Clichedoes your poetry consist of
feelings nestled in ribcages
silent cries inside of a marrow
and the dull thunk of your heart
against my barely beating bones?
or is your poetry nestled in galaxies
shooting across well-kept fingertips
like comets lighting a dull sky
stardust of my hip bone wishes
literature universe coming to an end?
can your poetry play imagination
like a clever twist in a dream
where you kiss my shadows away
and teach me how to caress you
with love that burns passion away?
are you smitten enough to
run away with me
or are you yet to be blanketed
by these heavy arms of mine?
do my words weigh you down?
i havent met one so easily drowned
by the vast sea of my sunkissed letters
but as your velvet lips whispered,
always is there a first.
Things I'll tell you when you're older.The monstersThings I'll tell you when you're older.2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
don't fit under beds
Poetry AnalysisI was given poetryPoetry Analysis2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Told to pin
her arms and legs
down on my paper;
Take my pen & tear her open
Expose her limbs
And rearrange her vertebrae
to fit my selfish needs
But what the teacher doesn't know
is I already let mine escape
Clutching to the secrets
that still remain inside her
Where they belong
.when her love left, it left.2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
the house empty
and she says
i hope one day it'll
come back to me,
cos i don't keep this shotgun
on my front porch for nothin'
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
AsphodelA beckoning:Asphodel2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
watercolour sky shrinking,
too late, teeth fall; pearls
from a broken string.
Blink and the moon ignites—
but the sheets are still
Train WreckWeTrain Wreck1 year ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
just waiting to
happen; but I’m on the edge of my seat.
CathieSalt-and-pepper hair contrasts sharply with the crisp, starched pillow;Cathie2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
bone-thin arms resemble bed rails--
tears in my arms, the morphine drip in your vein.
My inner rage refutes your calm acceptance.
You ask if we are waiting for you to die: no.
We are waiting for a miracle,
we are waiting for you to heal--
We are waiting for something that will not happen.
We are stretching for something that is out of reach.
We are holding onto our obsolete hopes, the small fragments of our lives
so closely, we cannot see the bigger picture
In a paradox, God is calling you clearly,
but we can't seem to hear His voice--
only the silence ringing in our ears
as the monitor stops
your breathing ceases
your face un-creases--
and, for the first time in years,
you run Home.
A(nother) letter to myself.You have grown.A(nother) letter to myself.2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
You are not ten years
old and silent.
You've found the words
and you have made them
your sword and your shield,
your battering ram against
the walls you built when you
were too afraid to live.
And I know that some days
you feel like letting go,
That you wonder if it might
feel like flying if you spread your arms
and close your eyes and pretend you
aren't doing this to die.
You have stood on the edges
of rooftops and bridges
(To follow her, I know,
but you were not born to go this way.)
and you have climbed back down.
You will make it, my girl,
by the skin of your teeth.
And when you get here,
I will have built a life out of
the ashes of yours.
You will be born into me,
and I am strong enough for both of us.
Vertebraewe dressed ourVertebrae2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
& bone crowns
spitting static through
our buzzing t.v. teeth
you're a silent migraine:
[& i want to be something
too pristine to
lolita and her galaxy boy(she)and (he)lolita and her galaxy boy2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Lie in the grass
It’s December and
it’s too cold to do anything but stargaze
(he) names a star after (her)
In the blackwashed sky
As (they) swim in space
In the cracks of the black holes
Into millenniums and alternative universes
And (they) sink
The hymns of the stardust
Until the sun rises
And winter falls into spring
And the chlorine molecules decompose back into simple astrology
maria:she is splayedmaria:2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
beneath the moon, a
[star]fish out of
swallows the sounds of
keyed piano concertos
& suddenly, she
realizes - this
is how it must feel to
be [at peace
Flashyes, there’s something niceFlash2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
about fireworks that
cut through the night and
spill golden light all over
those who watch
but there’s also something magical
about the smoke trails
by each and every
how they show
where the fireworks tore through the darkness
breaking through the unknown
even with no light to guide them
how they display
not only where we end up
but how we fought to get there
and I realize
that as pretty as each little flash is
how beautiful each burst of color seems
I think I’d much rather
be learning about
gossamer, and yousome peoplegossamer, and you2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
(the lucky ones)
get songs stuck in their heads.
i, on the other hand,
am left with words
that beat incessantly against
the confines of my brain.
last week, it was "gossamer."
i thought it was whimsical;
that was pleasant.
i saw the word
every which way i turned:
a gossamer veil of sunlight,
a silk shirt like gossamer,
a spider hanging by a thread of it.
i hate the word now,
with all its whimsy washed away;
the hard g is too harsh and garish
against the roof of my mouth,
the double s too serpentine.
it feels numbingly stiff on my tongue,
like some sort of linguistic anomaly,
a could-be word that really shouldn't be.
today, it was your name.
