on the ink-dipped fingers
of verbs & metaphors
still lodged in this bruised,
paper crane throat;
of your words,
still kissing my ribs.
How can you judge me-
when you don't bother
to read the naked poetry
beneath the temple of my flesh?
How long can butterfly
ankles hold up a
Don't bother whispering
your secrets to nebulae,
not even the dust in my veins
will listen anymore.
fly.this is hard for the world around us to grasp:fly. in Free Verse More Like This
these wildfires raging in our retinas
& the sins we wear like demonic similes
on our tongues- they are not enough.
& i am so fucking sorry of saying i'm sorry.
but, tell me,
what is a young poet(ess) to do
with veins made of kite strings?
August Lover,I want to wrap myself in your air,August Lover, in Free Verse More Like This
hold your secrets between my
ribcage-embrace & just
Collection of poetic nothings.We were opal Tuesdays,Collection of poetic nothings. in Free Verse More Like This
tattooed into the
rose garden curve
of my vertebrae,
gliding me through this wild youth.
But, like Icarus—
I was a sky conqueror
& these silk wings
touched the sun.
My inhalations are heavy,
like the earth he bruises
beneath his fingertips
as I chase silence.
"You've got a tongue
made for words." He says
against the arrogant thorns
of my briar spine.
"Learn to love yourself."
How do I say I love you
without saying I love you?
"I want to replace my heart with you."
You are spider silk woven
into my harvest moon
limbs traveling this road map
of songbird sin.
You are not just in my head now,
you are dancing in the lingering stars
of my night-witch frame
& setting me on fire.
You're not bruised enough
to write poetry.
Allow these bones to tell your story, Love.
Dear Poetry,I might be dangerously on the verge of being poetic, but-Dear Poetry, in Free Verse More Like This
Sometimes I don't feel me in my own skin.
I am too many breaks between pulses,
& a heart still living in the autumn of 99.
I'm telling stories about a girl.
A soul made of ink & godly metaphors,
too much for a non-homeostatic body.
There were once fireflies in her smile,
alight between the gaps in her teeth.
love letters carved into wrists
she never sent.
She is Porphyria, & you are her lover.
astrological.i. On some nights,astrological. in Free Verse More Like This
street lights guide
this lonely heart
to her lonely bed.
ii. In this universe of twilight skin
& mismatched bones,
I wonder just how many poems sleep
beneath the inkwell of her eyes.
iii. My body is a house of stars,
and her palms are black holes
sucking ( me ) into their vortex of
iv. She says, "Please—my moon,
please—give these bones a reason
& I am whispering lovelies
into the sanctuary of her heartbeats.
v. "Goddess temple,
sunset eyes, &
my windowpane love-
Let us eat the stars
Shy moon,i've got love carved into honeysuckle wrists,Shy moon, in Free Verse More Like This
a murder of crows in my throat,
& a pack of wolves at my back.
i want to know truths behind these myth eyes, &
the distant galaxies under your fingertips.
but, love me. love me, Love.
show me what's beyond Grimm fairy tales
spare me your ribs;
this skyscraper heart
needs a place to go.
The rule of nines.I know more about half-moon palmsThe rule of nines. in Free Verse More Like This
than most know about
the kind that beg dandelion child,
I know about forged castle ribs & broken homes.
Myths that are half fact & imaginary friend
turned bogieman -
Fangs that tear clear through ice-bone hearts
like they are nothing but pretty paper
to be folded over, again & again & again
by the hands of quivering youths:
Icarus, the reincarnated
sky conqueror searching for warmth.
No wander about it, just lust.You were a mid-morning train wreck,No wander about it, just lust. in Free Verse More Like This
the embodiment of poetry.
& my clavicles whispered too many nothings
about your summer storm hands,
folding like paper cranes
to make wishes upon themselves.
wishes are for the weak-
do something about this quaking heart
& freezing fingers.
I think I found God then,
I am trying to be honest,but I write so fucking floweryI am trying to be honest, in Free Verse More Like This
it makes me sick,
rose scented stars & love.
Her: helpless as a lamb,
I want raw, aching
bone against bone
exploring the exposed, naked
poetry of her universe-
( warm, celestial hands
forging sandcastle ribs. )
Southern earth beneath her feet,
wanderlust burned like Apollo's touch
into her spinal cord, please awaken
the empty space between her skin
ConstellationShe is dream dust,Constellation in Free Verse More Like This
too bitter or wise
for her own good.
A timeless dragon's soul
somewhere inside a
scaled shell, burning
the silence in her bones
alive, honeysuckle sweet.
She collects fireflies only to
set them free at 3am,
crying to an uncaring moon.
& she's begging for the stars
to take her away,
make this house a home
rigged in the sky.
She is already naked fever
swimming through the cosmos
& I orbit her.
beauty is a state of mindforgiveness is thebeauty is a state of mind in Free Verse More Like This
scent the violet leaves
on the foot that stomped it;
I am beautiful in remembrance:
I am beautiful
in a body two sizes too
large, in eyes dilated
with questions (eyes
you cannot name; gray
like the ocean, blue
like the heart, green like
the fever dream I cannot
wake from) I am the
hair of a lion, a wild
thing, ignition upon
tempted glance. I am the skin
you cannot name, always fleeting;
you always see
but never truly take in.
and I know a boy
carved of ivory silence,
in which I try to forget my dreamswith Sunday-heavy lips, she calls mein which I try to forget my dreams in Free Verse More Like This
selfish and means it. I remember
dreams better than people, strangers
greeting me in the grocery store over
a common past and sorry selection
of red grapes. I remember Katie
being beautiful and happy and
wearing the same abnormal toe shoes
and being a few decades older than time
would allow, I remember Emily
being alive. I remember me
escaping to France to defy logic
and stow away in a pretentious,
overpriced tourist resort where
I’d learn to speak a language
I’d never use and love people
who’d never know me; I remember
she tells me trust is not a virtue.
responsibility is gained and
taken away when you prove
unable to learn to be normal and
defiant at trying to breathe. she says,
I love you, but I don’t understand,
and she cries, saucer-eyed,
and this time I can’t
scraps and sacramentsyou,scraps and sacraments 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
ColorblindI gave away my name todayColorblind in Free Verse More Like This
and it might be a metaphor, but I think
we only remember the quietest suicides
the walls are thin enough to listen
as the angels try to scratch free;
bloodied fingernails and God says everyone
screws up, sometimes
I'm waiting for a silent night.
