AfterIt follows me.
My silver skeined ghost.
An almost imperceptible thread;
only visible when you shine light
directly upon it.
It follows me.
It rides the underground.
It hides under bridges,
It is woven into the spools of tar
that form the roads between.
Inevitably if I walk too fast
it reminds me -
Like the tug of stitches in your cheek
that reminds you; you have lost your wisdom.
It reminds me.
It trips me in doorways,
when my mind is elsewhere.
If I look away from it -
- it slips round my neck.
Another knot to throw over the beams
it mauls me without a fair chance.
I tried to sever it. I can't.
Only the corrosion of time has a chance.
So for now, I am tethered
to the fragment of my heart
that I tore out for you.
Although we have placed it in a shroud
and declared it dead,
the umbilical thrumming keeps me awake.
It does not desist;
the connection to that unwanted slab of meat.
IntroductionsHear me read itIntroductions2 years ago in Scraps More Like This
I take my valium with cola, I'm a very complex lady.
Full of contradictions. I sometimes always answer vaguely.
If you ask me how I am, you better know I'll always lie
and if I fall in love with you, you're probably gonna die.
Life's not always kind to me, I try to stay upbeat
but please don't ask me how I am if I cry in the street.
I don't like to be looked at, I hate to be ignored,
I'm right, you're wrong, so be prepared for a broken record.
I stick up for the little guy, unless that guy is me
and if I do you a favour then I'd never charge a fee
I'm really bad at rhyming, but I think you kinda guessed
whoops, I'm sorry, backtrack now, I guess that I transgressed.
I'm sugarly sweet but bitter, I think that hope's a noose
I'm funny and outgoing, but somehow a recluse.
People mistake sweetness for weakness, I tell them I don't mind
I can run rings around you without being unkind.
Generally I'd have to say, I'm not my bigges
In the interests of transparencyIt's clear to seeIn the interests of transparency2 years ago in Scraps More Like This
that I'm as fragile
as glass -
and every time
that you look through me;
I crack up.
Wish me wellIf my smile was misleading,Wish me well2 years ago in Scraps More Like This
I guess I should apologise.
There's concrete cancer growing floral
in blocks of my persona,
and as I crumble down
all I see's the hurt that's in your eyes.
You wish me well, I wish you won't.
You forgive me but I don't.
If we found some common ground,
I'd let you lay me out me beneath.
Bury hatchet in blade of shoulder,
lets call this night a day,
and as I crumble down
until all that's left there are my teeth
you wish me well. (I wish you wouldn't).
You forgive me (but you shouldn't).
For ithaswhatitisntyou can share my name, I'll give it to youFor ithaswhatitisnt2 years ago in Scraps More Like This
you can share my words if you feel them too
if when I write you feel your words came out
it gives me something else to write about -
but if when I cry your face gets wet and grey
this stupid poem will make you smile? hooray.
Catching AngelsBlood soaked my feetCatching Angels2 years ago in Scraps More Like This
Every cut noticeable as I stepped
But that didn't stop my leap
Or how much of this I wouldn't accept
Smoke filled my lungs
Spilling from my nose
Your words did more than just tug
They stopped time and I froze
My eyes leaked a liquid fire
Swimming with painful tears
Crushing all my desires
Under a wave of my childish fears
There was no such thing as heaven
There was no splint to heal our broken wings
We are here in hell until the end
But I will give you my everything
Two broken, blackened angels
Two souls lost and then found
So many angels fell
But we never let each other drown
I Am That HouseThe moon is out of tune, chords of discord screech and sighI Am That House2 years ago in Scraps More Like This
I’m blown by the winds of change like a leaf, helpless
The stars have all gone mad, they gallop across the sky
Like a herd of wild creatures chased by the day
Sun and moon, they rise and fall in fast-forward motion
The hands of the clock swing wildly around its face
I’ve brought nothing to the table, I stand naked at the feast
Hoping hungrily for a scrap from those who eat
An old house whose paint has long been weathered away
Stands silently waiting for the bulldozers to come
Burned by summer sun and chilled by winter moon
Windows break as night plays leapfrog with the day
A leaf, a house, inside, outside; what do I speak of?
The lines are not harmonious, they trip over themselves
The confusion and discord paint the proper picture
Nothing is in coherent form; the world is flat, with monsters at its edges
(Do you feel anxious, unsatisfied, a little confused?
Here, take two of these, they’ll help calm you.
DoorsYou walked out the door, you said goodbye,Doors2 years ago in Scraps More Like This
You left me on the carpet, to whimper and cry,
I'll sleep on the rug in a Northern breeze,
You left the door open and you took your keys,
So whatever way you think of it, if you ever do,
My door remains wide open, if you love me too.
and the city never slept at allmy cityand the city never slept at all2 years ago in Scraps More Like This
never do you sleep—
bled like a cut
of open wound
with red yellow black blue
cars honking very loud
and all of my heart
beating to subway
asleeping to the sound
a sea of feet bleeding
for little home(on quiet
nights) with my fancy tea
and sad city life
far too pretty with how
to close those eyes
4 word poemPole † † † †|4 word poem2 years ago in Scraps More Like This
Dancer. † |
† † † † † †| † Tuition
† † † † † †| † † Fees.
whorei'm a whore.whore4 years ago in Scraps More Like This
not like i get paid for what i do or anything, i'm not a prostitute. just it doesn't take too much to get me to let you cop a feel. promiscuous, if you would.
i like feeling like i'm loved. i get that being used for my body doesn't mean love, but making someone feel good makes me feel good, and it's a little like love in that way.
i'm something of a self-effacing monstrosity. i'm red in the face and so are you as you resurface from between my legs.
i'm a whore.
slut of the earth. that's what i feel like when we come out of the woods. you're so drunk you probably don't know what's happened, and you'd be damned if you weren't having a great time right now, wavering all over the cool grass under the night sky, laughing jovially at nothing but the sounds of crickets' legs locking together like violin strings.
i'm a whore.
it's less being a slut, more crying for help. less throwing orgies to get off, m
2 minute speech on pro-choice euthanasiaI believe in choice. I, personally, am free to choose where I live. I can choose who to vote for, what to buy and who from. I can choose who I live my life with. I can choose my sexual partners without worrying about their gender or race or class. I can choose to believe in what I want and I can choose to change my mind back again.2 minute speech on pro-choice euthanasia1 year ago in Scraps More Like This
Its not global yet but we all hope that one day it will be. That everyone will be free to choose. Already we have so much choice. We can choose to live our lives any way that we think is best.