(i never thought
proper nouns counted, but
evidently, they do.)
i didn't see you as much as i heard you,
in the whistling of the breeze
or the creaking of the hardwood floors.
your imposing yet warm presence
near the nape of my neck.
i admit that somewhere
in the recesses of my mind,
46. dropthey’ll make it look as46. drop2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
easy as breathing –
[ words rolling off their tongues
like pearls off a broken necklace
& you may comprehend it not,
but their minds are so beautiful
that you are dumbstruck &
left (alone) to operate in a machine
suddenly too clumsy and dated
& this is the way it goes,
& all the money in the world
will not buy you a new one,
or maybe just one like that. ]
you might think that
the sky exists between the
notes in their voice, the universe
is their body,
(the stars are a map to the
soul & you simply can’t read it.)
you may find yourself believing
that they aren't even human at all.
[ the fact, however, is not
scientifically proven. ]
& this is how you dis
WordsmithsHow long did you thinkWordsmiths3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
we could pound our vocabulary with hammers
before it fell flat?
Celestewe'll kiss hell's palms likeCeleste2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
before we give sermons tonight;
pacing scaffolds, we long
to wake immaculate -
Otherwise Good ConditionI have worn the same dressOtherwise Good Condition2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
for four days, because
I am sick, exquisitely
black and gold, your drunk
dimestore Nefertiti. A
white stain announces
itself, a muddy star:
here. Undo yourself,
those sallow words you drink,
let the silk fall loose. I've got
a face like dirty laundry
and burial grounds --
What I touch becomes
unwell. I wear my hair
like it pains me,
like a little girl
sucking her teeth
at cars, the caked little
tombs of sugar that crumble,
under the hot milk
of the sun.
scraps and sacramentsyou,scraps and sacraments2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
beautiful siren girl with melodies
entangled in her hair: you are
shell-shocked and sea-struck
even though you cannot stand
the sensation of sand beneath
you have fingers for prying, picking,
pulling at your skin and nesting
in that hollow space between
your bones. and if anyone asks,
you will swear there are monsters
sleeping in the concaves of your ribs;
there are ghosts beneath your tongue,
embittered, and you are not the words
they say there is an answer, little girl
(sometimes you begin to believe you are
a scarecrow on the border of reality
begging people to turn the other way;
and the mirror will agree)
how far have you gone? a feather in
the breeze who won’t promise to return
again; there is a wandering warmth in
the hesitation of your harbored fear.
where will you be in six months when
the future has become itself and you
are still astray? little one, no one is like you
in the way you sway to the cadence of a
dissonant night. no one knows your
BullyHear me perform it on youtube.Bully3 years ago in Urban & Spoken Word More Like This
We are not more
than each other but
virginity is a childhood disease;
because my friend tells me
I won't find a way to keep it.
So I do keep it.
You are not more
than me, yet
I bully you:
'sex is an adolescent dream.'
because your friends tell you
that you will hold someone
close enough to have it.
So you hold someone closer.
And it doesn't bother me
that I twitch from the grief,
wince from my gut and ground
my teeth for the truth;
I do those things because
this thought makes sense to me:
I think I'm more
Titles Don't Belong in the First LineTitles don’t belong in the first line,Titles Don't Belong in the First Line1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
and poetry is not made of end rhymes.
The ventilated fluorescence and I
flicker at the incongruence
and I want to tell her
sometimes east is left
on the map
if you hold it right.
nine fifty sevenyou are wide, animated eyes likenine fifty seven2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
a couple of pale moons in a velvet winter sky, and
limbs that stand like willows against the
suburban scape behind you, soft grace in your
sure stride, soft sincerity in the slight curling of your
lips, sweet with a salty aftertaste or bitter with a
spicy edge, i can't decide,
but your aches and pains echo like
a thousand orchestras playing Rossini to
open amphitheatres, and i can hear the sound
soaring across open plains to where i am
where i stand, between black buildings and slate roads,
i am rouged cheeks and deep scarlet lips with
cigarettes perched between them and billows of smoke
framing my face, blonde hair pinned back,
wearing a black turtleneck, i am your film noir
femme fatale, but my big brown eyes seem
reproachful in your gaze, after all,
i am a living facade, and the world is my
disappointment, and my own reflection is my
we're both so disillusioned we can't see beyond our own stars
and the atmosphere seems to condense
unfilterediunfiltered2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
i’d tell you I hated you
if you had a voice or a face,
or any sense of tangibility aside
from the spider fingers you use
to crawl through my brain
you are not beautiful, like
all the other poets protest. you
are the red in my eye, like
a pen bled; the ragged to
my fingernails, the hitch of my breath
when it catches in my throat.
before i go, i’ll write a million letters (a million
pennies for my thoughts, bitter, embedded
under my tongue) and send them to people
i’ve never met, telling them how my eyes were blue
when i was little but now are the same gray
i’m choking on, how i am maddie and how that’s short
for a name i was never graceful enough for, how
i tell myself stories of lives i’ll never live so i
can go to sleep
because when i’m really gone, that’s all that’ll be left
(it’s funny what people
try to justify with words)
you never loved me,
you selfish thing, i wonder why
i wasted so many nights relivin