Dysphoriashe sells 9mm shells by the seashore,
says she can hear the ocean.
but if you listen close to these shells
you can hear ghosts.
something borrowed, something blue,
something broken, something bruised.
she traces her fingers across the autopsy scars
while she counts her bones like currency.
she'll leave your skin screaming,
and sink into the whites of your eyes like a shipwreck.
can you hear the ocean?
to be a waste of grey matter with no self-esteemforgive theseto be a waste of grey matter with no self-esteem1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
rorschach nerves &
mercury veins -
i am no tragedy boy,
but i have self-decay
down to an art.
this tar tongue only starts
marlboro conversations &
i only start fires.
Fragile Magpie MoonsIt's only spring when you first wake up,Fragile Magpie Moons11 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
two magpies and the dull ache of menstrual cramps
tapping on. Death's window
sleeps in all our bones,
a dripping water faucet.
Brittle things--like love,
a jar of not-quite-nothing--
small and fragile and ours
are the presences we carry
while running from the moon.
fishermanI am a fisherman-fisherman2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
all roaring waves
and rush of sea salt
beating seagull wings
and a tongue carved from
My hands break levees
and my breath births dams
the taste of chilly morns
still melt on the roof of my
mouth like I never wished
for anything besides the smack
of sodden rubber boots and
the scars from entangled
hunks of ivory nets
the sea has not
forgotten my voice-
I can hear them
when the wooden floorboards
crackle like hurricane bruises
from water laden saunters
through land sunk libraries
it has been a forever
since I held a dream
caught between my fingertips
and the gentle rock of a
boat and foamy froth on
but this new trip I have embarked upon
carries more clanking hooks
than screeching sinkers
yet- my line has not changed-
I am a fisherman and the sea
forget who its children are.
the drifterthe drifter1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
i tried to tell you that Marley was a ghost,
but you wanted to walk with wings
across gleaming midnight.
How marvelous, this stone stands
sturdy and musty; this glorious church holding up a ticking sun
that slowly cracks the trippy stained glass.
you drilled way below the church stone,
and found dried palm leaves and old joints
like clues to the map of an exceptional life.
I love this torrential literature,
I love a racing heart.
i cannot sleep, i keep dreaming,
ezekiel's visions leave me breathless.
Take it up with the Big Man.
Surely the cannabis creator
must exude a presence that lingers on synapses.
i've lost my ability to fly.
a tender sky with reddening clouds,
the sights of death give birth to no life.
Well, I'm l
Just RightThey called me The White Whale.Just Right1 year ago in Urban & Spoken Word More Like This
I dreamed of carving off my blubber,
perhaps learning to breathe
for minutes at a time
so I could sing,
because whales are elusive.
The ocean is vast. I could have lived
without another pinch, another poke, another
he only loves you for your tits. Get a tan,
go for a jog, are you gonna eat
Their harpoons were steady.
They had no remorse, a close friend told me,
"I just want you to be healthy." She braided my hair,
complimented the color, my eyes a drizzle,
said there was a mermaid
hiding in my shape,
I started smoking the next day.
I used to pace from the cabinet
to the basement with armfuls of confections,
I hid behind our yellow shed and guzzled
black coffee, nicotine, green tea, THC,
with giddiness turned vibrant,
all colors shook,
the first person to notice
said he didn't know I could look so good.
I found my cheekbones, polished my scales,
glittered and flitted and flirted and swam
in schools of gaping grou
shrinkingplease, don't tell me how beautiful it is that i've parted my thighs like the sea.shrinking1 year ago in Emotional More Like This
because there is nothing pretty about the tears in last nights dinner, or the way my hands shake around silverware. i am not poetry, but a language lost --in the spaces where flesh used to occupy lies everything i needed to say, kept as the only thing i could ever bear to swallow. if you try to write sonnets about the scars on my knuckles or the arch of my ribs, i will tell you in nine syllables less that this is more than abstinence and foggy reflections. i will tell you how my little sister can carry me in her arms like a child, and how my father can hardly navigate my bedroom floor without touching the brown vomit stains that makes his brow heavy. i will tell you how it feels to hold your own heart in your hands, to feel it break and skip like an old, worn cd. i will tell you how i am nineteen and fishing through musty boxes of clothes from my childhood, only to find that not a single pair of sh
Infini-Fridge 9000Barry loved his Infinity Fridge. Or at least, until he got married, anyway.Infini-Fridge 90002 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
At first, it was amazing. As a freshly-recruited maintenance engineer on the Luxury Star Cruiser The Astronut, Barry had found his new home and workplace full wonders. He walked through rooms so tall he couldn't see the sky; he swept up litter from artificial beaches which captured more beauty than the real thing; he watched the stars pass by like rain from the sweeping observation deck.
And, of course, he had his Infinity Fridge.
