InfiniteWe’d make a beautiful constellation,
You and I –
shivering galaxies that may implode
but who keep expanding,
still hiding in gravitational lenses
of sheer splendor -
a thousand and one stars;
we could wish for personals
or maskless parades
without crippling facades-
not nameless but known.
You and I,
we could be brighter
than the sun.
comets in my head againThere are bruises on my legs again.comets in my head again2 years ago in Philosophical More Like This
Maybe I tried too hard for the stars - struck hemispheres of dreaming too big - while I count one, two, three, four, five shiners on my legs, ten lookers on each arm (your jointed peals of rage) and, probably, forty-four on my heart – though it’s not like I ever counted the number of times you beat me down, before.
It never did matter if I was enough for the 16 years - or for the Escitalopram - because I was never a star jumper that could trade in comets for the cratered, disfigured life of meteors.
There are bruises on my legs again, and I think I should stop dreaming.
LandslideYearning for birds –Landslide2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
the reminder of anchors in
each half-moon cresent
so lovingly carved into my soles.
And you play hopscotch in my veins -
the ones forbidden now to bleed -
until I am beaten blue and flat
but there are sparrows in my brain
among cerebral cortex clouds,
and that should be enough...
only it isn’t.
.I beat my head into the glass shop windows – as if that would knock you out of me – clutching at my heart to assure this aching chest that I still live. Perhaps, in a way, it was the motivation I needed to keep punching pulses into my wrist. (I ache more acutely than any time before, or for any person before.).2 years ago in Emotional More Like This
I know this is a cheesy love-thing (one I thought I’d never write, and therefore can’t find it in me to name), but I can’t help but fill you into every single word and page - and therefore need to ink you out. I need to breathe you, need to tell you… tell you that sometimes, just sometimes, I can’t help but hate you – and love you – for ripping me open to bleed him out; and I’ve tried to grip at the scars that see him differently. But he will never be you, and I’m starting to doubt that I’ll ever feel whole, while I marvel over not why I still breathe, but how, when sometimes all
MotheatenIt's louder stillMotheaten2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
but you don't hear it
(and that has to be okay).
Darkness holds me close again -
so safe like warmth and
I am hypothermia
Then it gets louder.
My ribs overflow with moths
they devour all my light.
It is the fearful thunder
shooting down my arms,
too uncertain for one place.
It vibrates blood and scars
until my fingertips are earthquakes
cracking open famine soil, and
I curl them tightly -
control the fear.
Then it gets louder.
It starts small -
the little things -
stabbing away at the vitals
of what ifs and could bes...
it's always just the little things.
Pack-a-dayA diamond queenPack-a-day2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
smoking pack-a-day dreams
for 95 cents more than
zirconium-falls in slim nicotine
(but the cancer in ashtrays never
stops anyone from trying.)
There’s truth in gusts of sleep,
while I struggle in the
security of windbreaking
as heaven opens up to scream.
A Poet's RomanceShe was the quiet sort,A Poet's Romance2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
within her eyes,
to pottery skin;
she would mold herself
into moonlight butterflies
and glist'ning calla lilies,
pure and white and
and when night cast
itself upon her in
heated, hard'ning flames,
she’d smash herself
upon the rocks
and in morning start
Hysteria QueenMy spine is a codeHysteria Queen2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
for you to hack
open like little
white moon flowers
( I was never good
except when I
couldn’t be. )
I keep falling down
and nothing seems
clear enough—good enough,
while you sit and smoke
without realizing you’ve
but you're not rabbits, and I'm not AliceI made a wish today with witch-made bells and his green shop dust.but you're not rabbits, and I'm not Alice2 years ago in Emotional More Like This
I visualized you – Christmas time and your image painted in my iris, as if setting goals and dates to memorize… from where you stood, you were angels and Christ rolled up into one; the shadow of the window nativity and tangible hope.
God knows I wanted to drink it in, until my eyes were ash and my lungs were you.
I know why Alice went down the rabbit whole; this “what if” disease consumes us all.
your humanityMy lovely wolf girl:your humanity2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
don't forget your jaws -
and bloodlust –
among the snow and cougars:
They are nothing,
and you are fiercest
when baying to moon craters
outside the confines of your fur.
Mankind likes it brokenMadness slipped inside of me like a hand beneath my blouse—thieving and too truthful—while i find myself in fetals, wondering where Autumn went… crushed beneath someone’s shoes, as i feel crushed beneath these memories?Mankind likes it broken1 year ago in Emotional More Like This
i’m nobody’s treasure (just a no one in a body), and though this mouth is paralyzed, i scream these words ten fingers, to grasp at everything i’ve lost. But what’s the point? i rise from moondust graves when the sun peaks my head in halos; and i hope, and i pray, that this day is one of life… but every time, i am sent to death in stars and in the shadows of the dark. And i fear i’ll only be disasters, thrown down the stairs ahead of life, while i try to learn to fall in ways that will not break my neck, my arm—my spirit…
but every ‘wild’ needs a ‘broken,’ and i’m afraid He’s beat you to it; mankind just likes it broken.
