InvocationSpeak through me, Muse, and sing me the tale
Of that girl unskilled in the ways of the world--
The intrepid wanderer,
Seeking truth for years on end,
Oblivious to the dynamics around her
As others talk with their eyes and dance with their words.
Many the nights she's lain awake,
Living the hurts of her friends, powerless to help.
Trying to save the world
When she can't even save herself.
She wrote dark storms of words
And ascertained the deceptive nature of journals.
She lied to others and she lied to herself.
She learned that sharp words leave scars,
Struggling each day to open her eyes
And walk toward the light;
Yet despite her best intentions, sometimes she strayed:
But hands were there to guide her back to the path,
And hearts were there to share her pain.
Growing and changing and coming to see
That she didn't have to understand humanity to be human--
She doesn't have to earn love to be loved,
And angels can hide in the oddest of places.
Of these trials and tribulatio
CathieSalt-and-pepper hair contrasts sharply with the crisp, starched pillow;Cathie1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
bone-thin arms resemble bed rails--
tears in my arms, the morphine drip in your vein.
My inner rage refutes your calm acceptance.
You ask if we are waiting for you to die: no.
We are waiting for a miracle,
we are waiting for you to heal--
We are waiting for something that will not happen.
We are stretching for something that is out of reach.
We are holding onto our obsolete hopes, the small fragments of our lives
so closely, we cannot see the bigger picture
In a paradox, God is calling you clearly,
but we can't seem to hear His voice--
only the silence ringing in our ears
as the monitor stops
your breathing ceases
your face un-creases--
and, for the first time in years,
you run Home.
The Flood Year“No one has drowned and no one is dead.”The Flood Year7 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
We might as well be;
There is a sickness in this house.
The water floated the deep freeze
And forced the fuse box to gargle;
Mold spores will thicken like a verdigris blush,
Walls will obtain a cancer patient’s pallor.
An unsettling lapping, the hum of a pump-
A brain scan hum
The lapping of a bedpan, full;
There is a sickness in this house.
Stairs are lurching
A clock is underwater,
Hands arched and rusted at midnight-
Grab this, save that!
But leave the sickness
In a cupboard
In a drawer;
It will be safe there until we come back
Confessioni crave your touch.Confession1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
[i still do, after all this time.]
i crave your fingers on my mouth,
your mouth whispering in my ear,
your ear pressed to my heart.
i crave the weight of you, reassuringly corporeal.
i drift away without you anchoring me.
you take my heart, when you leave,
and leave in its place an
MasqueradeI don't understand humans.Masquerade10 months ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
Through meticulous observation and careful analysis, I have become proficient in appropriate exhibition of and reaction to socially-accepted behavior, but that's exactly what it is: mimicry. It doesn't come naturally to me. Despite extensive synthesis of the information I have gleaned, my fabricated understanding still has some gaps.
That's why intimacy scares me: I find it incomprehensible. It doesn't follow the preexisting rules set by other social statutes. There doesn't seem to be a pattern of behavior at all upon which I can rely in order to anticipate the outcome of situations in which I may find myself. And if I don't understand something at least to some extent, I cannot present a convincing imitation, and that marks me as an outlier.
I'm tired of being an outlier. I want to be part of something I can't comprehend as a whole, something everyone else seems to understand instinctively.
I want to be <
Fire, Water, Air, EarthI once worshiped a fire god,Fire, Water, Air, Earth5 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
a man who wrapped himself in
flames and brimstone armor.
I burned myself trying to touch his heart.
He loomed above me and
no matter how high I reached
I was only grasping smoke.
I once worshiped a water spirit,
a man so elusive, running his own
course, even when it ran away from me.
His heart ran through my fingers.
He was cool to the touch, as
refreshing as rain, and cleansed me
for the brief time he allowed me
to swim in his pond.
I once worshiped a djinn,
a man of the air, whom I never saw
or touched, only felt in my lungs.
He sustained me, kept my own heart
beating, though I did nothing for him.
When he vanished the air left
my lungs in a rush, and I was
I have found now a mountain,
a man of the earth, unshakeable,
steadfast, a constant figure
on my internal landscape.
His heart is made of loam, a fertile ground,
and I revel in it. Together we grow
a garden in the mountains,
above the world, and we live like angels.
resonanceiresonance1 month ago in Free Verse More Like This
does she know the astrological significance
of the bruises starring along
your wrists? if I could, I’d
run away somewhere where
the sky is silent and the people
hate honest eyes. here’s my problem,
I’ve wasted all my time daydreaming
in the universe of your scars. I wonder
if substantiality is lethal.
[when will you move on
like you know what
you’re doing with your life,
like this tiny existential
failure is only a hazard sign
on the roadmap of your journey,
like the world weighing down
upon your shoulders is an
exercise in vanity and quietude
instead of someone
lists of necessities: methods of
starvation, hours to fall asleep by, sharp
objects, words that mean nothing.
