Maybe that's what's worseOne upon a time, there were four children. They were grown, far into the ages of adulthood, but they were children. They carried bits of a child in them, clinging desperately to a corner of their hearts with a firm grip, unwilling to let go. They were children.
One was a fighter—grappling with his head and his hands to protect his heart that was left back home, back with his siblings and his wife. He graced himself with a uniform every morning and paroled his area, keeping it safe and sound so that no one he loved could be taken away from him, so that no one he needed would ever leave. He had the spirit of a soldier, always did. He washed the blood off of his hands with a soft prayer to God during the middle of the day, because he did what he had to do, he saved whom he had to save. He showed no remorse after those prayers—for his heart was filled with a fierce need.
The second one was a lover—she walked around with her heart not on her sleeve, but in the palms of her hands, giving it
Those cadences were crystalline.I recall that you loved herThose cadences were crystalline.3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Like you loved jazz,
Bright as the gold flecks and swift brass of your movements
Breathing what you sought in the
Sine tone of her piano
Grinning as we wowed the crowd
That went up in flames and cheers.
Improvisation was like free-falling,
You weren't sure what you wanted or where you were going
And therein lay the thrill.
I loved you like flute notes and cold breaths on a midwinter morning
You loved to hear yourself speak and
I loved how your eyes alit with laughter when you didn't say a word.
You loved me like a secret smile
Auburn curls and conspiring glances
Loved the distance, maybe,
And the still unmarred proximity.
I pressed you into my memory like manuscripts and printed sheets
I loved that love was invulnerable, pristine
I loved the purity of silent glances,
The sweet taste of words unspoken
And the fleeting folly of seventeen.
not all humans go to heavencock itnot all humans go to heaven3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
april 23 2008
“bye mom. i love you so much, i swear
i’ll be home soon.”
“please, you’re only eighteen, you have your
whole life ahead of you, please
don’t throw it away.”
“i’m going, mom. i’m going overseas
but i swear i’ll be back before you
miss me. love you!”
most nights he shakes himself awake
with the vision of bombs and fire and bullets
still imprinted on his eyelids.
he doesn’t know what to call them.
the dreams, i mean.
what do you call bad dreams when
you’ve already lived the nightmare?
his therapist says his problem
is he thinks he’s not normal, that he doesn’t fit,
that he’s a special kind of monster.
she tells him that the key is figuring out the ways
that he’s the same.
so when he’s alone, or worried or stressed
or tired or hurt or wishing he were dead,
he traces over his collarbone and says
O FevraleWitching hour, welcomed with a sigh,O Fevrale3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
bare-breasted and ink-stained in the night.
Half in love in this half-life half-light;
pisat O Fevrale navsnryd, dreaming
of the gods. Wanderer, today I died and
died again, and whispered prayers
to clasped hands… until the nestled
droplets fell away like sunrays at dusk;
and when moonrise came, I sang again.
Shooting the MoonChrist (- but believe me, there's no lord above: we're as high as anyone goes)Shooting the Moon3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
he's still got mama
rockin' him in his chariot and
carrying him across the sky,
her flushed like a bright new bride,
and he's still positively glowing,
all smooth-skinned transparency
(we're not allowed to tell anyone that he hides
half his face in the dark, afraid
that people will see how pock-marked
those freckles really make him look).
but someone oughta tell him that his button-nose
ain't so button any-more -
people draw it look a hook
(and damn, you should've heard the rumours
about him and the Sandman when
he was younger; man, mama didn't care
about who was below, she was scorching mad,
real ready to burn up the place,
and Phoenix - you know Phoenix, Arizona?
That place was so hot
you'd wish you could reincarnate.
The only one frying eggs
that solstice was mama, hot-plating
the egg on his face, so that
for a while his hole-flecked freckle-face
The MechanicHis mind is a machine well-oiled,The Mechanic3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
eyes engine-efficient in stripping her
to bare, broken parts.
His fingers twitch, and she hates
how those painstaking hands
itch to fix her.
i am growing wings but there is nowhere to goi am so done -i am growing wings but there is nowhere to go3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
because i can feel it:
there is a fear within me,
encapsulated in my blood cells,
the fear dreams;
it breathes like a living thing.
so done with -
nightmares of text messages
and unapologetic letters
and you, walking away from me,
nightmares of the words
done with this -
because i am a nomad
(who has never left her home).
i know there are feathers growing
in the hollow of my bones.
but i am growing roots here, attaching
to this place, to this house
to the color of the sunlight as i hold your hand,
this feeling -
that i have not even started yet.