Stardust.I partook in the poisonStardust.2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
of your miracle, for
I believed you a magician:
You pulled chronic weariness
from my marrow—
from hazy depths grown
The eggs spoiled fast:
you pulled from your hat
an act of distrust,
and you left me
.she became a seabed no.2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
anchor could grip, with a
habit of turning everything
into a shipwreck
for she is a sinnerAngels eat her alive,for she is a sinner2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
the way she deserves:
molting downy feathers
in a hermetic esophagus—
like her lungs,
pooled with words
She is choked by halos,
and expecting expansions
spanning clouds and Niles
of rosemary tears;
( yet no ocean cried,
and no tsunami felt,
will rid the torture justified
in each holy touch upon
soiled cheeks: wet Liar’s runoff.
It falls so easily down her throat,
to drown more words. )
and she almost warns them
to stay away: She is filth.
but they lovingly caress
and they carefully sink
their glittering pearls into her
just the way she deserves.
Supernova WakeThey star-gazed in his brainSupernova Wake2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
(taking telescopes to lynching sanity)
to see just how he breathed…
how curtained eyes with lion’s mane
concealed inhaling pleas,
which carefully fell
from the shelter of paradox lips
and the crevices of chapped lies…
how tombstones bled into his teeth—
and heartbreak on his tongue—
and how under the belly of manta ray skies,
he laid to rest the dreams
he once did dare to dream.
Gardening for dummiesHer head is a flowery poem,Gardening for dummies2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
filled with pots and weeds
and mother earth
dug deep in roots and taciturn.
Now no one will come near,
but she has thorns
and worm-filled words,
and a spade for planting
the lesser verse…
but the loneliness
beneath roots and words
and stanza stems
until it digs ant tunnels
EmbryoI choked back the crumpled dreamsEmbryo2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
clogged in my throat like paper wads
of useless poetry
while the ocean continued to eat at me,
one amethyst toe at a time;
I sank like the anchor inked on my back,
and loved of my bones a heavier guilt
to sink and sink, beneath sorrow
and joy, and the shoreline graves.
What’s meant for salt
is meant for tears
but I was never a creature meant
wailing through crooked pipes
rusted and creaking from the summer heat
and a silence so well kept
that the dead would stare at me,
and tongue tied.
(You’d always said that drowning me
was poetry in itself)
I envy NeverlandShe becomes Tinkerbelle,I envy Neverland1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
weaving coffins with her toes
and stealing kisses from magpie crows,
every breath heaving lungs
of ash & featherdust.
No one believes –
death keeps her like a secret
pulled behind gums and marbled teeth,
white-knuckled and bonedry –
so she chokes on bible verses
and desires angel faith;
but Peter Pan’s with Wendy
and lost boys, well, are lost,
and I am shredding pages;
it’s the way in which she writes
and the ease in which I burn.
BostonThere are whales in the laundry,Boston1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
breaching seclusions and polyester skin,
these aquariums swallowing the colossal
the foreign found in seashell shores,
bound to recede in another’s hands
like humpbacks drowned in cotton-sand.
Though I be oceansIf I push you away, do not leave, for I am probably in the chasm of a pain so wide, it swallows me in days. It’ll spit me out eventually, and dear I’m sorry if I hurt you, but I hope you’d be there to tie me down. I still do not know how to love without being broken and splintered in so many places, that I’d hope you’d be forgiving, despite the stakes I aim at us.Though I be oceans1 year ago in Letters More Like This
If I throw those broken ‘me’s at you, please lock them back inside of me… and know it was not you whom I was remembering. Know it was not the present I was lost in, but the past, and give me time to reinstall my gravity. I trust and love your prints, but my brain stumbles over fingers: They can be used as hooks, and I was a fish once before, but lord never again.
If I forget your touch within the memories of another, please sink your fingerprints into my lungs so I may breathe nothing but you and ‘now.’
If there comes a time when I forget the ‘now,’ plea
SaturaThey call me Winter-Satura1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
frigid caves of melody-wire...
a siren of souls, beached to the moon,
rippling in bouts of her growing foxfire.
reasons why I don't fly awayabove half-hearted streetlights and industrial floodingreasons why I don't fly away2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
and vague misinterpretations, I cut
a little too deep.
it always comes to this; hungry shivers,
dry voices, heavy breaths as your eyes
fixate upon a set point in the distance
which you label as happiness, a nirvana
in plain view but too far
for your rubber legs to take you there.
back then we were theorists developing
a new frontier; we were two dreamers,
two corpses on a collision course in
the desperate season. you warned me
there weren’t enough words to say
beautiful; as it turns out, we
were a slip of the tongue.
I woke this morning
a butterfly. you would like
the sun pouring through my wings and
the feathers collecting
at the foot of my bed.
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
spiders and flieswe are not childrenspiders and flies1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
who pinwheel through my mother’s garden,
who blur reality before we’ve even known the bliss.
we are not children who forgive easily
(like hearts aren’t robin eggs)
or who’ve never tasted the assurance from pinkies
and rattle-sore lips. and our sandcastles?
they will not house rapunzel but tumble before the sea.
It will not remember our footprints.
we are not children, though we may wish
to turn time like the three stirs in exciting, grown-up coffee,
like daylight on my father’s old clock, the one that
ended days too quickly
because we made chameleons of feasted lamb skins,
(because time was stolen, and time was precious),
and as hard as it is, we must adapt:
make-up masks and push up bras, to appear
inexperienced, but desiring, of a pleasure,
because although we’re deceiving, we can’t dream of blending.
You should know best of all,
that after everything, we couldn’t.