words are always underdressedmy mother tells me i am too deep for myself.words are always underdressed1 month ago in Free Verse More Like This
i sit with blankets wrapped around
my shoulders and i tell her
of how amazing it is to be able to speak -
how i can communicate endlessly
in a bottomless sort of forever.
she looks at me
and i can’t read it. i am told
that my soul has lived for centuries,
has seen ten thousand lives -
but it is encrypted within my ribs,
protected from my eyes.
and i can’t read it.
i tell my mother i get so very bored
and she says this is what life is. i quiet,
quietly, whisper to the window
that there must be something out there to take away
my mind from all of this mundane
my mother asks me how my night at work went.
i look to her and tell
of how it’s always the same.
we sit at the table and i question how we survive when all we earn is worth
she says, we must survive
and i ponder what existence
decided our fate would forever and a day
be amounted to nothing but ruins
i tell my mother of how
survival never really mean
A crash-course on friendshipi. Just because you wouldn’t doesn’t mean they won’t.A crash-course on friendship1 month ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
ii. My mother used to tell me that the boundaries of what we found acceptable were like sports grounds. Some people play in stadiums, Olympic-sized swimming pools, anything goes. Other people play on a ping pong table, on the spot doing keep-me-ups. And just because something is a big deal to you, it might not be for them.
iii. You can’t make people be your friend. You can’t go up to the boy who always sits in the back row of class and say that you can see he has learned to listen, to absorb, and you can teach him how to expand, to express. But you can say hello.
iv. Promises of forever are futile, aren’t fair. You will grow and change course like a vine between two towering trunks. You will split and mend your seams in different orders like a river parted around a rock. You will not be the same as twenty-year-old you, thirty-year-old you, and neither will they. Some tire tracks stay parallel for
Happy Songs on the RadioI don't write about happy things.Happy Songs on the Radio3 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
I don't listen to songs about romance.
I can't feel what the artist is singing so passionately about.
The longing to know what it's like makes me want to scream and shout.
The way people write and lace words together,
About how happy and perfect they see the world.
Has always been a stranger to me.
I wish I could see,
The way you did.
I really do.
I wish I could feel the same way as you.
To be able to hear the lyrics,
'I love you'
And picture someone to match those three words.
I wish I could hear these songs,
About how everything is perfect.
Absolutely nothing is wrong.
But I can't.
I hear those songs and I feel empty.
Because I can't feel what they're saying.
And I keep listening,
But I am just wasting my time
Trying but failing to relate.
When I hear the songs on the radio.
They make me squirm in my seat.
I feel happy but sad.
Something so bitter sweet.
Because part of me feels so happy for the person.
Who sings so happily.
But another, darker half.
Greenwich Mean Time is a liarIn the mornings, while I yawn andGreenwich Mean Time is a liar1 month ago in Free Verse More Like This
pour cereal singing into a bowl, you
yawn and turn in bed, the evening
settling like snowfall, thick and heavy
outside your window. Here the sun rises,
there it sets, we exist at opposite ends
of the days, sending our postcard promises
with the cycle of the moon. In the afternoons
I walk along the beach and the tides pool in
with your slumbering sighs, like the oceans
are your lungs, filling and deflating with a
white-wash rumble. The birds chorus the dawn
and the gulls hang suspended in a waning day
and I think of the clattering wind-chimes behind me
as your cereal hitting the bowl, the odd piece
scattered on the countertop, your bleary eyes
never noticing. In the evenings, I push the sun
down below the mountains, to sit high up in your
cerulean skies, you pack up the stars and mail them
to me, and they pinprick the dusk as if you threw them
up like confetti. You glance at the time zones on your
phone, and wish me goodnight as I wish you a good day
Don't fall in love with a poetDon’t fall in love with a poetDon't fall in love with a poet1 month ago in Free Verse More Like This
because we can find beauty in anything
and we won’t let it go;
I fell in love with a boy because I thought the crooked
line of his mouth was a mirror image of mine,
fell in love with him because his nails were square like
headstones and I wanted to bury myself in him.
Don’t fall in love with a poet
because we notice the minutiae in every face
and we orbit like strung out satellites;
I fell in love with a girl because when she cried her skin
blossomed like an over-ripe peach, and I wondered
if I would swallow the stone by accident when I kissed her.
Don’t fall in love with a poet
because we can’t let go of the quirks we collect.
we exist like mirrors, without an object we are a blank slate
and the one thing we can’t stand are blank spaces,
that’s why we fill pages with ink to cover the silence of
-our parents’ marriage, dissolving like salt in water, but still leaving a bitter taste acrid in your mouth;