A Letter to the SunYou are the sun, and I am the moon. You are the day, and I am the night. You are the light, and I am the dark. We are opposites of one another, and only through both of our existence can the world live in perfect harmony. It is torture, to watch you there, with your golden hair and your pale skin. Your eyes are weaved from the sky itself, hypnotising and captivating. I find myself unable to look away from them, inexplicably draw to them - no, to you. My very soul gravitates towards yours.A Letter to the Sun1 year ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
You are fire, and I am ice. I cannot touch you, though my dark fingers stretch towards you, my posture expressing the very need that vibrates within my soul whenever you are near - and you are always near, but always far, too. So close, so far, it's a torturous existence I live. You laugh and it is the sweetest music to my ears, filled with the light that your body is made out of, filled with the kindness that your heart has been fashi
No wander about it, just lust.You were a mid-morning train wreck,No wander about it, just lust.2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
the embodiment of poetry.
& my clavicles whispered too many nothings
about your summer storm hands,
folding like paper cranes
to make wishes upon themselves.
wishes are for the weak-
do something about this quaking heart
& freezing fingers.
I think I found God then,
david and ruth laskini have to be honest;david and ruth laskin2 years ago in Urban & Spoken Word More Like This
seeing you has always felt like
looking inside a cityscape, nightlight kaleidoscope
and i've grown accustomed
to fragility and our literal,
we flicker on and off at the speed
of improbable, dysfunctional
light. i have to be honest;
i am honestly afraid
of your sorrowful sighs, and eclectic
gaze, though eerie and off in its
lissome niche, still crawls under my skin
and plants little foxgloves
where i can never find them.
you worry after events so impossible
that your aura of floral hues
giggles and reminds you
that kept-secret cardamom leaves have stayed
for as long as you asked
and let you sleep soundlessly with
midnight traffic lullabies. morning,
we both know, is tainted with the dull mauve
of my departure and now that it's time
for yours, i have to be honest;
you are more than a secret
that will be forgotten with the creak
of a silent grandfather clock, and your
petals, my sweet, your beautiful petals,
still grace me in
muteit’s two in the morning somewheremute2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
where it’s quiet except for breathing
that’s loud enough to hear from here.
convince yourself you’re alive;
you’re the only one that can.
here is a game we played as children:
we pretended language was something only
to be seen on paper,
we make-believed the worst injury
we could get was those made by
trees and rocks while our bones weakened
under the attacks we tried to endure
of words like, “fat” (before
we even knew how much we weighed)
or “stupid” (before
we even realized that it
doesn’t matter what 9 times 8 is
as long as no one figures out you don’t know.)
sticks and stones may break our bones
don’t tell me words don’t do any damage.
don’t tell me you don’t think of yourself as a weapon
every time you open your mouth,
don’t tell me what exactly you think of me,
don’t tell me anything, i think you’ve said enough.
let’s just be silent,
rock bottom, ocean floorhalf-past a different kind of brokenrock bottom, ocean floor2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
on sadness, she wrote:
blind fool in the umbra
bury yourself in me
on the other side of lonely
and by god, i love you
(maybe i will be a landfill)
everyone i meet looks for a place to stay;
out of the woods, on wet roads
under wind, under rain
-i'm so far away
no wonder it took him 1455 pages
waiting for her to come this way
tramps like us-
in lieu of emptiness
in absence of a poem
(pour a little salt, we were never here)
your heart was a broken sailor
fishing for hearts with lace and not netting;
into the deep end of our story
i saw god leaving the shore
TributeShe came back to me undone, brazen & alone & alive, awash in morning light, with mockingbirds braided ‘round her ankle, with her soul cradled in the arc of her foot, & took me outside. She came delicately, barefoot through the days I had sat alone, hush-hush through the grass & gold, came & laced fingers through my mind & called to me, down through the years & the hallways of my heart where the dust of you had long lain undisturbed: "He is no longer here, but I am.”Tribute2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
I have found the voice that left with you.