I only ever believed in solid ground
and depressions' tides, and sometimes,
those little wounds I nursed deep
within my vocal chords (because
my voice is dying, too)
I can see the beautiful people, now
overdosing on their own opiums of
self-acquittal and dissolution
they ran out of ways to ask for help.
I'm fragile, but my glass ribs
aren't holding much
and I'm through trying to find something
different, because it's scary to know
what exactly's the same
yesterday I was someone else and
tomorrow I'm further into inevitabilities of
who I promised I'd never be--
I'm waiting for a happy ending,
but if you love something
you let it go.
Before I Can Become a WriterDevelop insomnia. DevelopBefore I Can Become a Writer in Free Verse More Like This
problems with substance abuse,
nothing serious, but enough
that I can say “write drunk,
edit sober” and mean it.
Drink tea. Write about drinking
tea. Take up smoking, ignore
the thoughts about it being
a slower suicide. Write about
suicide. Don’t mean it.
Write about sunsets and
ink veins. Mean it.
Fall in love with someone
who will never love me back.
Lament. Write a million
crappy poems and two good
ones. Never show him.
Move on. Write a few more
bad poems. Fall in love with
someone perfect. Screw it up.
Fall in love with someone awful.
Call him perfect. Screw it up.
Cry. Cry for the inevitable,
the way my family never
loved me right, the way my
first kiss was regrettable
at best, the way my therapist
says my depression is a demon
taking over me. Cry for the
changeable, the way
I hate my body and my writing
and everything I live to be.
Use clichés. Live clichés,
breathe clichés, be
a cliché. Write a poem
myths and the things that really matterin a season of wavering willmyths and the things that really matter in Free Verse More Like This
and ripe regret, I was born
too old - into a fragile world
of butterfly feathers and
springtime secrets, tied tenderly
around hollow hallucinations and
carefully called a "dream"
they promise you things
when you are too young to
understand the monsters under
your bed are really fragments
of you, left to disintegrate
in the dark. they say: you
will touch the world, you will
know the stars by name, you
will be our deliverance from
all the things we were not
you will be strong.
but they don't know, no,
I am a yard sale:
I sold my heart to a boy
with lilting lies and eyes
that looked human
I lent my bones to an
I whispered my wishes away
down empty wells, and only heard
the shallow echo of myself
I sent my lungs down the
river – gasping for forgiveness
and I gave my voice
to the ocean, in exchange
for a little sleep
when they finally see me, I say
with a sawdust screech, I am
not all these pieces of me--
I have to believe somewhere
behind the com
Dandelion QueenI dream of the ocean;Dandelion Queen in Free Verse More Like This
that paper-thin line where
the current swallows the stars
and the water churns violet
(you tell me to be
dandelion queen, we've
heard all these words before)
I will sleep heavy
and wake a few hours before dawn,
only to forget my name
my wave-weathered heart will cry,
I will cry (my biggest fear
is drowning in too many
of my own weighted words
you tell me to be
so I can hear the world breathe)
I want to go home
Poets Always Lieambrosial fabrications arePoets Always Lie in Free Verse More Like This
easier to swallow down when
incandescence is a blessing bestowed
only upon those with silky tongues.
deceptions are beautiful
in the right words
because they are salvation, like a
rapture, they save the sickly,
self-indulgent souls from those
tragedies they used to write on the insides
of childhood notebooks about who
they could never be [themselves]
they rescue them from tremulous
corners and closets, hideaways
where they've grown too akin to
the demons they nurse; and drag
them into a land beautiful enough
to wear light as a second skin
(where lies are never discussed
but always shared)
are so much more comforting
than the absoluteness of reality
because self-resentment is as
natural as a heartbeat to those
who were born breathing and
abhorring and denying all from one
steady gasp of what the existent world
had to offer to them
back then their eyes opened, and
their fingers fumbled, born, they realized
the world wasn't as pretty as promi
on how I need youtoday is a six-word story:on how I need you in Free Verse More Like This
I’m tired of waking up
I will peel back your
every insecurity and anxiety
and watch them fall to the floor
like vodka petals, regurgitated mosaics,
I will see you naked and
reborn and you will break apart
into passive aggressive poetic
dedications and unsent letters and
I will hate and love you
for the very same reasons and
I will move on.
starry eyes implodeshe cannot recall allstarry eyes implode in Free Verse More Like This
the things she's
pretty pills, rancid
razor blades and
wasted words coat
her sorry throat
she can't count her
fingers, like she can't
count the days again--
it's zero to zero, in it
to spin it:
time is measured in
lengths of abandonment.
she comes home empty-
"I gave up again
I gave up I gave it
away I gave up"
repeated like some
and once more she
apologizes to a
just hoping to
better to go
and when she walks,
she holds hands
with the yellowed
skeleton of a
forgotten little girl--
on their tour of
the world. she
stops at the
edge and whispers
'there is a point of
no return' with
a guiding hand;
she sends her off
and realizes she's
Machine ManMachine Man:Machine Man in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
It began with but a simple command, "to do as we are told".
Never to deviate from this path - never to nurture the soul.
We are told that we are given a purpose; "a part of something great!"
Yet why oh why am I so weary of that which is my fate?
Am I an error, a single anomaly, unable to feel intact?
Or am I missing some special attribute - a facet which I lack.
In a society made of fleshed machines; robots wearing skin,
Perhaps I'm simply seeking something, to fill this metal tin.
-Chen Yuan Wen, 16th November 2012
A Shattered IllusionA Shattered Illusion:A Shattered Illusion in Free Verse More Like This
A day that was born of the brightest light
Has now shattered like crystals in the sinking dark
Where once the spirit was unfettered and free
Now it weeps painfully in a cage of thorns
Blood is drawn from its tender flesh
And drips slowly down to mark the skin
A tattoo of pain forever remembered
By a ghost that lives within
There is emptiness in this void
A cold and lonely song of existence
A solemn note born from the sheer magnitude of the silence
That it deafens both the heart and mind
In the quiet serenity of utter despair
What is born from the lack of a sense of hope?