I’m sorry this isn’t better. I’m sorry
I’m not better and I’m sorry
nothing is bright anymore.
things you remind me of:
the november sky
right before it rains.
Autumn was my first love.October, I follow you -Autumn was my first love.6 months ago in Visual & Found Poetry More Like This
from the magic lights of New York
to moonshines in Georgia,
until the colors dissolve.
The anxious poetry of autumn
made a memory of me.
Here’s to things I take for granted:
country road thunderstorms.
Unspoken words, unwritten ideas.
October, I follow you;
I thought I saw you on the shore
where the river runs through gold
on the last boat leaving the city of a hundred spires -
or perhaps Pittsburgh
(it was the lights I guess).
Here’s to the things we leave behind:
sunbeams in November,
letters addressed to no one,
poems, wounds, dead birds.
I’ve got that summertime sadness.
Maybe you’re gonna come back;
we’re changing our ways, taking different roads
and loneliness knows me by name
but October, I follow you;
without you I’m a winter heart,
a love story you don’t want,
a November shade of grey hunting ghosts
in cities that sleep inside our heads.
You told me you lied the night you kiss
Loneliness:a limbless spider entangled inLoneliness:9 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
its own web,
writhing and awaiting to
only to be devoured by the fly.
The Art of Detachmentdehumanized:The Art of Detachment1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
I am a stirring in the breath
of an unswept sky, an itch
in the throat, a tear in
the lining of the sleeve you
keep fingering- like reminiscence
will repair loose strands
(I woke up this morning
in a new carcass, trapped,
by fleshed out flaws and
dismal dreams and the
hush hush thrum ,steady,
[pulsations are riddled with
intent] of my veins)
I am the dents in the floorboard
where boxes of I-can-never-forgets
lay, I am the aching cold of walls
untouched, I am the callouses
of your fingers forgetting
how to work.
(my voice will melt the icecaps,
it will draw all salt from
the ocean and carve a careful
coffin of carnal desires)
I am a cry cut short
in the home of the deaf-
I am skin, I am loose
sinew and sincerities mistakenly
stitched to the bones of a crow
and when the night clears I am
nothing but doll eyelashes and
spider legs, [at the end of the day
the two are indistinguishable]
I am nothing
In Piecesrum-lust lips make gentle friends,In Pieces1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
words slurred in hands blurred,
burning in between the lines to find
drunken concoction of wilted laughs
and heavy sighs, scented sultry
you are that
rasping in my throat when my voice
deteriorates and I am left breathless
and hopeless and raw, my
muscles ache in memory of the
motions to forget-
we do not let go.
and cold beds call, stability,
metal frames and sunken heads –
rest now, rest with
a prayer on your lips you don't
care to share, a dream in
your mind you'll never get back;
rest and the earth will lend you peace
you will stop. the rivers will clean
your bones; the sand will smooth
your tongue; you will stop, brain blank,
as smooth ivory promises persist.
(interpretations mean less than nothing)
you will stop and rest,
Our biggest fanHear me read itOur biggest fan4 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
I pity the sky.
Even when all else turns to dust,
And debris, and dies,
The sky cannot move,
Cannot look away,
Or do anything but weep ever after
And ache to wrap those it loves
In lonesome clouds and carry them away.
I pity the sky.
Her name was AmyHair the colour of rust and bones that fell apartHer name was Amy11 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
We’d eat rocky road ice cream bars
You perched on broken handle bars
And I would press down on the brakes
We were scabs and lacerations
Knobbly knees and smoke filled curls
I remember when you stole your father’s gin
And climbed out of your window
Throwing bed sheets tied like cherry knots
You were the one who taught me how to do that, you know
Brass heart palpitations from running down to the river
After stealing apples
From old wrinkled trees with knotted arthritic branches
Your cheeks were dusted with freckles in the summer
And your eyes changed from green to grey
We made crowns out of feathers and painted mud on our palms
Sticks and stones will break our bones
Fortress of broken glass and found objects
You always loved the tiny bird skull the best
The size of a walnut in your pale palm
I remember the vinyl’s we’d play, and the mix tapes we’d make
I’d always colour in the covers in mismatched co
Deux ex machinaMaybeDeux ex machina5 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
you should start being more
honest with yourself.
You will never be a
a sunspot on the
moon; only fallen
heroes belong there,
and your life wasn't
pitiful enough to
cavort with the stars.
The gods love a
good tragedy, but only when
they're the ones
writing the playbill. It
isn't any fun when the actors
forget their lines and
(better draw the curtains
before the performance morphs
into a comedy)
You say "I'm sorry" but in
reality the only thing
you're apologizing for is
leaving before the show
ended and reading the
wrong horoscope that day.
ColorblindI gave away my name todayColorblind1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
and it might be a metaphor, but I think
we only remember the quietest suicides
the walls are thin enough to listen
as the angels try to scratch free;
bloodied fingernails and God says everyone
screws up, sometimes
I'm waiting for a silent night.
