Human Nature When you are young,
they will treat you with the softness of spring.
They will guide you through the winter winds and
over snowy hills, admiring the brilliance of your
midday innocence; pulling daisies from the earth
just to place them in your hair. And they will
whisper to each other of how beautiful you are.
When you grow older,
they will treat you with the indifferences of autumn.
They will urge you from the complacency of your own
fleeting fulfillments, and they will watch your
brilliance fade with the swiftness of the sky. You
will shed your fragile childhood with the colors of
the trees, and you will learn to face the winter winds
without their guiding arms. And they will whisper to
each other of how beautiful you are.
When you are grown,
they will treat you with the coldness of winter. They
will leave you bare and naked before the ravenous wolves,
expecting you to fend for your own forgotten brilliance,
asking why you've kept those wilting daisies in your hair.
InertiaSometimes, I feel so very sorry forInertia2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
the letters that I write.
Born onto a blank page and
trapped there all their lives.
No new sites to see, no unfamiliar faces to meet;
standing in a lonely row
just to express my thoughts as words,
and yet, completely unable to express their own.
They lie paralyzed in their birthplace
lacking the ability to grow and learn.
Immovable to change for the rest of their lives.
And sometimes, I wonder to myself,
why I choose to be the same.
preemptive breakup poemif anyone ever tells you your sadness isn't physical,preemptive breakup poem2 years ago in Urban & Spoken Word More Like This
show them the ache in your bones,
the raw skin on your arms or wrists or hips or thighs,
the imprint of your foetal body on your mattress from the days you couldn't bear to leave.
and you see this?
this is what hurt looks like.
i want you to look closer, lean in a little until you can feel the sadness on my breath
and i want you to watch my eyes. count how often they blink and count how many of them are forcing back words i still can never say.
i don't want you to miss a second of how you make me feel.
i want to be what keeps you up at night
i want to be the reason you can't eat
or laugh at your favourite tv programs
i want to be the reason
you walk with your eyes on the pavement
because too many things
remind you of me
i want you to feel the soreness of a heart unloved
loudly enough that the beating is mute and slow
loudly enough that you keep your hands in your pockets
when you move through the city so you don't touch any
Growing Upit seems that by now I’ve been diagnosedGrowing Up2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
with a mild case of weightlessness, mindless
drifting past empty homes and the emptier people
that purchased them. I remember conversations
with you about existentialism
and the almost intricate fabric of my mind and
everything in between, and you-- the way you
paused before making a point as
the words defined themselves in your head:
I remember the day I told you I was God.
Creator of all things unimportant, trapped
in the body of a girl with nothing left to give, you
it must be a beautiful place
inside your head, with a world
that revolves around hope and expectations
the way it was supposed to; all
storybook-perfect like the
wars promise we’ll one day
[I’d like to think that every great leader
once cried themselves to sleep wondering
if they’d ever mean anything and
did things to stand out like smoking
or drinking or pretending to be someone
they’re not and every morning they’d tilt
WhisperI want to create an aromatic sea of jasminesWhisper2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
and stardust mountains of silver and —
Inkblot skeletons with paper mache
hearts, whose bones shall burn with one glance at the
sun; gravestones of blood diamonds and tears of thistles...
Harp strings ringing in grotesque harmony, screaming
for slender fingers to pluck and caress with devotion.
I want to write
Memories of WarMemories of War:Memories of War2 years ago in Songs & Lyrics More Like This
What is this long-lost memory inside?
Where oceans turn; what have we left behind
With star-burned wings out above the sky.
The sleeping sons are lovingly left to lie...
A thousand tears you've cried for all,
Now its time for you to fall!
Will you open up the door,
To the future we ignore?
Are you simply lying broken,
From the memory awoken;
Are you simply living lies,
Bitter taste with ropes you tie...
And the world will soon forget.
Fill my heart with this regret?
For the victims written in stone.
Unspoken sin you now atone...
Yeah I've seen this world where we livin' in pain,
Wrap my body round with chain.
Now we both know we be broken;
Give this man his smokin' token.
Held up guns with both his hands;
Not a boy he's cause he's a man.
Order comes by a suit and hand.
Will you flee or will you stand?
This is a memory of our war,
Of all the things that we can't ignore.