A cold determination to steal the future
From the wanton wheel of fate...
"Such is the nature of desperation, when caught in an endless cycle of hate..."
-Chen Yuan Wen, 10th July 2012
Alone but AliveAlone but Alive:Alone but Alive in Songs & Lyrics More Like This
Oh here I am standing,
A lost soul is landing.
The coldest December,
Can you still remember?
Do you even hear me?
There's no one around me!
Oh shadow that I see,
The void right behind me.
Yet still I am breathing;
Yet still I am feeling.
The coldest sensation,
Oh worthless creation!
Are you still crying?
Oh why are you lying - abandoned and cold
Cold like what was left of soul,
Made of all the life you stole.
Walk divine but made of sin,
Worm of hatred squrim within.
Sin of lust and sin of pride,
Lash the tongue that last has lied.
Yours was silver with a promise,
Kiss of death and then you vomit.
Burning bile of ugly treason,
No one else can know the reason.
Left a soul behind to burn;
You are the reason I have turned...
On this cold and endless night...
When I'm finally pierced by the light...
And I awaken from this hell...
ALONE - BUT ALIVE!
Alive and again oh do I dare?
To give this heart and to lay it bare.
When heaven cast its fate
The Never-ending MasqueThe Never-ending Masque:The Never-ending Masque in Free Verse More Like This
A troupe of dancers, with colourful costumes
Ascends the stage with jaunty smiles
Whilst the eldest member, in a Jester's mask
Narrates the tale in style:
As they begin their dance, these lovely dancers
The skies turn cold and grey...
Arms reach down from the rumbling heavens
And they take our stage away!
Yet the harlequins laugh
And simply dance on the grass
For the show must go on
Until time has passed
Harken brothers, a wicked wind blows!
It stirs from the belly of the unkind beast
It rips our props away from us;
And hopes the dance will cease...
But the Harlequins laugh and continue the show
They mime to mimic their props and tools
Using naught but the love that they have in their hearts
They create a fable of ghosts and ghouls
My brothers, no, it cannot be!
The narrator grasps at his throat in anguish
For the Jester's voice has been taken away
And now the show can finally be vanquished...
But the Harlequins laugh and put on a sm
It Came From The DarkIt Came From The Dark:It Came From The Dark in Free Verse More Like This
Amongst the ashes, swirling from the darkness of the pit,
Emerged a hand, dragging a battered body across the rocks.
Blood leaked from the wounds so callously self-inflicted,
And teeth ground with a focused determination and seething anger.
It cared not for the warm rubies - staining the jagged rocks,
It cared not for the sensation of pain...
All that it remembered was a dream, An obsession -
One that drove it ever higher; ignoring all else!
Eventually it emerged from this shadowy hole, this dreary depth,
And in that moment, it learned of the truth.
For this creature, denied sunlight and warmth -
-Chen Yuan Wen, 11th December 2012
The Little SeedThe Little Seed:The Little Seed in Free Verse More Like This
Little seed floating
Dreaming that he may blossom
Drowned by the currents
-Chen Yuan Wen, Unofficial Release
You Lift Me UpYou Lift Me Up:You Lift Me Up in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
When first I fell from the grace of the light
Tumbling endlessly through an uncaring sky
With wings torn from me, blotched and bloodied;
It was time for me to die...
But a bed of flowers, with the scent of lillies;
Caressing my heart with its soothing fragrance
Left me stronger and healed my wounds;
In the dark it was my radiance
It brought me back from the brink of despair
And made me forget that I would never fly
Instead I am content with these broken wings
If I may sleep where you still lie...
Here upon the ground, having faced my judgement
I am calm and collected without burden to bear
Someday I wish to return to my home
And when I do; may I take you there?
For it is a wonderous place, of miracles and mercy
Though gripped by those who are blinded by greed
I weep for them, as anyone should
For they have followed the devil's creed
It is sad to know, that they have been corrupted
Sadder still, to be denied a home
Yet the warmth of the hearts that choose to surro
To The Beautiful YouTo The Beautiful You:To The Beautiful You in Free Verse More Like This
Here we are, sitting behind these screens of glass,
Reading lines of text, yet smiling, laughing and crying.
It's strange to think that I could have this much fun -
Considering that I've never met you before, but then again
Perhaps that's the reason why I don't have to pretend.
Some people might tell me, that what we have is just a fantasy,
I doubt I'll have the chance to actually see you in this life-time.
But even so, in the time that we've spent together - Well,
I feel as though I've connected with you, more than anyone else.
I feel as though I know you better, than those just a few feet away.
You might take this little confession as something silly,
Maybe you'll even forget about it as time passes,
But I for one could never forget about someone like you,
And so I'd like to dedicate this piece, to the beautiful you.
-Chen Yuan Wen, 17th December 2012
Misery's GardenMisery's Garden:Misery's Garden in Free Verse More Like This
Through the cold ice we trekked, the Reaper and I.
His face an ever-shifting grin, oscillating between joy and malice...
With quick, light-footed steps, he lead me to a warm green meadow.
A small hut in the distance, a little garden beside.
Where a hunchbacked man, covered in boils and open wounds;
Bearing a crooked jaw and gnarled hands, tilled the earth.
"Egh yew ooh wha gu wan!"
I was so startled by the hunchback's sudden outburst,
That I jumped and gripped the Reaper's cloak in fright,
Yet as soon as he had seen me, the hunchback's eyes glazed over;
He appeared to forget about our presence...
I had to admit, I was very curious
And I wished to move in close so I could inspect him.
Reaching out with my hand to clasp his own;
I was assailed by horrid visions.
In one instance I was a collector of night soil,
Abuse hurled at me like stones and I the accepting target.
