Paradoxes in her bonesand she always dismisses herself
and leaves her pupils dilated
lighthouses and forget-me-nots tangled in her chest
but her thoughts shiver more than her dreams.
he calls her beautiful
as she longs to stick his eyes out with stones
and grasp his aching heart between her hands
but they both know he's already broken.
how can they stop when they've never started
she wishes she could send them reeling
with stalwart syllables and poignant sighs
even though she's never made a sound.
the storms outside are bitter
no sweet rain after dusk to wet her lips
the winds inside her are quiet, and seething
with all the words she's never said
and all the promises she's ever broken.
tencourage must be a dominant trait,ten1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
for how else could you handle
a pin-pulled grenade
with such delicacy
Dysania9.22.13Dysania1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
I know that today you didn't feel like getting up.
You thought the light from the window
looked a little less harsh from your pillow,
felt like gravity was stronger than most days,
thought that if it was any stronger,
it would swallow you whole.
I know you almost didn't get out of bed today.
I know you almost didn't pick up the razor today.
You almost didn't care enough to mark your losses,
to tally your skin with ritualistic conviction.
You almost didn't make that sacrifice,
but sometimes the voice that says
"atone" is the loudest one.
But know this-
Your body has been met with the force of gravity every day,
and has still managed to stand up right.
Your heart loves you more than you do,
it is stronger than diamonds,
every time you thought it had shattered,
that surely it would stop this time,
it kept going.
Your veins are tree roots,
and no matter how much you try to dig them up,
they keep you firmly planted.
They are beautiful.
You are beautiful.
No one else has the sa
Tobacco and PeppermintWe wait in the car outside,Tobacco and Peppermint1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
my hand dangling from the window,
my fingernails kissed with fog.
Silvery curls of smoke
rise like a dragon's breath
from the thing between my fingers.
You look at me, horrified,
staring at the black and blue
stains upon my tongue,
the marks of damage
cutting deep into my skin,
deep beneath tissue,
deep enough to corrode my bones.
I'm living in someone else's death,
borrowing a pair of cheap, shriveled lungs
that rattle loosely like leaves
in my chest.
I exhale a fresh, decaying breath,
and though I try to be diplomatic,
I know in my heart I'm just mocking you.
"Those things are gonna kill you,"
you tell me, all sage wisdom and disapproval
and sudden concern for my well-being.
"It's six bucks for a pack of cancer."
I try to laugh, and cough
then laugh some more
at the fact that I can't breathe.
In a greasy ashtray, I stamp out
my last flimsy cigarette,
ash and sorrow lying dead
in the dimly lit embers.
If only I could stamp you out
as easily as I've stamped
You've Endured So Many Storms That You Became OneYou have endured so many storms that you became one.You've Endured So Many Storms That You Became One1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
Your mother was a tsunami.
Her emotions came in waves
and crashed down on you like
“this is all your fault”.
Her high-tide flooded your basement.
There’s water damage in your roots.
She taught you how to swim when you were five years old,
but somehow you’ve been drowning for seventeen years.
You once told me that you hid all the knives in your house
so that the waves wouldn’t carry them away.
Your father was a thunderstorm.
His voice shook your house so much,
I could have almost sworn that you lived by train tracks.
His thought clouds
generated enough electricity to light up your neighborhood.
When his lightning cracked you’d count
to see how far away his hand was from your face
before the friction in his bones was too much for him to bear.
You have endured so many storms that you became one.
You are an earthquake,
and my heart is your San Andreas Fault
AsphodelA beckoning:Asphodel1 year 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
gossamer loveyou will love a womangossamer love11 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
who uses the word
too often. she will
diagnose dead artists' descents
into madness and laugh
too loudly at jokes
no one understands.
she will braid crowns of
flowers, she will write poems
in constellations, she will
try to walk like a dancer so
no one can hear her
leave. she will be
an ice sculpture, and when
she cries, you'll convince yourself
she's melting, she loves you, you've
changed her, you've
changed; she will wear you
like a comma, like
an incomplete thought,
in her story, and
she will leave you wondering
to the girl with hungry footstepsI'm sending all my words backto the girl with hungry footsteps1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
to the people who need them--
people who wear scars like
war trophies, like jewelry, like
an identification for those suffering
from the same acceptance of
self-hate. this is to the people
who sleep with one eye open, who
cry when footsteps enter their room
at night; this is to the girls
who love by cutting their hearts
into snowflakes and watching
them melt. I left you behind and
I can't be sorry for that.
you are the type of beautiful
that kindly asks the world
to fuck off. the days we buried
have decomposed, headstones are
snapshots; sanitized breakdowns,
rusty tongues, sighs laced
with fear, I love you, I love
you. saturdays were the best
because we could sleep through
the nightmare. you painted me a
picture of the world with your words
and they made us wash it away
for being transparent.
we were afraid of nothing
but the monsters in our eyelids.
back then, we counted days
like shooting stars; it took 67
to wish myself away. this
is for you, skygazer;
I was never a writer. I: HalfsleeperI was never a writer.1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
I fell in love, once.