Except not at all.
No matter what level of physical, mental or emotional torture you endure - you can live however you want, unless you don't want to.
In an era in which choice has become the ultimate freedom of being, when allowing people to choose how they live their lives has become a central point in debates of equality and human rights, in an era like this -- why is it that the majority get to decide something that inflicts a lifetime of pain onto another hu
why i will never write ya books.“Oh, Em, honey. You have to realize this: everything happens for a reason.” She heard this mantra one too many times for comfort, and hearing it spoken again, sparked a new ache in Em’s stomach. Oh, god.why i will never write ya books.2 years ago in Scraps More Like This
The thing about this mother: she always seemed to slip a helping of bullshit into the cracks Em’s perpetual list of teenagery concerns. That is, this concern—this time—was different. Once, Em did think her mother’s getup was telling; though as the time flew by and hair went through its many haircuts, as breasts grew larger and the blamelessness of childhood was lost, the simple mantra’s meaning was lost too. And here they were, seemingly back at square one again.
“For the last time, mother,” Em snapped. “I might be pregnant. Why isn’t this getting through your head?” Her mother’s hands are gripped tight at her shoulders, leaving Em stiff in her own episode of frenzy. Tension loomed, like a leaden
rejectionyou desire to shieldrejection2 years ago in Scraps More Like This
your sensitive heart, and guess
the day you will be
and the thingólet's go
with thing; shouldn't you learn by
now? people do change
but some don't.
check the box, move down
the list, blow away the pencil
stains. next contestant.
it is not the snap
of the finger, or the
syllable of a word
but haven't you had
of time to learn?
is it like you to
inflict the sting of what you
have received? Sorry;
And you swore
and you swore
for the second time, again
and you swore
you wouldn't become like them.
but look at what you're doing
A Paper, An UrgeA paper,A Paper, An Urge4 years ago in Scraps More Like This
so white and blank.
to fill it with these words.
Words of agony,
words of hope;
and nothing else.
These words of power
fill this paper,
fitting nicely in between bolded lines,
as these stories of mine wait patiently to be read
by similar eyes.
so full of bottled emotions.
To shred it without mercy.
No one has to know.
how to be a poetsmatter into the inner depthshow to be a poet2 years ago in Scraps More Like This
of your hopeless little mind for
the perfect words to fit in
then my friend
you will see what
poetry is made of
to think poetry may
be beautiful as the spring
sprouting with the loveliest
of reprimands and yellowed
they're more than the
kiss of lovely things
and the flick of fingers
on lonely keys
but the sound of the heart
ripping open quite brokenly
drunk off the very words
sinking by the trance
of such diction my friend
may you call yourself
In San Bernadino Countysmoke moves slowly during rush-hour on sundaysIn San Bernadino County4 years ago in Scraps More Like This
constellations abandon your throat and ask for time
sometimes i mean the illness was photographs of oak trees
and the collar bones of strangers kept
and posted electric all along the curvature
i'm older now and the sky is an occupation of grief
outside the silhouettes of old industries bankrupt, deferred
and re-manufactured into successive arcing giants painted
like a storm with the black outline of a woman in the foreground
i mean there are people drinking
in an empty room in the yard and we talk about America
as a strange language of freeways exchanged between oceans who speak fondly of other oceans
and an angel collapsed across the gate says 'all the troubles' and 'leaving is a feral inertia'
prolonged exposure to this radiation has been known to cause pain,
i mean every person brings with them a parade of telephone poles and oak trees
which occasionally radicalize into a possession of lights
and sporadic raptures of black crows
harmonizei'm built on broken bones and metronomesharmonize3 years ago in Scraps More Like This
her alto trills, his hollow tones
a second verse she'll never know
so sweet and sweet and down we go
the cords stretch and scratch but never match
the off beat tears he'll surely catch
the droplets lead a song of their own
recorded on heartstrings, a song i know
his words they ring and the hurt they bring
it's been so long but i choose to sing
and maybe he'll hear the music we make
( it's been so long but i choose to break. )
eighti numbered my heartbeatseight2 years ago in Scraps More Like This
too bad you stopped counting
hello, eleanor.Unmentionably Paris was the city of love but never once had he considered it to be the city of falling in love. And yet—it was then, when he worried the piqued scent of baguettes would never slip from his fingertips; when he worried that maybe he’d miss his shuttle to the Eiffel Tower; it was then, when he, in spite his tongue-tied mess, caught between something like living and maybe-dying . . . When he saw her.hello, eleanor.2 years ago in Scraps More Like This
She balanced a Starbucks cup steady in her hands; she the kind of girl who liked to bury all her worries in the coffee she drank.
She was also quiet and of the shy kind, and he watched her for the sliver of the moment when she’d talked to someone nearby—her mother, maybe?—not quite yelling, but angry; almost sad, but too afraid to bring her eyes to cry sound as rain.
As he entered the room, a sad levity rose in his throat and he tried to swallow it down. He was welcomed by the whiteness of the walls, chairs, and the deep clamor of the most desponde