For to speak was to open this torn mouth of mine
And that would merely draw a mocki
Immortal ButterflyImmortal Butterfly:Immortal Butterfly in Free Verse More Like This
I remember the Immortal Butterfly
Translucent wings that drank from the sky
Glittering dust would fall with every flap
Like warm tears dripped upon my tiny back
I would always chase this butterfly
as it makes its way across the sky
When I look I feel as though I can forget
The painful needles that twist into my back
I would always dream of this butterfly
and I wonder if I could ride it and fly in the sky
When I dream about it, I don't regret
Not being able to leave this tiny bed
Sometimes I can't see the butterfly
My vision turns grey like a stormy sky
I get scared during those times, because it makes me think
Of how everything could fade, before my eyes can blink
I remember when you first brought me this butterfly
You said you plucked it right out of the sky
Did you know it was the first thing that made me smile?
I'll tell you that story, so let me rest awhile...
I love...this little butterfly
It gave me dreams...of a beautiful sky
Although it was somethi
AimlessSpring forgot how to begin anew,Aimless in Free Verse More Like This
so Winter stole her amnesic heart and tossed it to the wolves.
"Devour me," the stars seemed to beg;
so Gravity plunged them into the ocean's nebulous depths.
These lips no longer offer hymns up to fallen gods—
so Fate sacrificed herself for the chance to be reborn.
Open Heart SurgeryI've got ink throbbing through fissured veins,Open Heart Surgery in Free Verse More Like This
poisoning every atom of my soul.
"Bite your tongue," they say.
How I'd love to chew the damn thing off
and suck down every filthy syllable
just like the rotten bone marrow it is.
They'd all watch as my body spontaneously combusts
and becomes nothing but convoluted karma.
And so I wrote,
Teach me the ways of ripping out a human heart,
and stitching it onto ink-stained parchment."
The answer that came was rasped from a cauterized throat:
"Read your future in the collapsed palm of the stars;
find the abandoned pulse of your lionhearted muse;
steal their conformed scalpel and make it your own."
Howling For TreacheryI wish I could liveHowling For Treachery in Free Verse More Like This
on nothing but air;
killing the hunger
to consume every
(Maybe all along,
I've been the wolf in
Why is it that when
I exercise my own
these fangs just
continue to hone
(It's too painful
to continue howling
at this contorted reflection.)
Yet every time
I take an ax to
its claws just leave
another patch of
scars on the inside
of my skin to remind
me just what I am.
(The girl who cried wolf
will never be able to
butcher her own heart.)
handle with carethere are 206 bones in thehandle with care in Free Verse More Like This
human body. it only takes one good
squeeze and your neck can snap as
easily as a twig.
once, when i was at the grocery
store, i came across a crate of
peaches. they were on sale because
every single one was bruised and it
made me think, "we're all just pieces of fruit
left to rot. as soon as we've been dropped on the
floor, no one wants to help us back up."
i've forgotten how to think in poetics.
three months ago i would have
compared people to roses. pretty little petals
that can be crushed with just
one little pinch and thorny stems that
whisper "don't touch me."
i think we're more like
together like suffocating sardines in tiny
wooden boxes decorated with red
paint announcing across the sides
"danger: this side up."
ashes to ashesi am the girl withashes to ashes in Free Verse More Like This
more faith in myths than in
there are more dead bodies in this world than the living.
and if that doesn't frighten you, then i
don't know what would. i guess you could
say that graves are just the closets in which
we hide our skeletons in.
there are ghosts all around us.
and i think that maybe,
i'd rather take my chances down in
the underworld with them than up
here where the earth is slowly
all because of the living.
skinwalkershe was a vicious prion,skinwalker in Free Verse More Like This
anomalous & infectious—
my fractured mind was the
perfectly unsuspecting host.
i was so ashamed of life
& you had all the answers.
"don't let me go,"
she hissed each night,
coating my flesh in a
(it was just too damn easy
to grasp your viral hands.)
i know my ribcage is almost on empty
& my heart is converting to toxic waste,
but i still have a feverish serum in my veins
& a voice not yet conquered by broken bones.
your plague of malevolence
shall never govern me again.
AbsenceShe used to lie awake all nightAbsence in Free Verse More Like This
consuming letters with voracity;
it was the utopian lair she created
to slip away from the turbulent world.
Only too soon she learned
that you can't always hide
within parchment crevices.
(reality always finds you)
Even now, when she yearns to fall between printed canyons,
she can't help but curse those passive and lethargic days;
"It's too damn easy to fall in love with words on a page."
on yearning to be something I'm not.I think in a previous life,on yearning to be something I'm not. in Free Verse More Like This
I must have been a coyote.
An ugly beast with an
ugly heart, with howls
echoing across ten thousand
"Please, give me the moon;
I can no longer stand the heat of
This world mocks me.
More love for a
night alone in
a winter's forest than
the lonesome aching in
my heart, I only
want to run with the
this desert-weary soul is
merely chasing rabbits across
empty highways. A coyote only
deserves putrid carrion and
not the thrill of the hunt—I am but a
song dog keening into the night for
the fangs of wolves to keep me cold.
Last night,I broke every bone in my bodyLast night, in Free Verse More Like This
so I could have a reason to drown
in the isolated ocean inside me.
when my dilapidated lungs finally caved in,
I swam ashore and crawled across the polluted sand.
Only glass-edged skin
and salt-licked eyelashes
can help me now.
