Creativity's CreatureCrack open the spines,
Let the lifeblood of literature
Run warm on your hands,
Stain your eyes with its inky
Spilling soul, tumbling words
Over words into worlds.
Use your finger as a crowbar
To prise paragraphs from pages.
Be aware of rustling parchment, whispering words:
The sound and the light conspire
To damn you to sleep.
Escape: paper rushing by like a train's view
Drain the last dregs, as grounds
From a well-brewed mug of coffee;
The sweet settling leaves you achingly alone,
Wishing once more for the feel of creativity's creature
At your fingertips, tainted with its inky blood,
Its bloated, papery flesh indulged by imagination.
papertaleshow many nights have you devoured by halflight,papertales3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
a trickling of words
supped like good linguini
snaking up below your blankets and ringing in your belly,
your head is in a book,
a book is in your head
flickering inside you,
stories and fable-yarns,
sage sorrel vase-lipped faces
cast in the ivory
and i can see it in your eyes,
inhaling after that long time somewhere else,
it's been raining for days
and only now do you notice
how everything is tasting
of silt and crustaceans
WordsmithsHow long did you thinkWordsmiths3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
we could pound our vocabulary with hammers
before it fell flat?
wrists that roarmama sayswrists that roar3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
pull down your sleeves
they'll see, they'll see
but no-one's even looking
i say mama
tigers are proud and strong
and tigers show their stripes
so today i'm a tiger
and who says
i can't be a tiger
when razors made me fierce
and secrets kept me lonely
i can't tiger-roar
when everything unsaid
ripped my throat raw
i made my stripes
with tiger-claws and tiger-teeth
so damned if i'm not a tiger
and damned if i won't roar
mama, i'm a tiger
mama, hear me roar
dust-centred bones she can'tdust-centred bones3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
say she holds
the world on her
drags her down
like nothing else:
until she thinks
intersectionMy father's hair is gray now.intersection3 years ago in Emotional More Like This
I'm not sure if it was the elevator
or that realization that caused
the lurch in my belly.
There's a little plastic container
on the bathroom counter, housing
blue, yellow, beige pills, designed
to slow the body's inevitable breakdown.
There are lines around my father's eyes now -
I feel his loneliness echoed in my chest,
in the mirror as I prepare for bed.
A blurry, half-remembered moment,
smudged with time, of sitting on his strong
shoulders, laughing in the sun,
so sure that he would always be able
to hold me up to touch the sky.
We live this half-baked life now,
circling each other, moments intersecting,
brief, our real lives hours away, with our
other families, and his silver hair,
little pills, sad eyes make me terrified
that we missed our chance, started
too late, and I will never be
daddy's little girl again.
leavingleaving is a can that youleaving3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
kick around in the street
because it's been a long day
& it makes you feel better.
some days you kick it
harder, longer than others,
& some days there just
aren't enough cans or streets.
but the thing about leaving
is that when the
street lights come on,
you always end up going home.
the widowshe sits in a bathtub,the widow3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
drenched in the warmth of late afternoon,
and wonders about love.
it is cliche.
it is also important.
her fingers slide along her
chest, counting the hidden scars.
seventeen that she can feel,
more that she can't.
but that isn't important,
not right now,
because she's thinking about love.
it isn't passion she remembers,
not fingernail scratches or gasps
or quiet suggestions that maybe
the slipper-socks should come off.
she doesn't think about the secret smiles,
or the smell of cinnamon,
or even the voice saying i love you, you know
[because she did know].
she thinks about silence
about those moments in between breaths,
in between heartbeats,
in between words.
she thinks about how tangible
it was, how soft and warm and light
and then she thinks about the
silence that's with her now,
the silence that's seeping through
splashing in her lungs,
hovering in her head.
she looks at the razor she's been holding for an hour.
she looks at the paper-thin sk
Call Girlshe stayedCall Girl3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
for a moment
with an arm
draped over by the shadow of a curtain
a dress folded in a half
in the crook of an elbow
one of her cheek twitches
you touch her empty mouth
tangled up beneath the covers
her lipstick gets under your skin
a nerve irritated by the shape of a lace
half an hour tops not longer
you kiss her onto the lips eventually
jamming a tongue up the tonsils
in the end a whore is just a whore
a poem about driving in pennsylvaniaI'm driving west and at the state line all I can seea poem about driving in pennsylvania3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
are canvases of steaming light waiting to be painted
in the brushstroke forest that lies like a crescendo
across the reservoir where the grass washes over our ankles
and my eyes will never open so wide again.
June 12th had all the markings of a fine poem:
thick music scattering lights to the night city
reflecting in the same warm cadence of breezes
and your head resting on my bony shoulder.