An Infini-Fridge 9000 was standard-issue hardware for a Luxury class cruiser, but Barry had never seen anything like it. In the slums of his native Bomalomalom, pretty much everything was finite (except perhaps for misery). Water was rationed. Food was served via nutritional pills only. Even electricity was limited to ten tera-watt-hours per day. That was barely enough to run a sens-o-vision sim and have enough left over to purify your evening drink.
So to step into a room with a frid
Missing GirlsMissing GirlsMissing Girls1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
These snippets of girls, broadsheets, ballads,
a one paragraph whisper in a smudged newspaper
beneath an ad for a pizza, two for one.
But they are singular despite their raveled tangled names.
They are still awake, a litany of how young girls die.
Delia is gone, 14 years old, cinched and muzzled with rope,
two bullets. He was pardoned. She sleeps somewhere unknown.
Her bones whisper to the unknowns. At least Delia has a song.
Johnny Cash sang about her, the Man in Black.
Did they bury her in black, a thrift store school dress
with sweat stained underarms?
They tell Delia of truck stop stores gaudy with harsh beaten light,
racks of DVDs of Country’s greatest hits. A bus stop smelling of aged urine.
He promised he would leave his wife, girlfriend, so many words.
In a church bathroom. He had a kind face.
Grainy posters stapled to telephone poles, taped to smudged windows,
small store billboards cramped with fading pleas
amidst ads for babysitting, massage and guitar le
HomesickI am the river's son,Homesick2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
my arteries flowing turquoise
and turning to rapids
rushing around my frame,
filling me with this sense
of buoyancy, minnows
tickling my sternum.
I am the river's son.
My palms caress each
silty shoreline, every
battered bank and bend,
and these places I know
so well become me
as my fingerprint,
even the bridge above me
inflamed by the afternoon
sun-glow, burning rusty and
the steel blue sky.
I am the river's son;
I bring my home along
like hermit crab,
where I step
I pull water from the earth.
Everything You BorrowedOn Sunday afternoon,Everything You Borrowed1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
after exiting the church,
you plucked the sun from the sky
and hid it in your palms
so that when I held your hands
they would no longer be cold.
When Monday night arrived
you snatched every single star
and used my tears to make
Tuesday's empty dawn shone
through the cracks of the door--
you stole the promise of what
could never be
and draped it around my shoulders.
After Wednesday's twilight passed,
you grabbed the clouds
and wove a tapestry of lies
that I hung on the walls
of my prison.
Thursday crept through us
on silent tiptoes,
waiting for us to take notice--
instead, we merely waited
for midnight to come.
The dusk of Friday waned
while you stripped it of its sorrows
and sewed them into my skin.
When Saturday came
you tried to steal the moon;
I watched as you stood on your tombstone
and stretched to reach it.
You fell, then--
fell, broke your neck,
and landed six feet under.
I couldn't cry afterwards,
for you had taken my agony
and washed it out to
SummerIt is morning.Summer10 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
Your breath hums through me; I feel it
crashing against each of the hairs on my arm.
Your foot touches mine
in the darkness of bed.
Were I a younger man, I'd rouse you
with a storm of lips, bring you up
from sleep into the daytime.
I'd trickle fingertips across your stomach,
touching your face
until your eyes dawned against mine.
I'd sing to you, hoarse with affection
But I am not a younger man;
I see you at rest, and
I am at rest.
I lie in wait to watch for daylight
to fill you up and bring you to me.
the science of us.you told me once that a strike of lightningthe science of us.11 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
is five times hotter than the surface of the sun.
and so if i am the sky
then you are the storm,
flawlessly constructed and
elaborately designed to strike me
when i'm broken.
except lightning never strikes
the same place twice,
and your fist has struck
the flesh above my cheekbone
more times than i can count.
"the earth is number two,
and heaven is number three,"
you told me once, as you slipped
your hand beneath my skirt.
your other hand was on the wheel,
guiding us through the storm.
"—because the earth was created first,"
you would tell me,
although i didn't want
to believe it.
"heaven was just an afterthought."
your hand was warm,
and your touch was electric.
i did nothing as you caressed
my inner thigh, and i stood still
as you reached for more.
i allowed you.
i had no choice.
the rain fell on the windshield
like a map of confused roads
and i thought quietly to myself
as our silence burned the bridges.
love poem from a pillar of saltthe words 'i love you'love poem from a pillar of salt1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
have always tasted like forbidden fruit
an apple offered by a helpful serpent-
sweet and fleeting but
the words 'i loved you'
just taste of
i always thought that leaving you would be like leaving gomorrah
that i couldn't help looking back
and when i did i'd feel an ocean dry itself beneath my skin
but this is so much quieter
and so much worse.
my knuckles taste of blood,
there is no new testament here
just old testament fire
just lot's wife standing on a forgotten hill
rocksalt freezing her outstretched hands
watching her hometown burn below her.
there is no forgiveness here
just mutual loneliness
just a lost religion and a broken girl
far too tired to play pretend
watching you fall apart behind me.
Blood and InkA trail of crimson drips onto a parchment so white,Blood and Ink4 months ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
intermingling with black ink on a cold autumns night.