lowercasei carve insignificant poetry into my tonguelowercase in Free Verse More Like This
and hope the world will pardon the lack of
bated silence, for i write in nothing but
despondent screams and uppercase;
i've forgotten how to let everything go
and i'm tired of my incessant howling,
because it seems to me that the quiet
words are the ones that are the most
SinkingRecently I've been sinkingSinking in Free Verse More Like This
Like a stone into a pond
Having skimmed across the surface
Of life for far too long
Please may I have a new heart
Along with a new mind
I cannot reverse this feeling
No, I'm sorry, not this time
Recently I've been sinking
Into myself like quicksand
No one sees as it swallows me
Each grain a mislaid plan
Please may I crawl inside your love
Mingle hearts until the end
I cannot reverse this feeling
No, I'm sorry, not again
Recently I've been sinking
Such an overused metaphor
But one which is cathartic
When choosing to explore
That I could save you my love
And in time you could save me
As fear and loneliness will dissolve
Doused in our empathy
We Have News On Your DaughterIt's early DecemberWe Have News On Your Daughter in Free Verse More Like This
We sit in our daughters room
Looking over her possessions
Praying she will be home soon
Just in time for Christmas
Her presents are under the tree
Ready to create some more
Of those beautiful memories
It's now mid December
Terror has frozen our tears
As our angels face is slowly
Beginning to disappear
Our lives are a landfill
For unimaginable pain
As her baby brother weeps
Wanting his sister back again
It's now late December
The festivities have past
As searches for our princess
Are slowly scaled back
A knock on the front door
The endless fall to the ground
"We have news on your daughter
A body has been found"
Daydreamers Amongst UsTo those daydreamers amongst usDaydreamers Amongst Us in Free Verse More Like This
Tomorrow will soon be today
So choose every word carefully
As they might be the last you say
And they will echo through time
After your final shadow is cast
But those words and those emotions
Will have no place in the past
They'll take their place in tomorrow
And every day to the end of time
Your words, your thoughts and your wisdom
Will deviate us from straight lines
And show people there's another way
Peace and love can re-wire our brains
Show us how to avoid hatred
And from negative feelings refrain
Otherwise I can see suffering
But on an unheard of scale
Nations and religions will collide
Peace treaties will continue to fail
So daydreamers amongst us
Please unleash your wildest thoughts
Drop your line into the sea of wisdom
And show us what you have caught
Every Time With The Same BrushEvery time with the same brushEvery Time With The Same Brush in Free Verse More Like This
This girl paints so many strokes
Each one speaking of emotions
Louder than the words she wrote
So where does the magic lie,
Allowing this girl's mood to swing?
Is it in the paint or the colours,
The feeling of release it brings?
She lets go of those emotions
That are too painful to express
The open ear of a loved one
Now an empty white canvas
Cathartic is the process
With her dainty little strokes
Thick layers of paint will take us
To land's nobody else knows
Now she paints with love for us
And happiness in her heart
The trees, the flowers, the sunset
The smiles, the eyes, the stars
Every time with same brush
Just different colours and shades
As the white canvas disappears
Her negative thoughts begin to fade
Beneath The Ice SheetIt was a lonely cold winter's dayBeneath The Ice Sheet in Free Verse More Like This
Not cold enough to freeze the leaves
But cold enough that as I exhale
It made visible this air that I breathe
The frozen grass around the pond
Creaks under my lead weight feet
Only fog alone will now obscure
What lies beneath the ice sheet
Are mine the only eyes to see her
Why is she still in her night clothes
Will she not be cold alone down there
Perhaps she has long since froze
And if so how does she talk to me
Knowing exactly how I think
Staring so long into her face
One day I'm sure I saw her blink
It was a lonely cold winter's day
I'd been here many times before
My parents told me to stay away
But my dreams told me to ignore
School became a preoccupation
As did food and a good nights sleep
I'd close my eyes and I'd see the girl
Not only blinking but she'd weep
Maybe I found her for a reason
While passers by came and went
And as the end of winter approached
I asked what would become of my friend
Would she rise to the surface for me
Or sink solemnly
The Deepest Depths of BlueThe chain of events that followed your birthThe Deepest Depths of Blue in Free Verse More Like This
Were as tumultuous as each twisted link
Your mind was wired for the written word
But under no circumstances should you think
As the decreasing circles of sanity
Will ripple through your infant mind
The soul can't escape your hollow bones
Until you leave those thoughts behind
You feel trapped inside your grey matter
But freedom will be yours in the end
Once you realise that you are a miracle
That'll never be repeated again
Open your eyes to the beauty of the truth
That there is a reality worth seeing
And dive into the deepest depths of blue
Of your soul, your essence, your being
Writers BlockThere is a heart in a ribcageWriters Block in Free Verse More Like This
And a brain sitting in a skull
There is a history that is void
And potential which is null
Just puddles of inspiration
Where the vast ocean once sprayed
An endless tide of moonshine
Swelled upon my parchment page
There's a brain sitting in a skull
There is a heart in a ribcage
There is ink in my fountain pen
But still no words on my page
Just embers of inspiration
Where a great fire once roared
I'll stoke it with those memories
I've been afraid of and ignored
CryingEverywhere I go I see her faceCrying in Free Verse More Like This
I never got to touch her soft skin
Tell me how can I mourn the ending
When we were yet to even begin
And please don't you tell me to move on
You really think that I'm not trying?
In truth all that I want right now
Is to get through a day without crying
In Love, I RemainI hold the guitar against meIn Love, I Remain in Free Verse More Like This
But I'm afraid it just wont do
No notes that I play could compare
To the symphony that is you
So who is the orchestrator
Of this harmonic elegance
The beauty of which sustains me
With such a lasting resonance
Angels, please sing us a chorus
And paint the clouds so silver lined
May she always dream in colour
And may I always speak in rhyme
One single whispered word from her
Always seems to eclipse my pain
With belief, hope and destiny
Forever in love, I remain
I hold the paintbrush in my hand
Until creative thoughts will cease
But no strokes could ever come close
To your beautiful masterpiece
Each colour is so delicate
So rare and so understated
From a birth and a blank canvas
To potential God created
Angels, please sing us a chorus
And paint the clouds so silver lined
May she always dream in colour
And may I always speak in rhyme
One single whispered word from her
Always seems to eclipse my pain
With belief, hope and destiny
Forever in love, we re
Only When I WriteThe drama unfurling in my lifeOnly When I Write in Free Verse More Like This
Feels like the shadow of my hand
That grows as it comes ever closer
To the light perched on my bed stand
In that I can feel the darkest cloud
Ever such a menacing sight
In time I can reverse the feeling
But only when I write
Seclusion left me with nothing
Apart from creativity
Loneliness it turns out, my friends
Is quite the aperitif
For the feast that is awaiting me
If I make it through the night
Tomorrow always brings me new hope
But only when I write
You approach me on a good day
And I will offer you a smile
The same expression on the worst days
Because my manners are so mild
But don’t take me for a toothless fool
When cornered I’ve been known to bite
Fear not, those demons remain at bay
But only when I write
40810If only you were soulless.40810 in Free Verse More Like This
If you were mindless, blind,
you and I could make a beautiful disaster.