why time isn't timeless, but love is.i still remember when we were five years oldwhy time isn't timeless, but love is.3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
and would hide in the grass until dusk,
where we would tell stories under the hum
of the crickets and the sound of the creek,
where he told stories about his mother when
she was sixteen and alone with some boy
when she moved to italy, where he said they had
the best food and the best lights and the best buildings
but only when it was dark inside,
and he would only wither when he would look to the sky
welling over the sun, a golden mess: yet-
i remember when we were in middle school
and we would sit on his old rug and play video games
until five in the morning, ignoring the clutter
of his room, where he threw dirty clothes and books
and homeroom whispers in a slow disarray,
where sometimes we would pause and watch
some kind of old black and white movie and
the girl would scream and we would laugh,
and sometimes he would pause again
and talk: if-
and i say
we'll never know cause they say sex
is like cutting your fingertips off
but with more sw
if i could.1.if i could.2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
i’ll be honest with you;
there is a certain authority to being
somebody said once that writers struggle with reality
because we spend all of our time
constructing our own.
the truth is, life may be impermanent
but the details are not.
time has one direction
the past cannot be revisited
and history cannot be redone
with a red pen.
what happens, happens.
we are walking permanent records
that can never be expunged.
no matter how many orphans we pull from fires
no matter how many dying children we sing to
we still made our mother cry once
we still let our little brothers find us passed out
on the front porch when we were nineteen.
imagination is our primary retreat
because there, that boy does fall in love with us
and our first kiss is not spit on our chins
or misses landing on our nose
(maybe there are waves crashing in the background)
and we say everything right.
there, we have crafted a version of ourselves
that lives perfectly.
“if i could,” someon
thoughts on a friday in aprillook, you are summer,thoughts on a friday in april1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
with your half-a-watermelon smile and
eyes like fireworks in the sky.
and you know what,
before i met you, i kind of just wanted
to be autumn, to make dying look beautiful,
to go out with a blaze of glory.
but when you kiss me i can feel
spring bubbling up inside of me.
and okay, maybe there are times
when we fight like winter, taking no
captives, leaving no survivors, but—
okay, there’s no easy way to say this:
I want to spend 365 days with you
again and again and again because
even though that scares me stiff,
you make me feel like I’m blooming.
erosioni hunt youerosion1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
always in the dim coriander shadow
shelves of thought.
it became a worry when
to taste like lemon
and burning walnut,
with an alien flame
roiling up inside
the sunken balsam-wood.
the grains in me bow
wherever you slay them
and a lash of cheek in the mirror
caught in the wrong light
when i turn
looks like your
as your knuckles
shake against the steering wheel
i am a magenta february.Winteri am a magenta february.2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
is still clinging
to my skin,
sleeping within the tangles
of my night witch hair.
65 days to learn
& Icarus, with his
sun kissed fingers
my throat, giggles
knowingly in my ear.
I have misplaced my
of a heart
so many times,
I’m not even sure
it ever existed
they never lie-
Covered in frost
I am a magenta
the imprint of teeth
that bruised centuries
& bed sheets.
Playing GodSometimes I like to pretend thatPlaying God2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
I'm God, putting a pen to
paper and scripting out someone's
life like a puppeteer.
Maybe if I
wrote the epilogue in
my own blood, the
screams inside my
head wouldn't be as
real," is just an excuse
for killing off their
loved ones; I want to feel
their agony tenfold (because I
deserve to think I'm as heartless
as I feel).
as small as a world and as large as aloneit's always ourselves we find in the sea,as small as a world and as large as alone3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
molly reminds me, eyes lingering on the cerulean ocean
stretching and sighing before us,
glowing vermillion in the setting sun.
we sit until the tide is sloshing at our feet,
threatening to carry us away on a dreamlike raft
of smooth turtle shells. we take cover, shrieking
like children, kicking up sand in a feeble attempt to
stop our pursuer from closing in on us.
laughing breathlessly, uncontrollably, hands pressed
against our chests and eyes beaming with unshed tears,
we are careening up and across sand dunes (though the tide
is far behind us) until our calves are wobbly strands of seaweed,
good for nothing except staggering to the ground in a heap
of merriment and seawater and titters.