The Waiting GameHear me read itThe Waiting Game3 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
I gripped the ladder fiercely until my knuckles whitened and my bones complained at the strain. I remained this way, like a rigor mortised superhero until my mind associated the tight throttling hold on the wood with the concept of choking someone; at which point I let go, momentarily, alarmed by the violence of my own thoughts.
The slight shudder rippled up through the fluidous wood and you complained loudly of my carelessness. We laughed and you dripped paint down trying to cut open my scalp with splashes of mint. Mrs Coraline banged her walking stick against her kitchen window with a resolute scowl and we tried to straighten our faces and appendages accordingly.
You had steady hands, so you had gone up the ladder to carefully apply the paint to the gutters. We had been promising to do this job for a year now, but last summer we were too lost in love to be found by anyone, even someone looking so hard as Mrs Coraline. Th
RondeletsBlackbirdsRondelets3 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
Beaks pierced with rue; wing tips broken
Frail songs born on air and dying
And frail sounds no voice has spoken
Tiny beating hearts laid open
Shiver of hips
A twist of silk sends coins flying
Shiver of hips
the rhythm poised upon her lips
Dancer, her seven veils sighing
silk upon her bronze skin lying
Shiver of hips
Why you should write"I think you should write",Why you should write3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
said my muse to me.
I sat under a hot shower,
huddled inside my stillborn pains
as water drum-drum-drummed against my back
and behind my teeth there was a song
a flightless lark
but I did not let it out.
And I told my muse:
my words are falling snow into melting ground
they do not belong;
Icicles among irises -
they will disappear in the growing sun
my words are wind in the feathers and reeds
and when the dawn comes, there's silence
where they used to be.
"You should still write",
said my muse to me
What are you, if not falling snow?
a speckle of dust in the rising wind
flesh and bone
like every soul who ever roamed
these vast plains of written words
song behind their teeth, tongues tied.
But you are stardust if you write
phoenix feathers, raging fire!
you are the look in the eyes of the waking day
flash of wonder we did forget
You are every black cat and
every single morning when there was mist in the air
So I think you should wri
dead1.dead3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
i hear these words
and something happens
in the yard;
it doesn't fit
i see it squeeze
into the slits
beneath your shirt.
i feel it fly the smooth
from off your back. it turns
and hides behind the acres,
of jagged rooftops,
kept far and safe
has left the limb
as light would leave
i’m staring into its absence
and some new kind of animal is made;
its reversal is alive.
it doesn't move or breathe.
the park is wintered over, and i don’t go.
are all gone.
and when they do come back, they never change
from birth to birth,
a clan of inbred
with felt umbrella
that don’t remember
who i was.
one last thought of your last thought
and all the rest become their graves.
nothing i remember, now
will reach the earth.
i have no bottom ground,
the narrow knots of wood
that span and hoard and cup my self
are laughing into holes;
London as MythThe serpent is Janus-faced a thousand fold,London as Myth3 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
With a Medusa’s head of many mouths
And a body coiled, spliced and cold
That combs the metal undergrowth;
A metropolis from stone and steel,
That reaches ‘round the monoliths
Made out of sweat and blood of will,
Tapering sword-edges breaking rifts
Among the reefs of called-up spirits,
With the ferocity to throw down hail,
Or to rise up the phoenix who whips
A gentle heat from wings and tail.
Witch OilThere's magma boiling in her frostbitten veins;Witch Oil3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
incandescent pixie dust and
sluggishly making its way through
a childish heart — wishing for one last chance
to spread her wings and soar to
the long way hometoday i threw half mythe long way home3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
and waited for 25'000
people like you
jump off roofs and
stick their heads
(even when you put them
life's already hard enough
without trying to
what all your curtains
i am guilty
of forgetting about
the kettle boils
like my head on a pillow
you will never
see them again
or the fears that wonder
Why I WriteI am Voldemort and my writings are my Horcruxes. Every little story, every character, every single point in the plot has a bit of my soul in it. And they are why I am still alive.Why I Write3 years ago in Stories & Vignettes More Like This
I hide myself in the characters. Every single one has a piece of me. Whether it is their fears or their hair color, they are a piece of me or someone else I know. Every single character is based upon one main feature. And that is how I will remain alive, by dropping pieces of my life into a character.