The press would write of our brief affair;
they'd paint me (the woman in red) as pathetic.
They will not consider how I need your love
or how it pains me so deeply to throw myself at you.
I will not be remembered as a poet warrior.
I'll be the eternal survivor no more.
All who think of me will shake their bowed heads
and tearfully remark;
If only you were soulless.
If you were mindless, blind,
You wouldn't have been such a bloody disaster.
The Bone CollectorSometimes my breath catches in my throatThe Bone Collector in Free Verse More Like This
and the very stillness of an earth going
a thousand and three miles per hour
gets lodged there.
Sometimes these simple exchanges
leave me breathless, croaking on dust:
the unfiltered pigments of other people's skin
and blood and ash
but with my tarred lungs and itchy eyes
I sit and sift through charcoaled remains,
alphabetising them from c to c. I am lost
in a world charred brazen.
Many things I have loved have turned to ash.
Many people. I was naive enough to think
that there was some perfect nutritional truth
that could outlast hell-fire.
I claw through a world turned ashen
and know those dead embers collect in my cells
They are the harbingers of a truth
I do not want.
The skittish earth throws its skirts about again
to unsettle us all, and I am unsettled
Alone in the dirt, organising piles of bone-dust
he did not love, at all.
with a whisperthis is how we rule the world,with a whisper in Free Verse More Like This
the forgotten, lobotom-ised,
of a long lost dystopast.
not with a SHOUT,
we do not argue.
we do not even unsheath
we whisper in your children's ears
the memories of what should have been.
the life we all crave.
the death we all crave.
WE do not discriminate
our opinions onto others
pressing the side of the blade
down onto the flesh
all are bitten
with the fever of our belief.
this is how we rule the world,
we tell stories,
we incite a generation
with their own scar/r/ed lungs
with a whisper.
The DescriptionHe drinks coffeeThe Description in Free Verse More Like This
its the art of seduction,
and quite honestly
when he does it
it might as well be.
You'll catch him
frowning into it
as he hastily scribbles
in a notebook
to make the world
El cambia a español
en la mitad del frase
and I don't think
he even realises.
He loves the world
that to be a part of it
leaves you feeling
He makes the world seem
to contain his love
and when he smiles,
because he reminds me
that there is hope
to be had.
For the world,
For people like us.
He is soil,
Salt of the earth,
of everything good
that will grow from
He is a ramshackled
waking up to
the realisation that
he is an innovator;
and that his passion
could change the world.
Losing my BreathIt's 2amLosing my Breath in Free Verse More Like This
and the calling birds
are hatching in my heart,
I feel it crack and they emerge.
Feel them drilling on my ribs,
the steady anxious thrum
of a flight risk
waiting to happen.
and I can't breathe,
memories of you
are nesting in my throat
I can't work around them.
It's cutting off the circulation,
and my frantic heart
tries to keep on.
and tears scratch their directions
into my cheeks,
they flounder and meander
and they erode.
My skin and soul is scraped down
layer by layer
and another day is heralded
by the angry flutterings in my chest.
I try to swallow my pride,
dam the tears
and crawl through the dark again.
Coughing up blood
and inhaling iron filings
(The remainder of
what used to be my life).
MutantHear me read itMutant in Free Verse More Like This
I am a mutant.
| My skin does not sallow in the sun
and I do not blush jaundice through my cheeks.
| I do not have extra fingers, or toes -
although my spine;
it boasts an ironic vertebrae,
it is a long tally of the hearts I have broken
and when I straighten my spine the bones Pop out of place.
I am out of place.
| I do not have a super power,
I lack exceptionality in all but my ordinariness.
| there is a vengeful bacteria feasting -
on my shoulder places;
Circus: The Bearded WomanI do not conform,Circus: The Bearded Woman in Free Verse More Like This
this is not by choice but by condition.
When people look at me
they see a freak, a travesty
As do I
but not for the same reasons as them.
Those who gawp
and gape and grunt
gruesome words at me.
They see my wiry beard
affixed to my delicate jaw and cheeks;
they laugh and laugh
and laugh at The Bearded Lady.
They see imperfection
on such a superficial irrelevant level
as they spin me in my cage
to get a better look
at my flaws.
Hair growing on my face
doesn't make me broken, or damaged.
The cysts do;
popping tiny kernels in my ovaries
and flushing hormones through me
these are the things I worry about
while others mock me for my features -
and take photos for mementos
of their time at the circus.
I don't care about the beard
I care about the children,
bearded or otherwise, I'll never have,
and the ache for their limbs
entangled in my arms,
their breath on my skin.
Who cares about a preconceived --
( unable to conceive ? )
- notion of beauty
I will remember for youDo you remember;I will remember for you in Free Verse More Like This
It was September and I was seventeen.
I was gnarled into the corner of a bus
Mithering away at my gloomy mood;
Trying to shake the oppressive landscape in my mind.
It was unexpected.
It was unexpected to see you there.
You were folded primly onto a bus shelters seat
With her hand enveloped in yours
You both lifted your other hands, synchronised,
And waved to me with your familiar smiles.
I was surprised.
I was surprised to see you there.
Your grey hat tipped so rain slipped off
And her glasses whitening with the steam of her laugh
I just looked at you, gluttonous,
I absorbed every detail of that moment.
It was unexpected.
It was unexpected to see you there.
But there you were nonetheless,
Eighty years old, clasping hands awaiting a bus
My eyes leaked they were overfull of the sight
Of two people, quietly, silently in love.
I was surprised.
I was surprised to see you there
AfterIt follows me.After in Free Verse More Like This
My silver skeined ghost.
An almost imperceptible thread;
only visible when you shine light
directly upon it.
It follows me.
It rides the underground.
It hides under bridges,
It is woven into the spools of tar
that form the roads between.
Inevitably if I walk too fast
it reminds me -
Like the tug of stitches in your cheek
that reminds you; you have lost your wisdom.
It reminds me.
It trips me in doorways,
when my mind is elsewhere.