You asked me with such sweetness if you could read my poems,
but please don't leave me with my love, with the cats
spilling out of your arms into the contaminated water
of taking in the divine ecstasy of just existing.
I want you to be so happy that when I swear to protect
your solitude, you will promise to escape for me,
to tear off the anxious rivulets that keep us netted
in the seasons as they appear in the Hudson Valley:
three sadistic ellipses promising comfort with the turn
of the next gentle equinox and rattled atmosphere
and my eyes are di
Remnant of a RequiemI. I don’t want to dream anymore.Remnant of a Requiem2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
II. There’s the distortion of stardust and twilight spreading inside downtrodden lungs.
Somehow, the sky had learned my secrets, and it has forced me to bury its body in my system like a funeral despite the fact that these hands have scratched its constellations back when they were bare remnants of dust and gods and ice.
But all these brittle bird bones could do was nothing but fracture an expanse of glass and grind the fragments through broken teeth
[and I couldn’t weep openly.]
Who knew I could drown in my own ocean?
IV. Maybe I’m still sober, or maybe I’ve learned how to remember too much it hurts. The door ways through my chest have refused to open for me, and I realized how much I could starve from trying to forget.
All I could ever wish for was rain.
(the pitter-patter of petrichor,
a rhapsody billowing with every note,
the taste of autumn in my mouth...)
V. And it started to unfold like th
Pocket UniverseI can smell the typewriters beneath your skinPocket Universe2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
metallic, halting, smudged vibrato
wavering note stretched out far beyond
the edge of the universe tucked in your front pocket
breathing out in time with your heartbeats.
All along the wall I find notebook pages
old teabags hung for too long, green flakes whirling
while you sit in the lean of the willow tree
and watch the play that is my life
chew the scenery; the stage collapses with a groan.
You pull your scarf in
and wrap the scars in burnt umber
while the show goes on
The CottageThe cottage had hid amongst the trees for almost a hundred years. There was a small lane that led to it from the busier main road half a kilometre away. It was a dusty, decrepit white, and the trimmings were painted a peeling turquoise. It did not look like anything much. Inside, however, were a thousand worlds, a billion flashing lives all interconnected. The family who lived here owned it all.The Cottage3 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
The father, now, he was a man of considerable repute. He had been raised in a strict military household, and expected the same respect from his children that he had shown towards his father. If he said this household was a reading household, then, by God, it was a reading household! Profanities aside, he did not believe he had ever had to have an argument on the matter. It did not quite matter what they read, as long as there were minimal pictures, and they relied on their minds to entertain themselves. He preferred the histories and annals of wars and kings and armies, or the biographies and e
SWS 28 - Modern ReadingBookshelf full - bought e-Reader.SWS 28 - Modern Reading4 years ago in Emotional More Like This
bad timing.you sat next to me on a crowded bus. you told me you were in love with a girl three thousand miles away but she didn't love you back. you told me she could of but you had bad timing and told her you loved her too late. you were a stranger then and you are still a stranger now. i told you one time i was in love and now because of it i cant listen to certain songs and i cry myself to sleep some nights. you told me that i should find a new person to love because it eases the pain.bad timing.4 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
you asked for a phone number to call me at. then you asked me to be your friend. i told you i wasn't good at that. you told me you would call me despite the fact.
you called me three days later at six oh three in the morning. my alarm clock had just gone off and i answered the phone to a voice i hardly recognized from our ten minute conversation. you said 'hi, my name is andrew and we met on a bus.' i told you that my name was stella and asked you why you were calling so early. 'i thought of something funny, a j
strangeryou came clinging to the grace of a summer storm'sstranger4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
underbreath, came cold hands and tired eyes
and a bruised lip i'd longed to kiss
when you stumbled on night listing
too far to the left
cross my thistledown garden by old dusks
that wilt between, i'll keep my door open:
your lady in sepia doesn't live here, only
the ghosts and i -- and Grandmother,
in the far-between wanders when she can
but i've a place where you can
lay your wayworn bones to dry, and
if morning should come calling, i'll not
tell her where you sleep. and stayed awhile.
Bone Marrow and bone Structurei.Bone Marrow and bone Structure4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
I carved your name into my ribcage
The doctors had taken away my pens
I made due with knives and scalpels
Precision and care; I had none
I clumsily wrote you in my structure
And I cracked the bone by accident
I found you in my bone marrow
Begging for escape
But I couldn't get you out
Use, use, use, use;
that's all I asked you to do
instead you just took, took, took
I'm left; bone marrow hallowed out
I walk like I'm full of helium
Tethered to the ground; fearful I might escape
Then I wrote your name
in the crooks of my elbows
and you erased it
My circulatory system fails me
and I hate, hate, hate that
I've been emptied out
I'm still and cold,
I bare my teeth and grin;
I cannot handle the loss
I try to be calm
but I'm loose around the edges
and I boil instead of melt
You crawled back in my bones
I tried to scratch out your name
and write mine instead
I felt the cold damp air's sting
as I walked out
and resurfaced in reality
You smiled back at me maliciously;
your knife dr
bits of bonelet it be known:bits of bone4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
i loved you most when you were messy,
unkempt--your fingers like a spotted
cow's hide with ink and peppered with
paper cuts; a faded old t-shirt and your
hair on end, holey jeans loose on your
hips. your flaws were your beauty, when
i pressed my cheek to your chest, i took
in the sweet, spicy scent of you and knew
if you smelled like clean and simple soap,
it wouldn't be the same.