The stories include things that have happened to me, things that could happen to me, things I want to happen to me. I bury myself in each tale and live in that world because I couldn't imagine carrying it out in the real world. I'm too afraid to expose myself that way.
The poems I write contain thoughts I've grown in the farm of my head, because the obscure and the absurd are accepted only in poetry. If I ever mentioned that to a human being otherwise, I would be thrown in a mental rehabilitation. I can write ev
the cure for everything is saltwaterand my voice is choked with pebblesthe cure for everything is saltwater3 years ago in Urban & Spoken Word More Like This
and my veins are thick with ink
so i'll bleed out all my lovesongs
wash them down the kitchen sink
and i'll tell you that i'm leaving
and i'll flee this soulless town
for the silent sea is calling
and i'm not afraid to drown
and i'll search out quiet islands
let the blank horizons be
drench my soul in every ocean
sink my heart in every sea.
A Short Love StoryI counted your teethA Short Love Story3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
when you died,
all twenty-eight of them,
because it gave me more time
than counting your toes
and fingers (and thumbs),
or just looking at your face
and telling the coroner:
he's the one.
The Spine Poem: For Voice and CelloThe Spine PoemThe Spine Poem: For Voice and Cello3 years ago in Haiku & Eastern More Like This
Espy the cello-
spine! A twelve-tone vertebrate
beckons an old hand
to crack stiff couples,
one tender transition, and
a loos'ning trio.
song: paints a godless science-
your brain, and your neck:
sharp pink crags grip umber clouds.
Of fifth lifts, the first.
At the zenith, a
bomb shells out twin craters, and
lungs lunge at your heart,
expire ashen ghosts:
vapor-eyes agape; bobbing,
flapping wings molt ash.
Grinned lips split, earth's crust,
broken bread, spilled seed, plumbing
trunks, branches, twigs, tips…
Your dim, amber mind
learns of organs, hollow, full—
What was flatter, sharper now;
What had dreamed awakes.
One stomach, or five?
Your opposing thumbs succumb
red and sore and numb.
You form your own end:
your sine wave wavelength lumbers,
Eons give away,
your sacred loins birthed new worlds,
grudging your plain, white
earth, grieving ashes
Why I WriteThe New CharacterWhy I Write3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
He smiles at me
This mysterious man of mine
He is saddened
He is lost, I imagine him in my mind
My heart skips a beat
As I write, between the pages
Crafting his look,
His thoughts, what he says
And as I continue writing
I see him smile as he
Turns around and brick walls
Disappear between us
He understands me and I understand him
We create this piece together
As I whisper in the words
I love you -- new character of mine
MuselingRed wine ramblesMuseling3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
curdle the air, but still
you dream; half-moon
body curled in the
lamp light. I am leaving,
I am leaving, choking on
some holy word—
the floorboards creak,
a sonata for my
whilst you, hair tangled upon
the pillow, are spun gold.
i can make you love mewriters,i can make you love me3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
do you bend in
shaking with leaves?
a sinner's devotion
or that boy
in the other aisle
(i hold your books
and stroke the pages,
they haven't arrived:
(that was forty-five
hoping no one notices
that i've read this
as i watch him
slip behind the counter
(i devised a plan to
volunteer on fridays
and trap him)
as i read
for the fifteenth
The Girl with the Glass HeartHe pitied the girl with the glass heartThe Girl with the Glass Heart3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
for she was not made of stone like him.
He thought, “her poor, battered heart must be so broken
that its shards cut her from within.
She must wish she was not so fragile,
that she was unbreakable like me.”
Then one day she said to him,
“my love, how I wish you were free.
I pity you and your marble heart,
carved of the hardest stone,
So unmovable by anything—
you must be so alone.”
Shocked, he argued, “but you must feel such pain
in that frail, little heart,
and I know nothing of sorrow
for I have remained apart.”
Eyes and voice soft, she persisted,
Stubborn and silent, he listened:
“I know your black, granite heart is beating,
but I realize you just survive;
a statue standing still so long
can’t know what it means to be alive.
You pity me for my