
It's only fair that you receive,
All the pain that you have brought.
I've watched you cough it up,
Those make-believe shapes of trust
The ones I fed you in your sleep
And turned your gold into rust
I know that you are secretively intelligent. I know you can work, I've seen you do it. You do understand that at the rate we've been going I could not fathom losing you, because you are in my heart. We might be out and about, all over the place, but I know that later you will be the one I'm going home with. (As if there is an option. As if we have some sort of control over fate.) I care about you but I also have certain gaurds about you, and those gaurds can determine quite a bit. That girl you mentioned,
Working HandsHis hands, so callusWorking Hands3 years ago in Haiku & Eastern More Like This
Weathered by the trials of life
Plenty of time... to doubtThere are plenty of times to doubt.Plenty of time... to doubt3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Life is full of choices, and
And, what is life
there is nothing
Why do I drink
in search of peace?
is not simple.
Why do I chase
is not simple.
heard it put,
is but distraction for
to be abandon yet,
let all abandon
so simply be
in order not
by that ordained,
what could be
-struggling through mundane,
For a Moment ThereI amFor a Moment There3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
a fear of love,
fear of rejection.
a flawed face,
scratched at by tortured nails.
a water stained mirror,
that sad souls wish to break.
stretched white skin,
that tired fingers pull at in dismay.
Once full of life but abandoned,
greedy hands cracked open my fragile shell.
My heart a hollow space forcefully licked clean.
a fetal form, knees to chin,
wrapped in a patched up blanket
of bitterness and insecurities.
When will I be reborn?
Hello Mother, Hello FatherHello, Father.Hello Mother, Hello Father3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Are you happy to see me?
I've been fine.
My wardrobe stays the same, just this orange suit with my bracelets and chains.
My room's not any different, either.
It's empty. There's only a metal bed, sink, and toilet.
How was your day?
I guess they all seem the same from where you are.
Seeing the same sights everyday.
Mother? There you are, Mother.
Right next to Father, just like I saw you last.
You seem upset. Why?
Are the men behind me bothering you?
Do you not like your neighbors?
What is wrong, Mother?
You say that you cannot forgive me?
You say that you shouldn't have to be here?
You say that you would have treated me better?
Both of you tell the same lies.
I felt on that day more furious than ever.
And I remembered where Father's gun was.
I was just wanting to see how you would like it,
Being hurt and abused all the time.
I think I won.
If only we would have had more time to play, Mother and Father.
I miss you.
My friends back there aren't as fun.
PercentilesWe're the different ones; the artists, the poets,Percentiles3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
the musicians sitting in a far off world at the back of all your classes, those that don't
say much unless amongst friends, who
slowly sink into their skin as the years
go by and who find themselves by the maps
on the backs of their arms, not the front
We're those kids who get far too passionate
about history, discussing philosophy as though
it were the changing weather and ridden
with unsatisfied answers about the way
this place works, not merely content with
the spoon-fed ideals so easily consumed.
We're that one-third of young people
actually caring about who's ruining
the country, who let themselves be heard
if it's worth cutting through the noise
and the understanding that sometimes
one song can mean more than an entire string
So here's to the thirty-three percent of us
who would rather live for something
meaningful, as opposed to the latest trend,
the ones that don't mind a shade of obscurity