IMy existence was quietI3 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
on a scale of unfinished to forgotten.
They Only Wound Your PrideWhy do we listen to those that taunt us?They Only Wound Your Pride3 months ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
Why do we believe the liars and thieves?
What would it hurt to close our ears off?
Who would it harm if we turn to leave?
Our pride, it hurts, they’ve struck a bone,
and we wish to make it even.
A wound was made and continues to grow,
and their words keep cutting deeper.
Words only hurt when you give them power,
power over you that’s hard to lose.
But if we can give it we can learn to take it,
and those weapons will once again dull.
Why don’t we listen to those that help us?
Why can’t we hear the words that heal?
Why is it only the scars that matter?
Who would it harm if we learn to breathe?
Time can heal but not erase,
tears won’t always cease to fall,
but remember, dear, the words I speak:
You may not always believe
those that make you feel worth it,
but don’t listen to those
that say you are worthless.
Blink.there's a futureBlink.6 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
I don't want
past I don't
want to let go,
and a present full
of distance intimacy
I hold closest,
because it runs
so deeply with their own.
and in the balance
of all of this
is where my story sits
eggshells in my throatI am cradled,eggshells in my throat10 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
rustling ribcage bursting
in feathered fragments
through still air,
and you ask what's wrong
but each breath is a triumph;
words would be a desperate freefall
I cannot fly--
I'm barely crawling.
I am embraced,
entwined in almost-whispers,
struggling, and I flinch away
from compassion; it would be kinder
just to leave.
I am caged,
my cries for help flutter in
wing-beat echoes from
larynx to lip
only to collide,
beaten and bruised,
with the towering walls
SynesthesiaSynesthesia6 years ago in Surrealism More Like This
God forbid they find out. I never understood how they couldn't hear them talking, their voices buzz like radios in my head, with static between outbursts.
Can't they, can't they?
Can't they hear Wednesday crying? How she aches with the weight of it all?
How Thursday laughs, callous, and Tuesday tries to sooth?
Tuesday's a sweet thing. Like boiled candy on my tongue.
Monday never listens and if he does it's only to lecture. He is black, unsweetened coffee in the sticky, early hours of the morning.
Sunday is so wrapped up in his own troubles to think about others. He never sleeps, so he never stops. He yawns like a baby bird for his mother.
Thursday blinks her orange eyes and tries to get Friday's attention, but all he wants is Tuesday. He's always wanted Tuesday. But he is so unattainable she doesn't even see him, eyes slide over like glass.
Saturday could solve it all, if she wasn't so damn lazy.
This could all be over. Tomorrow. I believe in tomorrow.
I ache on Wednesdays too.
SocietySociety can be many things, like a hydra has many heads.Society1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
Society can be the most extensive family tree.
Society can be the most extravagant party.
Society can be the most fearsome of beasts.
Society can be the most compassionate Samaritan.
Society can be a grotesque monster.
Society can be a truly destructive army.
Society can be a virus.
Society is the ultimate torture device.
An iron maiden, rack and a brazen bull all in one.
Hearing FlavorsEasy as a piece of cake?Hearing Flavors4 years ago in Visual & Found Poetry More Like This
That might be what you think.
But easy, for me, is a slice of pizza.
Say it any way, and it still has that saucy, cheesy taste.
A word becomes food. Simple as that.
And that's the simple that yells out, "Baked beans!"
If you are smart, you're intelligent.
But intelligence bears the salt of olives
While smartness has more of a meatball flavor.
To think is different from having a thought.
Thinking is like hot dogs.
A thought is the texture of phlegm in your throat after coughing.
Now, is beauty truly a pretty thing?
Its flavor is the taste of puke in my mouth.
I can't taste an illusion, but if I ate a dream
It would be juicy and sweet like mandarine oranges.
Needing is the syrup placed on the wanted bread.
Rhyme and reason become rice and raisin.
But it doesn't go the other way.
A bird is a blackberry, but a blackberry can't be a bird.
An apple is the beginning. Shredded mozzarella is when you finish.
The creature of the mirrorHidden in the mirrorThe creature of the mirror10 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
She observes my life
She enters my head
My spirit are bewitched by this delicious woman
Our love story is carnal and limitless
My wife does not understand
This creature is incredibly desirable
her voice is like a mermaid
Sweet and melodious
She possesses me
I plunge slowly into madness
I become crazy
I become a monster