If I look away from it -
- it slips round my neck.
Another knot to throw over the beams
it mauls me without a fair chance.
I tried to sever it. I can't.
Only the corrosion of time has a chance.
So for now, I am tethered
to the fragment of my heart
that I tore out for you.
Although we have placed it in a shroud
and declared it dead,
the umbilical thrumming keeps me awake.
It does not desist;
the connection to that unwanted slab of meat.
KonjukuYou think you are a pebble.Konjuku in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
That's not the most romantic thing to say to someone, so you'll have to forgive my clumsiness. You think you are a pebble. That you have been worn down and eroded to the point where all corners have been smoothed out. That you have allowed the awkward elbows and ankle bones, the stutter and the scars, to be rubbed out. That you've let them wear you down until you are no longer abrasive when you come into direct contact with what they expect you to be.
You are not a pebble.
You are not small or part of a greater pattern. You are not disposable, at the mercy of Poisedon's temperate shifts. You are not the sum of the parts around you. You are not a pebble.
You are soil; and some may say that that's not the most kind thing to say to someone. People will walk all over you. By that, I mean that you will rise to new heights and be the beginning of something beyond what we have now. Like a sharp cliff you will become the platform that others have to build from
eight things about growing up.eighteight things about growing up. in Emotional More Like This
I told my brother I was going to be a fairy when I grew up. Or a bird, or sprite something with wings so I could touch the clouds.
I learned that fairies weren't real when I was six, after I tried to jump off a parking structure to see if I could fly.
That day I also broke my leg in three places and saw an angel's face in the clouds. (And don't tell anybody, but sometimes I spend all day looking for him.)
My neighbors back in Denver had a son who was a schizophrenic. After he went off his meds for the third time, he painted the windows red and told his wife she had to abort their baby because it wasn't human.
A year later, I heard that he was arrested after pointing a hunting rifle on his family. It was loaded, but he didn't pull the trigger because his mother said she trusted him.
I guess love is kind of like that, too.
Seattle didn't come until I was fifteen, in October.
My family and I took a boat ride on Friday. We listened to the captain
queen of nothing.what I've learned:queen of nothing. in Emotional More Like This
I still remember singing in my room when I was six, and having my mother come down the hall and slam the door so hard that the windows shook.
Her nails hurt when she scraped the tears off my face. "It doesn't matter what you want," she'd always tell me.
Like, when that drunk driver swerved and hit her car I didn't want her to leave me, and it didn't matter.
Once on vacation I bought a pair of fuzzy leather heels for two hundred dollars, and when I wore them to dinner, I found out that
1. "Suede" is a fancy word for "fuzzy leather."
And 2. Good things don't last: That night my cousin told me that she thought 135 pounds was a little too big for five foot eight. So I tore my tights up to the thigh and threw those new suede heels in the garbage.
It felt good later, to know that they couldn't hate me more than I hate myself.
My six-word story from ninth grade reads, "If I don't laugh, I'll cry."
When I read that treating people like trash to gets them to nee
two-fifty an hour.let me save you the trouble:two-fifty an hour. in Free Verse More Like This
because what i'm trying to say is
i'm not a good person.
i don’t tell valerie about how i planned to rekindle
my friendship with charlie’s best friend last year
just so i could get to him and hurt him.
(i don’t tell her how, in the end, i ended up liking
his friend instead, and charlie dated another
fifteen year old
because shit happens and what was i doing,
expecting things to go my way?)
there are certain things she doesn’t need to know,
certain things i can’t say because
putting it into words what it was like waking up,
that sort of shame that came with it –
it was like – it was like looking into a window
and swearing there’s a monster behind it
before, slowly, i realized
it was a mirror.
what therapy promises me: love yourself, forgive but
never forget, tell us your past
then let it go.
what i learn in therapy: nobody has all the answers.
we certainly don’t.
dichotomy.i.dichotomy. in Stories & Vignettes More Like This
there’s a monster inside of my head.
it moved in four years ago, but they say it’s always been there. my daddy has one. so does his mom.
they say that’s where i got it. dad says grammy’s monster made her beat him until he was seven. dad says his monster made him drink until he blacked out, for twenty years.
they all say, “don’t let it in.” they all say, “it’ll control you, because you are weak.”
(actually, they say “vulnerable.”)
they tell me its name, so i can paint it on my wrists, on my forehead, along the curves of my ears. keep out. no BIPOLAR DISORDER allowed. they say it notices loud things. capital letters, for one. or crying children. or hatred. or fear.
they do not tell me what it’s like to see it. they do not tell me what’s it like, to feel it burrowing under your skin.
when it came to me, i pleaded with it. i said, “please go away,” and it didn’t listen.
history remembers.i.history remembers. in Free Verse More Like This
history repeats itself.
i realize this the fourth time i find myself on a couch
with the head of a boy i don’t know
between my stiff, nonresponding legs.
i realize this on the third sip of alcohol. on the fourth.
the fifth. the eleventh. the first time i black out. the eighth.
history repeats itself
and i am napoleon marching across russia
and i only pretend the water is poisoned.
i only pretend the earth is burned to ground.
i pretend that destruction is inevitable
and that help is not an option.
we got close, him and i.
sometimes you get so close to a person
you can feel their lips stiffen
when you try to kiss them.
sometimes you get close to a person,
under them, between damp sheets.
they never stop believing
that you are beneath them.
“help me,” he says. i say okay.
he tells me to sleep with him later
so i say the wrong name in bed,
but so does he;
he means it,
i say it because it’s the only way i can
titans.they don’t tell you thattitans. in Free Verse More Like This
sisyphus just let the rock roll down
and collect his body
they don’t tell you that you can still walk
with holes in your legs
and you can still love
when your heart has already been ripped open.
they don’t tell you that
you are 75% of an ocean
that is six miles deep
and eats ships alive,
75% of the water that shapes canyons,
75% of the rain that drowned the earth
for forty days and nights.
they don’t tell you that
your body is made of the same carbon
they don’t tell you that
there is a fire burning inside of you
or that your bones are stronger than steel
or that the things that fuel you
fuel tigers, too.
the greeks and romans wrote stories about
how strong you were
and you are icarus,
and you died laughing
because they didn’t tell you
how beautiful the world really was
even as it was swallowed
by the waves.
red leaves and Robert Frost.When I was young, my virginity was sacred. Entire religions pray over it and my father bought a gun so long as it meant protecting it.red leaves and Robert Frost. in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
We throw away half of our refrigerator each week meanwhile, 24,000 people die of starvation every day.