you were wild with wanderlust, it hung in
the air around you like a mist of rain and
it soaked you through, ate you up, it
seeped beneath your skin to take root in
i was as captivated by you as you were
by the ocean, by the wide open fields
with their ribbons of road. you reminded
me of a hawk who had chosen to roost
on my porch; i held you and the river of
your pulse was in my ear, a flood that
pooled in your cheeks when our eyes met
across the breakfast table--but i knew it
was only a passing desire, i knew i was
not what you needed. when i was a child,
i dug in my backyard with
SpringtimeIt is winter on my breastbone,Springtime6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Across my nose,
Down my arms,
Snowbanks of pale skin
At my shoulders, elbows, knees.
But a sudden spring emerges on my hipbone,
A rioting vibrant mass
Brought on not by the warming of the weather,
Or a gentle rain,
But by a forceful collision with a table.
This bloom will wither soon,
Just like the real daffodils and irises.
The colors will fade,
And my skin will return to the tundra.
An old kind of loveOne hundred years from nowAn old kind of love3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
The paint we picked out
Will be seven shades different,
Or old bricks made wise
By some graffiti prophet.
The note you hid in my mittens
All I dream about anymore
Is the ocean
(But mostly just you)
Will be drifting through dream-catchers and
Those sapling hopes with
Roots tangled like our fingers and
Branches trembling with the vastness of our memories
Will be driftwood adventures
Nodding off with the tides
But I know in this heart of mine
That the smooth-bark-rain-soaked Beech Tree
You planted for me (there's a swing on it now)
Will still be there
And it will remember what color that
Old paint we picked out
Used to be
Va'eiraThis was a lesson in just how quiet it can beVa'eira3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
when you don't make enough noise.
Me, holding a toy gun to a stranger's head
"Remember when things stopped being ridiculous?"
You, eating dandelions in a midnight field
"About the same time things stopped making sense."
A boy in church camp carved a small crucifix
for his arts and crafts project. He won the blue
ribbon and a brand new Bible. The next morning
I found it hanging over our cabin door.
A toad was nailed to the cross.
Sometimes we wake up early enough to hide the evil from our world.
Don't Think.it's meant to be listened to:Don't Think.1 year ago in Urban & Spoken Word More Like This
I remember in Psych 101,
when the professor proposed a game
called Don’t Think.
He said, “For the next minute,
don’t think about
So the trick was to
think about anything else
but the red elephant.
was the longest minute
of my life.
I thought surely I will die
under the weight of this--
No don’t think about it!
The sweat dripped down my temples
and my lips got dry
and I couldn’t stop
blinking or thinking
about purple giraffes
and orange hippos and polka dot
ostriches and red
but then the minute was up and I let out a sigh
and I could feel my arteries dilate
and I could feel my cells breathing again and
I could see the red elephant
and he could see me.
That elephant in my mind’s room
was easy to accommodate after all the
other animals had left
when it was just
me and him.
I forgot wha
Midnight Bug BitesWe gather words andMidnight Bug Bites3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Stories like squirrels
Gather nuts; for the
First half of our lives
Is spent fighting to find
While the other half
In these sheets crawl the
Bugs of better times,
Stinging and biting me until
I whisk them away with
The opening of my eyes.
And on this book sits
The imprint of a tree:
Written on for ages and
But the squirrels who
Live there never forget
Where to go
When they are
BibliophiliaTo all the books I haven't read:Bibliophilia8 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
I have become your bookshelf
of dusted titles and busted spines
with arms that are full of fantasy
and romance and a head full
of memoirs I haven't written,
their lexicon curling my tongue
around five dollar word-plays
just behind the sheaf of my teeth.
With definitions straight to the point
and description airy and lofted
a dictionary defenestrates pages
that whirl into the night, petal
papers gliding like elegant
prose in a blank journal.
There is no table of contents
to map your way; follow the veins
ink leaves in the margins of my palms
because the books I've read tell me
if they give you ruled paper,
write the other way;
you are someone else's collage,
all the worn sad evidence of humanity,
stirred and sorted by a poet
because good books,
like bad people,
don't give up all their secrets at once.