we watch the pink shore swim back and forth, abandoning
sparkling treasures and washing away the evidence of our stay;
the cockeyed sandcastles, the deep holes we dug that no one stepped in
and our floundering footprints, all swept away
First ImpressionsI remember the first time I met herFirst Impressions3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
a tower of books tucked under her chin
glasses sliding down her nose
that she wiggled like a hare's
I helped her carry the tower
to her brother's truck
him ever so persistent to return home
and her just happy to escape into literature
she slumped into the seat
the tower resting at her bare toes
she stuck out her hand
and told me her name
and laughed at the common of it
she would be a freshman after summer
same as me
her brother still urgent
had the engine roar to life
and drive away
her hand waving at me
with a broad smile bubbling over
that danced for me
and all I could think was
Love at first sight is real.
Can't you hear the voices?Can't you hear the voices?2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Can't you hear the voices?
As they ring inside my head
Can't you see the faces?
Painted in the blood so red
Can't you taste the poison?
As it rests upon your tongue
Can't you hear the voices?
Then you do not belong.
COMPTINE DU VIDE - VOID'S COMPTINE(English version below)COMPTINE DU VIDE - VOID'S COMPTINE3 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
Tes yeux clairs d'eau froide
Seront des tombeaux
Devant mon corps roide
Cerclé de flambeaux
Léché d'ombres d'or
Verras-tu notre arbre
Sec et déjà mort
Tes larmes de glace
Arrivent trop tard
Dans ce temps qui passe
Qui passe blafard
Scellant le silence
Tu n'as jamais su
Mes envies de danse
De miel et de nu
Tes yeux clairs de lune
Mon cur de géant
Au creux du néant
Frantz, mars 2012.
Your clear, cold water's eyes
Will be graves
In front of my rigid body
Circled by torchlight
Licked by golden shadows
Will you see our tree
Dry and already dead
Your icy tears
Come too late
In this passing time
Passing, ashen like
Sealing the silence
You never knew
My cravings for nude
And honey dances
Your moon lit eyes
My giant's heart
Tangled in misfortune
In nothingness' hollow
Frantz, march 2012
Strawberry (An ice-cream in December)Strawberry (An ice-cream in December)2 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
I disassemble –
heart after limp,
brain before muscle.
You hear the pieces fall.
Sometimes, all I can ask for is an itchy blanket over me, and a cup of steaming tea between my calloused fingers, bringing the smell of hot strawberry to my nostrils, until the smile of content overwhelmingly fills my chest. Sometimes, all I can ask for is death.
I don’t like mornings. I never liked mornings. The sun is mocking – glaring from his heaven to a place grey and heavy with nothing but vanity, and shoving his hard light to all the ugliness around. Night is not like that. Night is beautiful. Night smells of wet leaves and falling stars and wishes forgotten in the sigh of two lips touching. Night brings the twittering song of a hidden cricket, a lullaby lost in the fading dreams of two bodies nesting one in another. Night is not like mornings.
The breeze is cool tonight – comforting, dancing around the baby blue curtains of the kitchen. The TV plays in
blue morningsholding outblue mornings3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
impossibly bated breath
blue like the morning
as it touches the canvas
of your sheets,
billows of cloud
this is not what
i asked for.
i never said
i needed more
than a hand to hold,
for you to touch my heart;
you lent me your body
and a person
much more than is sure
as the stars.
(as though the certainty
of those celestial jewels
that you were less afraid.
burning like a forest fire,
sinks its teeth
into your copper skin,
reflective and deep;
you touch me too tenderly
for me to believe
that i am just an embellished vessel-
you speak to me too softly
for me to believe
that you don't feel at least
half of what i do.
i need words-
less poetic than a letter,
but more honest than one as well-
written on my wrists
so that when i look at my hands
you can't give yourself
what you want most,
or why i am able,
to wrap you in my arms,
too pale for an