And staying blind to the cries of pain...
Will lonely ashes be what remai
R.I.P WordsDo you know what it feels like?R.I.P Words2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
To feel something, but...
be unable to express what it is;
to be silent;
to fight it alone.
I know how much it hurts,
but I don't know how to show it.
Poetry used to be my refuge,
a place where I could be alone -
express all my emotions,
without being judged.
I'm losing it.
I can't connect to poetry.
Everything sounds so stupid...
Everything I write sounds stupid.
I have to erase all my feelings,
because they don't sound right.
The words aren't real.
They don't show what I feel
And maybe this will be the last.
Maybe I'm gone:
lost of all emotions.
I'm truly alone...
I used to have poetry.
Now I have nothing.
you call me an angelyou call me an angelyou call me an angel2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
in spite of the bruises left on the fronts of my knees
stains of sin left on my skin;
the knots in my back,
you liken to the wings soon to burst from my shoulders
&tell me you can feel no sadness
when looking at my face-
eyes you analyse
into paints of the colour wheel,
several shades i have yet to see;
despite its crooked nature
thinning enamel from my sickness-
you still find me amongst the heavens.
as this once,
i kissed you to shut you up.
my skin is removing itself after my clothes
in the winter,
too unlike the white night of russian summers.
i kissed you &it was wet because i was crying
&every time our lips parted
another sob stuttered its way through the gap.
you heard what words i couldn't swallow,
the ones straining to pass over my tongue
yet drowned upon existence.
you listen to me until i lose my headstrong aim
to starve back to bones,
to see the angel wings i've lost in my skin
you touch &feel are there;
I've Changed (Yeah right)I've Changed (Yeah right):I've Changed (Yeah right)2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
You know, I tell myself everday,
That I'm going to change - that I'll be different.
'This isn't the same; I'm not the same,' that's what I tell myself...
As I sit in front of the computer, praying time doesn't move.
Coward, you're weak and you'll always be weak! You bloody disgrace...
I pick up some new magazine, get inspired,
'I want to be like that guy,' is what I think to myself.
I give it a try for two or three days - I quit.
Same old shit again...
Making up excuses? It's what you always do, you gutless wonder...
I try to reach out with my hands,
Seeking something, anything that I can find to help myself hold on...
But I don't find it - I just find myself,
Sinking back down into the same black swamp - I'm drowning.
Awww, what's the matter? You gonna cry, you gonna cry?
Yeah, I've hit rock bottom,
And you know what? It feels pretty damn good down here.
Nice, warm, comfortable, familiar.
No pressure, no problems - just like everb
It's all about her,-I had never wished to know the moon,It's all about her,2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
or the burning gaze of her lover.
I am merely a forest of silences,
old dogwoods & untamed hair.
-But, I made a promise
to a bone collector once.
He could have my spine,
my kneecaps, &
one flowered rib,
wrapped & bowed-up
like a present
-if he could fall in love
with things that slip through his fingers:
-“It would be a sin to love you,
my dear sweet wolf;
you will always cry for the moon.”
On the bus, I sawyou, across from meOn the bus, I saw2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
'right' to be a stranger-
& public transport are
on uneven terms, so
we start a game
you throw me your eyes, only
to have them thrown back
it's called 'bullseye'
because this dance-
of near misses
& stolen glance
makes us guilty of
red in shared blushes
(& horns in my pants)
stranger, there will come a time
you arrest me-
to remain strange
& your permit to
bulldoze my heart.
NaPoWriMo: Day 3Today,NaPoWriMo: Day 32 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
I wanted to pluck my ribs
from out my chest &
hang them about my house
like wind chimes-
a taunt for hungry wolves.
I didn’t grab for sharp objects,
I just wrote about it.
I never knew
I wanted to be a writer
until I lost something.
I still don’t know what that is-
(my mind, maybe.)
they fill gaps
that had no stories
to keep them
from hollowing out
in the first place.
wanderlust, and what i knowi know things.wanderlust, and what i know2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
i'd like to pretend to the listening frost on car windscreens
that i know these things from the song of birds down my ears.