So sweet a melancholy song, playing for all to see,
of the poor, broken, tormented soul that is me.
An artist of no consequence, my heart on my sleeve,
living with a love and a passion so few can conceive.
But with passion comes limitless sufferings and pain,
creating another line on the paper, another blood stain.
For as many scars as I have dreams I will forever live,
inspiration and courage to others is what I hope to give.
That every experience of this world has it's own worth,
to have love and sorrow before we become one with the earth.
A desire for life, a desire for death, such a bitter endless game,
but a desire for immortality burns brighter then the brightest flame.
Wishing for a part of me to not be confined to this mortal coil,
a moment etched in time, long after I am entombed in soil.
Pouring out my deepest passions and angst pent up inside,
perhaps I will live on in b
A Promise She Made With DeathShe was conceived on the edge of a mirror,A Promise She Made With Death4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
lined with pretty white lace,
that burned the inside of her parents' nostrils.
She was born with a hole in her heart,
that the doctor's never noticed,
and no one bothered to fill.
She met Death on the playground,
when kindergarten was bending her bones.
Enticed by the glinting of his scythe,
as it preyed on a malformed baby rabbit.
She made a pinky promise with him,
swearing that she'd never forget his face.
He came and went,
swayed by corpse breaths
and east-coast winds,
but always leaving her alone.
He showed her how to hurt,
in the worst kind of way.
And each time,
he paid her a visit,
he'd take someone back with him.
She often asked where he would go,
when his curled claws would drag her mother,
and every love she'd ever fallen for,
into the darkness that he crawled from.
All he'd say,
was that she'd find them again someday,
and that he would take her to them, personally.
But as February,
of her fourteenth year,
HerculesYou grappled dragons and slayed gorgons;Hercules2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
you drifted on seas of sirens
to state your name.
Dominions were built with the strength of
crumbled at your fingertips.
Why is it you never expected
more than muscles to grow weary?
Fretting over fights;
jetties at night
full of skeletons piled high.
Hush the crowd with one word,
they continue to love you.
In your dreams, you wished for recompense.
Their defense: you deserved none.
Nightmares are now escapes from reality-
a quiet confidentiality-
not the other way around.
So wear that badge of courage,
badgered by the current
of the overflowing river of fame.
This is what you wanted.
Headdressi.Headdress1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
tread noiselessly, and you become rabbitchild
there is a strength in silence
God hears your footsteps and counts your paces, maybe,
but no one sees, no one speaks
let it be, sweet destiny,
let it have its way with you
;; (& your children)
i'm no architect, but hear me:
i know a hieroglyphic when i see one
and the writing's on the wall
debutantes' young feathers
won't save you now
daddy knows best, always knows best
mama sings sad song when she braids warrior knots in your scalp
and sends you to the war that is life
It Is In The DoingI know what she thinks I do in the bathroom when I take a little too long,It Is In The Doing1 year ago in Drama More Like This
when I'm a little too quiet.
After all, I'm a healthy teenager with access to the internet, what else could I be doing?
She knocks on the door and asks, "Hey, what are you doing?"
Smile, my dear reader.
Chuckle a little.
Sometimes she's right.
But sometimes... Sometimes I'm on the floor or pressed hard against the wall, my heart a little too fast, my breath a little too quick... my chest a little too tight as I try to keep the sound of steadily falling tears from echoing beyond the door. As I try to keep pretences to the outside world that I do not cry, that nothing hurts me. That always, always, always, I do not fall to the madness of emotions. I have no control of my life but dammit, I am in control of myself.
But every now and then the rigid hold of apathy breaks and I am reduced to this. Crying in a place where no one will hear my tears. Where no one will hear how desperate I am. How broken.
Broken seems lik
i can't keep walking on these dry-rot bonesoh, i am not a poet;i can't keep walking on these dry-rot bones11 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
like the ink scratches
of plath, i am
specter boy: decay,
dispose, & disappoint
because this is the way
that writers wane -
(this hangman head is no
survivor story, & gods
do not burn out
The Girl With The Jackalope SmileShe always told me her life was a cake walkThe Girl With The Jackalope Smile1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
But I'll never understand what kind of happiness comes from
Crushing pastries under your foot
She could stitch sunshine along her wrists
And leave the rest of us in the dark
Trying to paint our own cerulean skies
And leaving us all bereft when we only managed
To stain our skins blue
And she could dance a two-tattoo on the arch of moon beams
Licking her diamond lips to taste something more
Willow wick finger tips gleaming with still flames
Tempting a hand into her grasp so that she might
Burn life back into our hollowed bodies
She traced constellations on her lungs
So she could breathe the star dust
And have shimmering breath all year long
Instead of just in December
Her canines glinted when she grinned
Candle drops of light shinning in each tooth
And melting our hibernation patchwork
To reveal our summer skin
Her veins surged with hot apple cider and wildfires
And her cigarette smoke smelt of burning wood
Her orange and red