A snowstorm melting from my hair - dripping cataract:
diluted coffee. A dark room filled with language
so beautiful, I almost understood what was said.
Children are getting younger, and this land has no end,
where do you rest your head?
All things are in a constant state of vibration,
a harmony in the space between
our fingers. our hands.
I’ve only ever stopped to listen
to become a writer.parents divorce before you can talk.to become a writer.1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
write about it
like you don't care.
try to mean it.
go through months
of shitty pity-leaking almost-poems
before you get one
that actually makes someone feel
say that it was all a mistake.
only feel like a writer
when you're insecure.
fall in love
with someone. anyone.
that's it's just for fun. just for being
actually love the hell out of them.
mess it up.
write about it.
smoke 2-5 cigarettes every day,
but with the hopes
of saving your lungs for running
(a metaphor? another rule: never tell)
and drink and drink and drink
until you have the courage
to call up ex boyfriends
or lovers or dead friends
to say that you miss them.
write about that-
like you don't care.
everyone knows that you care.
write about that.
,the thing they forgot to mention,1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
about being a writer
is that we all live the longest
and die the fastest.
we feast on metaphors
with numb fingers and hearts
until we crawl under a half moon to sleep
and just don't wake up,
because everything we are
is arranged in our work
and we start to become
everything we've written about,
slowly but surely.
and now i'm not so sure
if i want to be a poet.
i just know
that i want to be a writer.
don't love me until you've seen me bleed.i think thatdon't love me until you've seen me bleed.1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
i'm falling in love
no, no no,
don't you say that,
because you've never seen me
at 4 am
with my eyes glazed
and my mind a battle field
(and my arms paying
for the weaponry).
haven't heard me
choke back sobs after midnight
because god dammit i can't sleep,
and the screams in my ears
aren't helping matters,
and i don't think
you will ever see me
bre a k
and shatter and
fall into the greedy grip
of a panic attack
and then try in vain
to claw myself back up.
but there is that hot hope
that tells me that you
can look past
the scars and the tears
and the screams and
the nightmares. and
for once in my damn life
i'm praying that i'm right
colors.red is a power color.colors.1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
red is stoplights, anger. rage.
red is my nose when i cry about my parents.
“women are more attractive to men
when they wear red,” he says once
so you cut yourself
because red is blood
and when he ignores the bandages, you say,
“no. look what i did.
look what i did for you.”
but he doesn’t fall in love with you
red is the scream that
comes out of your mouth.
blue is the veins under your skin and
blue is depression that tells you to slice them
blue is the weeks you spend after him
and blue is the great, wide sky above you,
trying to remind you that the rest of the world
is still waiting.
your brother says he’s looking for the light
at the end of the tunnel
but the world is full of light.
(you would know. we can hardly see the stars
because of it.)
the world is not full of you
so you try.
black is what surrounds him
and black is burns
and you’ve been burned, scalded
so you blend in.
knees and toeshere is a short list of things i know:knees and toes1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
Cody says he hates David, but he really doesn’t,
i will never wear a coat until the first of November,
i hate myself in the spring,
the sun is 92, 960, 000 miles from earth and i’m pretty sure
that number is rounded to look pretty
or god must be ocd.
it’s a miracle, i’m learning to look you in the eye.
make a wish, make a wish, any wish
i’m plucking out my eyelashes, i’m learning
to give up beauty for a shot at happiness.
i say too much too quickly without getting out
all of the consonants and my speech is craggy
and rocky like an abandoned trail in the Appalachians,
overgrown and the road not taken.
my fingernails are ragged and bitten to the shortest
stub i could stand. i don’t want to hurt you,
i don’t want to hurt myself, my fingernails cannot
hurt you but i can still hurt myself. one day i’ll
be brave enough to leave scratch marks on your skin
in angry red lines, one day i’ll be some
we're legal murderers.how to love a writer:we're legal murderers.1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
will turn your passion
into works of extended metaphors
for death and decay,
slipping you scars
served sunny-side-up because,
hey, we all want to be
writers want someone, anyone
(usually the wrong one,
because pain sells more than
to try and pour cement
into the dents inside them
until they realize that they're really just
located in the wrong side of town
that cannot be repaired.
that is what we do.
we break people
for a living.
Pocket UniverseI can smell the typewriters beneath your skinPocket Universe1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
metallic, halting, smudged vibrato
wavering note stretched out far beyond
the edge of the universe tucked in your front pocket
breathing out in time with your heartbeats.
All along the wall I find notebook pages
old teabags hung for too long, green flakes whirling
while you sit in the lean of the willow tree
and watch the play that is my life
chew the scenery; the stage collapses with a groan.
