I've made both an art blog, and a blog strictly for my sweet Willow cat. :3
If you're interested, here are the blogs:
My new art blog: sweetichor.tumblr.com/
Willow's Blog: pussi-willow.tumblr.com/ ( Still under construction)
AnotherPassenger and I also started a Betta fish support blog: thegrumpybetta.tumblr.com/
So if you have Betta fish, or are interested in learning more about these beauties, do have a look see!
lower_casei have not read enough poetry
and i am not one to muse
or maybe think
but i do have
i am one student in a freshman course
why so many poets use only
is it artistic
is it sexy
to write as if
you do nothing but whisper
i want to be loud
the survivors of death
to remember me
i will not mutter
like a fetus
perhaps there is
nothing to this
but there is value
in knowing how to yell
and in absolute
all consumingi don't like
writing about wanting
thing i can seem
to write about
and your skin- I
don't want to write
about your skin, don't
want to have
Lullaby"I've been waiting my entire life to tell you that I'm dying and I figured I'd finally get it over with.
So here I am, carving forgive me
into my teeth, so every time that I speak
I can still say that I'm sorry.
More years have passed in the last than I care to remember
but I could never forget:
In eighth grade my chorus teacher always told me,
'Michael, you'll never be good enough.'
and it always excited me. It reminded me of my mother.
On the last day of school she smiled,
her teeth jagged like a train wreck,
she didn't say a word,
but I knew exactly what she meant.
In high school I fell in love with a roadside bomb waiting to be detonated by a passing glance.
Every time she blew up,
she'd pick the pieces of herself off of bathroom floors
mixed with the medicine she never needed. She had
One day she caught me staring, smiled, walked over, and hugged me...
she smelled like a lonely night.
As she pulled away she looked me dead in the eyes and said,
'Don't worry abou
TruthShe has a writers hands,
Quill-pricked fingers and palms
Stained with ink - she leaves
Traces of her soul on everything
Her antebellum eyes betray the
Scars scattered on her ribcage - they
Can't cover all the fingerprints
Time has left there, stark and
Unyielding under moonlight tainted
[She's a used canvas,
But she'll never let that stop
Her from being her own brand
cardio.each octopus has three hearts,
two to pump blood to the gills,
the other to pump
to the rest of the body.
such great efficiency that
if someone were to break their heart,
they'd still have two more tries
to get it right.
lying on our backs on the floor,
i think about us and marine life
and nothing while
I let my hands do the talking,
say the more important things.
and i trace his scars with my
fingers and mind,
red ropes of recovery,
resilience that's faded to pink.
when he tilts his head to the side
and waits for me to speak, i think
this is how i'll find you through the mess
the sea of bodies
someday when everyone's the same
and i only have one heart,
not two or three
and at that moment it pounds,
loves him with everything it has.
This is a poem
for lip gloss
and the pre-teen
who wears it
and the old woman
This is for
sparkle and stick.
For bodies like
For all the boys and girls
who would breath in
when the wick turned black.
Before their hair
turned grey with ash,
and their eyes fogged over
from the naked heat.
Before young love dies
and is buried in a shoebox,
with a little pile of rocks
to mark where it was.
This is for
the scared little boy
who spent all his time
While pretty girls
lay on autumn hills,
and even the crickets play
in major key.
With their noses
face down in the soil.
With their discarded jackets
on the grass, limp-
and making angels.
Autumn AutopsyAs lovers,
we were reckless;
in a field of mines.
We traded kisses
and carefree caresses
and blackened skin.
at the cost
of darker afternoons,
of the dying season;
We didn't ask,
we never questioned
of our expenditures.
I shed my skin
in the Autumn of youth,
the viscera and
bared the bone --
a scarecrow of worms
and raw meat,
amongst the stalks
of reddened corn.
to dusty artifacts,
laden with memories
of decaying potency;
rising from the cooling wick
will never be
as sweet as
when the flame
note 02I wish men
were made out of more
you'll never love me with that kind of head
Clichei. true love
& you were that one famous line
of a love poem 1863 sonnet
scripted down your spine, verses
of sternum & shuddering heartbeat.
i remember the sheets twisted blue
as the eventide, your eyes like thelassia,
that species of ocean grass. we swayed
to the music of galaxies colliding.
our song was the day the tides
finally curled round the moon's face.
eventides, thelassia eyes, moon
great and heavy as that one lucky coin
that refused to land, to grant a wish
or let luck decide for us. there were
star crabs scuttling under your
oragami skin. & i never realized
all the ways that you folded
until the doctor came back &
you folded into yourself,
please don't tell me it was disease.
please don't mention the fact
that there was a constellation
blossoming underneath your skin
as if it excuses the metaphor
of your candle-eyes dimming.
i was there for the treatment.
you weren't, rag-doll girl. you
hung limp as wet clot
eight things about growing up.eight
I told my brother I was going to be a fairy when I grew up. Or a bird, or sprite something with wings so I could touch the clouds.
I learned that fairies weren't real when I was six, after I tried to jump off a parking structure to see if I could fly.
That day I also broke my leg in three places and saw an angel's face in the clouds. (And don't tell anybody, but sometimes I spend all day looking for him.)
My neighbors back in Denver had a son who was a schizophrenic. After he went off his meds for the third time, he painted the windows red and told his wife she had to abort their baby because it wasn't human.
A year later, I heard that he was arrested after pointing a hunting rifle on his family. It was loaded, but he didn't pull the trigger because his mother said she trusted him.
I guess love is kind of like that, too.
Seattle didn't come until I was fifteen, in October.
My family and I took a boat ride on Friday. We listened to the captain
of history and poetry.your kisses
are the radical starlight
of starfish washing ashore.
are starving, aching magic,
kaleidoscopes colliding over my skin.
who speaks in punctuation
instead of words,
who writes history into poetry
in attempt to take back the past.
who speaks in circles
through my silence,
who dwells the poetry of history,
society is warped like a two-by-fouri used to hide behind pages, hide in between the three-punch holes and the
too-straight blue lines on looseleaf
paper because that's where i thought i belonged: among the blankness
of ideas i felt but didn't hear, touched but didn't see oh, they
touched me, they brushed against my eyelashes like
dandelion seeds tumbling through the ether, and the
wind ripped them from their stems and flung them
into the world and then they finally
realized: this is who i am supposed to be, no, this is who i am and nothing
can change that, not even when i find myself pummeled by tsunami
waves that crush houses like we crumple all the wrong words into little balls with our
little fingers, our little fingers that
curl into fists and punch glass windows until the panes have
shattered into a million pieces like the pieces of our hearts and we're left
breathless and bleeding and oh-so-sorry that the
world can't leap out of its orbit and tango with the black hole in
the middle of the milky way b
the dying star of your memoryupon returning home
i unzip my weary skin
and push my hands deep
deep into the startling bloom
of my intestines
where each calamitous minute
minute gems of doubt
piercing my bowels
of course, I remove them
only to fix each damning diamond
into the ceiling above my bed
a constellation of regret
and i am an early-morning cosmonaut
the dying star of your memory
even then(exhausted by shame)even then
(exhausted by shame)
i felt the pull
(the undeniable grasp)
of my other self
following the rain through
narrow prison windows
to fill the ravine of my mind
with the color of your skin
lead my blood to my hands
(lead your name to my lips)
"if i am a criminal
(as all who live are)
remove my reflection
stain my skin grey as time
do all within the reach of justice
(lifeless words carved on stone)
to tear away my tongue
and murder my protestations
on the concrete floor
i still bleed red"
and behind the exhaustion of my eyes
my greener self
(beyond the mysterious, infinite