'a little birdy told me' they say, but what they're forgetting
is that birds, if they could talk, wouldn't waste time telling
humans other peoples's secrets when they could be teaching
me how to grow featherdown and fly. yet here i am, a bird
telling scraps of paper what i do and don't know.
how to be a poet: the basics.kiss all the peoplehow to be a poet: the basics.1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
you know you shouldn't,
solely for the reason
that they look good
look at your scars
like mothers peer into
cradles. then make
more; make yourself into
a symbol for infinity,
or at least try,
because it never works.
patch yourself up.
say, "darling, you're okay,"
while staring at yourself in the
mirror with your hair
damp and your lips
chapped (refer to stanza
one). change. grow.
it's what we like to read,
miss the people in your life
until they leave,
and then miss yourself
as well. screw everything up,
and then write about it
like it had to happen.
try to believe it, ignore
the voice in your head that hisses
and groans in your sleep,
behind your eyelids.
"baby, you're a fuck up,
you know it know it know it".
try to carve the humming
out of your body
by exit way of your veins.
be hospitalized. give in, give up,
play along, stop writing.
but then you start writi
casual blasphemyfor the past four yearscasual blasphemy1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
I’ve been in love with a boy
who’s too busy loving life to notice
I exist. I don’t think he’s ever seen me
past his tunnel vision living--
I’m in love with a boy who
wears black gauges and swears
he’s a deist who’s fed up with
the backwards-fucked system
that governs our lives; he talks to me
about the symbolic importance
of hunger and need and rebellion
and isolationism and death as
Orwell and Golding must have written it,
and, god, I just want to crack open
my ribs so he can see the literary
starvation destroying me, the not-quite
metaphoric devastation of my liver and
paper cuts scarring my heart. I want
him to talk to me about the reasons
we ought to avoid college
and capitalism and commitment and explain
to me what this all really means.
[I want to be so unflinchingly honest
with you that it will be as natural
and sinful as all the others
before, just without the glare
of bare skin and self-hate. I want to tell you
disorder"mirror, mirror, on the walldisorder1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
who's the fairest of them all?"
i whispered to my doleful reflection,
but this was no fairy tale:
this was a small town on a cold, foggy night.
my skeleton was so beautiful
i wanted to showcase it,
give onlookers a glimpse of my impending
death through my very flesh.
i could picture myself, edges carved away
like a cored apple.
i just wanted to feel real.
everyone around me chewed and swallowed so easily
but i just gnawed on my lip until i
tasted blood, and let
a piece of myself die.
the flavor made my mouth water
as my stomach ground out hoarse
requests for expansion, for meaning.
i held nothing within but pathetic yearning,
hollow with self-hatred.
i could only feel affection with pain.
perfection became my obsession,
consuming me alive the way i would have
loved to consume anything at all.
some part of me believe i could be a super model,
and living my life on ambition and emptiness
was the way to do it.
every day i watched the little numbers
Unconscious Epiphany.Unconscious Epiphany.Unconscious Epiphany.2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
I thrive and depend on your compliments
And it is only then as a direct consequence,
Am I truly able to write with confidence.
Even though your words are only temporary.
I deem your contribution as utterly necessary,
In order to refresh my wavering, selective memory.
My own validation depends on your approval.
Whether it is congratulatory or discouragingly brutal.
Your input is the one thing that is most crucial.
Can I call myself a writer if I don't believe in myself?
When I constantly seek approval from everyone else?
How can I then expect to make any sort of wealth?
Of a craft and skill I still think anyone is able to produce.
Is there any point in me putting my apparent talent to use?
When I limit and submit myself into a negative recluse.
I was told I must have self belief in order to achieve,
The dream that I am so desperately trying to receive.
The body can only accomplish what the mind believes.
I know I must rid myself from any form of self doubt.
everyone gets a miracleeveryone gets a miracle.everyone gets a miracle2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
the thing with miracles is that who can tell a
miracle what it is? is it watching the sun bleed
into the horizon holding your lover's sweaty hand,
all cheap perfume and hour-old petrichor like a
twenty-first century version of numinosity, since
it's amazing you even found their heavy-lidded,
flecks-of-gold eyes in the first place? is it near-death
experiences where you're lifeguarded back into the world
by a kind stranger in a surgical mask? or is it nothing
spectacular, at least by those standards, but just
simply waking up in the morning, having the eyes and
lungs and heart to do so, the mouth to speak 'i
am alive and that is pretty awesome in itself'?
but, see, everyone gets a miracle.
a true, unrelenting one, the kind where your heart
swells up to nearly burst out of your body and your eyes
well up and the only word you can speak is 'wow'. maybe
you're twenty-eight or eighteen or forty-two and perched
precariously under fog and mist and shying away from the
Sleep Child.Sleep childSleep Child.2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Pretend the carousel of life doesn't make you queasy
Dance in the spider webs they ensnare you within
To eventually drain you.