I only ever believed in solid ground
and depressions' tides, and sometimes,
those little wounds I nursed deep
within my vocal chords (because
my voice is dying, too)
I can see the beautiful people, now
overdosing on their own opiums of
self-acquittal and dissolution
they ran out of ways to ask for help.
I'm fragile, but my glass ribs
aren't holding much
and I'm through trying to find something
different, because it's scary to know
what exactly's the same
yesterday I was someone else and
tomorrow I'm further into inevitabilities of
who I promised I'd never be--
I'm waiting for a happy ending,
but if you love something
you let it go.
Am I Worthy?Am I Worthy?Am I Worthy?1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
Maybe I don't deserve all the views and the comments.
Maybe there are better writers out there that deserve acknowledgment.
Maybe I am not worthy of any recognition and attention.
Personally I don't think my work is even worth mentioning.
Maybe my words wont amount to anything substantial.
Maybe I wont make it in terms of a financial,
Atonement but can we just think for one moment
That maybe I write to express my thoughts on a page.
To release all the feelings held hostage in this mortal cage.
Maybe others can relate and reciprocate my words.
And to you this notion may seem insulting and absurd.
But all these favourites and feed back gives me an added purpose.
And for that split second when reading them, I feel like I actually deserve this.
That my whole hearted words are not dispensable and worthless.
That maybe I can actually make something of myself.
Give the people something real to purchase from life's obscure shelf.
Give my parents the life that they so justly
Beautiful LiesYou painted a neon yellow streakBeautiful Lies4 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
across my ankle
and told me I was art.
I raked a venomous red line
across your throat
and replied: and you're a liar.
WillowYour confessional arms are Willow trees,Willow1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
draping lonely limbs around an empty ink-jar heart.
Scars worn down like henna tattoos.
A night witch scrawling her incantations on blue moons,
rolling her letters into sentences like a curse.
But, it is in these coffee eyes you have found a home.
Ode to an Unvisited MuseumShe sits atop the hillOde to an Unvisited Museum2 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
making her mark not across the land,
but across the sky.
We see the silent flight, fiber glass wings cut through the air
White, a reflection of a city with no future,
but a shining past.
The exhibits are darkened because power is expensive
and the buzz of a towplane taking off.
The sailplanes sit sleep in their displays, as though waiting
for the touch of an aviator,
the right pilot,
to bring them to the air once more.
I am alone in this room of giants.
Under the wings of the Albatross,
or the grace of the Minimoa,
or the beauty of the Zanonia,
or the rent wings of the Zögling,
or the thick air of fear in the Waco.
let's hope this ends with a whimperhe fucks her against a walllet's hope this ends with a whimper3 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
the noise from inside filtering through
the cracks in the bricks
you know what's going on
(now, at least, though it's a little too
- thoughts of shirts and bras
being pushed up against hands
that weren't meant to touch her;
- thoughts of mouths and harsh breathing
and wanting to violently do something bad that will make
her never walk again, never touch
or breathe ever fucking again because -
-faces, faces, faces -
that you'd rather not see,
not next to each other,
never pressed against each other
because it leaves you feeling sick and wrong and disgusted and jealous -
(why why why do you do this to yourself)
- and you'd rather not have those thoughts,
never have those thoughts but you are nothing
without them and the mere thought of them not being yours is
you feel like you could kill.
Letters To GodI found a journal filled with letters today.Letters To God1 month ago in Free Verse More Like This
They all started with “Dear God,”
And ended with “Love, Dallas.”
I referred to him as Lord, Savior, and Jesus Christ,
Holy One, Father, and God of Mine.
The innocence of youth laced each and every letter, and I don’t quite remember why I wrote instead of praying
But my mind has always been a bit skewed that way.
As I read the words on the pages,
Written so sloppily and round,
The notes progressively grew more and more irreverent.
Curse words slipped their ways into my sentences the way your tongue slips into my mouth,
Coaxing my spirits to say God’s name for reasons most unholy.
As I grew older, my faith grew thinner, and those “Dear God’s” disappeared beneath
The alcohol and cigarettes on an asshole’s breath.
I gave up my love of God for him and he gave up nothing for me,
And I wrote no longer to God but to myself
I don’t remember why
Maybe it was to make myself feel better,
Aubadethe dissonance between your wordsAubade9 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
string themselves together
to a declaration-
you can't heal
what you've broken;
newborn sunlight drenched in paper-pressed
skin and the flames of dawn
cupped in soft-doe eyes
hands trying to reach the sun
bathed in fragmented skies
and the plea for
a rhapsody in reverse
resting on bones trying to rattle
moon-carved gods loose...
and you've realized that you've tried.
I Love My Daughter, Not My ExGrief does not have an expected life-span,I Love My Daughter, Not My Ex2 weeks ago in Free Verse More Like This
dying like the cancer-ridden antibodies
your uncle couldn't escape;
and 8 years of grief
is not a pointed finger.
I am not swallowing a secret lust
for a man who slapped my face;
the shape of my heart
is no fancy state-
the broken place where she lives
reduced to nothing more--
an empty space.