You pull your scarf in
and wrap the scars in burnt umber
while the show goes on
like demigod preachers for the already damnedthese scapegallow cynics &like demigod preachers for the already damned1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
stygian sermon speakers -
they're all histrionics & sinners,
they're all purgatory dwellers
oh, hades, are you supernova dreamers?
'cause the poets are all dead-end kids.
.you are dead and buried.1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
six feet under yourself,
still feeling the way you did
when you were seventeen
and when you bathe, you still
keep your head under the
water, wrists upturned, red
eyes open, trying to drown yourself
i don't think im alive enough to die yet.we used to play russian roulette on dingy street corners,i don't think im alive enough to die yet.1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
cigarettes hanging from soot-blackened lips
and morphine running rampant through our drugged up systems.
i remember how i was always shot.
you ran away when i didn't die
and left me to bleed out
onto the cold concrete.
but you don't understand-
dolls and wallflowers are empty inside,
and hearts constructed hastily with broken matchsticks
don't beat true. it's just dull thumping
in a hollow chest cavity.
(and even the best dentists can't fill this one up.)
a.m./p.m.i put my handsa.m./p.m.1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
in the stars-
feathery hair, cold
skin and cyanosis fed,
i realize that i am
born in neither winter
or spring, crying about
cherry tree spines and
throwing stones, i
was left for the
it is the dawn of
February, and i am so close to
seventeen that i can
taste it; i am
very nearly choking
the sky beckons me most
at 11:49 pm, because
it's hovering between
tomorrow and yesterday--
that destroys me.
i want to burn it to the
the ashes in like cigarettes on
i am stuck here
in a windowless town with
a thousand memories stuck
between my canines;
into the wind, i
drop words like dead
take me home.
a sliver of the galaxyto the star girl on the edge of my tongue:a sliver of the galaxy1 year ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
your hair dye is fading; you are a patch work
quilt comprised of sleepless nights and
the world around you romanticizes
the sadness that fills you like a broken well,
but you know they’re wrong --
having a darkness that threatens
to overwhelm you every single moment
isn’t glamorous at all.
you’ve started to trace your skin
with a knife again, itching to press
a little harder, to draw on your body
the only way you know how.
but you won’t.
because that will mean
that you’re just as far gone
as they think you are.
and there’s still a sliver inside of you
that doesn’t want to let go.
--the girl on the other side of your mirror
t.they say thatt.1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
but that's not really true;
we both hate our misery
and i'm learning to
but you know what they say
they'll suck you dry
and only use you
to write about. carve your name
into poems (not into
skin-- that's not "in" right now,
i guess), but
maybe i'm all out of words
are all i want to read about.
neshamah.apollo's misstep.neshamah.1 year ago in Stories & Vignettes More Like This
look at your clock. it's tomorrow. all the seconds and minutes of yesterday are gone, disintegrated with the window dust. 12:00 a.m.; re birth.
i've always had this theory that in between 11:59 p.m. and 12:00 a.m., there's this vast ticking of nothingness that hovers between the minutes. just for a second, you are nowhere. the day is both finished and regenerating, and that's sort of magical. i always think that apollo falters, just for a second, as he puts the moon away, tucked neatly in his teeth.
born in a typewriter.
i can never think of how to start anything. the point, of course, is to grab the reader's attention before they become bored with your work and leave, and i don't know if i can do that. i am afraid i cannot ever begin to tell you all of my story.
if i were to be chronological, i would start with telling you when i began to write. but, 1: i am never
Remember me.We were seventeen when we met.Remember me.7 months ago in Urban & Spoken Word More Like This
The first thing you said to me
was "Open your eyes
You were a collection of
skinned knees and your
father's broken promises,
holding onto your fears
like miniature phantoms
clinging to the bit of skin beneath your eyes,
the indentations of muscle in your chest.
You taught me how to make
You taught me that every little
every pop of pain,
was God's design,
and if he was a painter,
you said I'd be the Mona Lisa.
You said I was a work of art.
You made big towering claims
like your hopes for San Francisco,
you piled me up like cities and skyscrapers
and buildings tourists flocked to
just to take a photograph,
capture a single memory.
When I broke my bones,
you laughed it off and said,
"People, we're just like
big versions of dolls,
snapping limbs and
cracking under pressure
the way anything does,"
and after getting pissed and
nursing my cast,
egothe willow is a gorgeous idiot.ego2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
she does not fathom why her feathers
vault to the grass
like gouges in a green fount.
do not praise my derelictions
and unpracticed mourning,
the angle of my slump.
i have given in to gravity
and furious flights
but even so,
my envy has a blossom
and a leaf
and i may seem to wave you in
though, i am barely present,
bitter sap in a blind pillar
and i do not deserve to feel
the distant murmur of your affection.