Entangle the strings attached to your body and soul
Let them try to solve the knots and tangles
Slip away when cut.
Let your silent cries call out to Heaven above
Deafen the devils and the tormentors of Hell
Even though you're mute.
Make them pay and make them all bleed out
Shroud them in spider webs and their dangling threads
Then go to sleep.
UntitledThe hours are slow in the white corridorsUntitled5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
but you are with me when the hands strike fear
and the clock whispers twelve.
You hear my voice echo down the halls
a half-empty ward
a clear glass of psychotropic drops.
You crush my ribs
and rob my lungs of tears.
You kiss my wrists
and strip the bone
The silver constellation of scars,
the scarlet mouth of screams
softened by the gentle murmurs
of bodies creased with love.
You breathe the poetry I cannot speak,
you hold the fragile shape of my skull
like a bruised eggshell
as the nurses hold me down
You feel it in your lungs
when the needle slides through,
and the drop of blood is yours too.
You feel the medicated sleep,
the sweet lull of seduction
as sedation pulls at the hull of my veins.
Long hours spent visiting your daughter
While doctors tell you she's insane.
You lie awake each night as the weeks pass
and I feel it in my chest,
in each breath
The hurt I crease into the faces
of my sweet family.
I ache and I am hollow
but you sli
Show me what the stars look like tonight.I’ve fallen in love with wars & darkness.Show me what the stars look like tonight.2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
The kind of darkness said to have made
shadow monsters of seen-too-much eyes
& the kind of war lands made of
desecrated, dandelion wrists.
I am the wind, the morphine pump
& I’ve carved my bones into stars.
I wear them around my neck
like outward sun marrow
warming my carotid pulse.
These little glow-in-the-dark blankets
aren’t enough to stifle the sounds;
but my anatomy never seemed to fit
together the right way anyway.
Poets have the loneliest hearts.I drink morphinePoets have the loneliest hearts.2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
like peach tea;
down 6 pills by morning
just to keep my mind
& I know I can go days
without speaking a word
I want a moon shy girl
with wolves at her back,
bite mark ankles &
a bottle of writer’s tears
tucked under one arm.
I want to be end of the war
kisses bruised into her hipbones;
the epilogue written over her
With these wisteria limbs
February cold, &
these weak lungs
exhaling coralline whispers,
I’ve got a tongue for words
but still have no idea how to love
a universe girl.
Mirror MirrorMirror mirror on the wall,Mirror Mirror2 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
acting like you know it all.
Comparing every little thing.
Ruling my life like a king.
Mirror mirror on the wall,
making my self-esteem fall and fall.
Telling me things I don't want to hear.
Clouding doubt in my mind that was once clear.
Mirror mirror on the wall,
here I lie, here I sprawl.
Can't you see what you have done?
Making my mind become un-spun.
i write bad poetry.You are made of bone, sinew, gristle, synapse, skin, keratini write bad poetry.2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
not inkwells and Hemingway, galaxy-cuttings and star-trimmings
or dream, Edgar Allen Poe, absinthe, reflections and sin.
You know a hundred words to describe every pockmark that dots
your face and the way your pens fit into arrow-quivers by that
ricketty old desk of yours but
Words will not
from your mother-of-pearl lips
Apply cleverly-done descending letters here
and sprinkle one jaunty hyphen across the page
because after all, punctuation is a hitchhiker
and you're speeding down the word count like a cargo truck
till you crash into an abrupt ending or more likely
a lack of poetic inspiration.
Today and yesterday and seven days before, you might have
prostituted your muses, a penny for your thoughts, looked with
cross-eyes at your empty lined pad of paper and then
wrote seven pages about a cloud you saw that eventually scattered
into dreamy folds and smoke.
The sky is blue.
The sky is big.
Apply 'the sky is