Hardest part is, sometimes wasting things can't be helped.
At the bus stop, before I could drive, boys would ask for my phone number while I tugged up the neck of my shirt. Asked me how old I was while I crossed my legs under my skirt.
I told them I had a boyfriend even when it wasn't true, because they'll always respect another man more than my disinterest.
Hearing "I love you" for the first time is like getting hit by a train and only feeling the angel as they pull you up to Heaven.
People who are manic can jump off roofs or sell their house to buyers who don't exist.
For me, it was fucking six guys in four days and spending $150 in three.
That wasn't good enough, though, so instead of help all I got was a smiley-face sticker and long, quiet c
a meaningful poem about nothing.this is a poem about how fixing peoplea meaningful poem about nothing. in Free Verse More Like This
is not romantic.
we’re not meant to be somebody’s answer,
we’re not meant to make someone feel alive again.
this is a poem about why you shouldn’t kiss him
because he’s broken
because you want to save him.
save yourself first.
kiss him because he holds a place in your heart, not
because he's the only thing making it pump.
kiss him because he’s in your life, not because
he is your life.
hold him, but don’t hold onto him because you believe
(get to dry land first.)
this is a poem about how i find poetry in everything.
breakups. my dad telling me i mattered.
nightmares. my neighbor’s insomnia.
how it drove him crazy.
how he swallowed a bottle of sleeping pills to fix it.
my neighbor’s funeral.
this is a poem about the split-apart theory.
the idea was that when humanity became arrogant
toward the gods, we were split in two
and were doomed to spend our live
you never knew.Every summer in Munich the rain used to fall in buckets tepid, luminescent rain, like crystal slices, sluicing through the green trees leaves and loosening the earth around the mountains so much that the smaller towns had to evacuate. It slicked the city streets and made the sky as gray as them. I went out every day while the adults sat indoors around fireplaces to complain about the wet weather, and lied and said it was only because I liked to watch. My mother would shake her finger every time I dripped warm rainwater into the house and my brother would warn me in whisper that if I stayed out too long, I could drown.you never knew. in Emotional More Like This
I only half-lied. I loved to watch, watch from under the loose flooring of the porch as the rain came down. But Sam loved the rain more, and that was part of why I loved to watch. Loved to watch him watch. As we got older, more and more he would venture out, and sit in the grass as the rain fell around him, his face turned to the white sky. Sam liked the peace and
if i could.1.if i could. in Free Verse More Like This
i’ll be honest with you;
there is a certain authority to being
somebody said once that writers struggle with reality
because we spend all of our time
constructing our own.
the truth is, life may be impermanent
but the details are not.
time has one direction
the past cannot be revisited
and history cannot be redone
with a red pen.
what happens, happens.
we are walking permanent records
that can never be expunged.
no matter how many orphans we pull from fires
no matter how many dying children we sing to
we still made our mother cry once
we still let our little brothers find us passed out
on the front porch when we were nineteen.
imagination is our primary retreat
because there, that boy does fall in love with us
and our first kiss is not spit on our chins
or misses landing on our nose
(maybe there are waves crashing in the background)
and we say everything right.
there, we have crafted a version of ourselves
that lives perfectly.
“if i could,” someon
Collab: holding starsDid I tell you about that girl?Collab: holding stars in Free Verse More Like This
I should have done, always talking of her
Always on my mind
Jumping on my mind
I have no ways to explain how she makes me feel...
What words in the world could we use to describe
What words could you use to describe how much
you really love somebody?
Maybe a thousand astral cords tied to the tip of
your tongue, and maybe just one spiral galaxy
wrapped around your ankles.
But what is as perfect as a hundred leagues
under the sea, that first gasp of ocean and rock
salt, with years of rainwater rushing through
the gaps between your ribs and the walls of your
Our love growing like the universe, by particle, by stars, by worlds, getting ever wider to line up our perfect future, our world together, her love is my star, the warmth of the sun by her touch, the smile as wonderful as the eclipse but never as rare but still as perfect.
The shooting I saw on its path,
i write bad poetry.You are made of bone, sinew, gristle, synapse, skin, keratini write bad poetry. in Free Verse More Like This
not inkwells and Hemingway, galaxy-cuttings and star-trimmings
or dream, Edgar Allen Poe, absinthe, reflections and sin.
You know a hundred words to describe every pockmark that dots
your face and the way your pens fit into arrow-quivers by that
ricketty old desk of yours but
Words will not
from your mother-of-pearl lips
Apply cleverly-done descending letters here
and sprinkle one jaunty hyphen across the page
because after all, punctuation is a hitchhiker
and you're speeding down the word count like a cargo truck
till you crash into an abrupt ending or more likely
a lack of poetic inspiration.
Today and yesterday and seven days before, you might have
prostituted your muses, a penny for your thoughts, looked with
cross-eyes at your empty lined pad of paper and then
wrote seven pages about a cloud you saw that eventually scattered
into dreamy folds and smoke.
The sky is blue.
The sky is big.
Apply 'the sky is
Colours I Never TastedIt is not worth escaping over.Colours I Never Tasted in Free Verse More Like This
No, sometimes the sun rises lopsided in the horizon and the
clink of glasses against teeth sets irate neurones off in your mind cavity
and fireflies extinguish on car windscreens in rain storms. Sometimes
August drops down into lake reflections and sometimes October never
sends a breeze to whisper into your ears. But they teach you that all of
that is okay, even when you're watching sunflowers writhe towards the
sun with grey blankets over humid-day hair.
There will always be a dawn. Stay awake for it.
You are not truly living until you have breathed.
And by that, I mean, take two feet and place them on the path
or the grass and inhale April. it doesn't matter if it is not April,
imagine the dandelions and the daffodils and the soft bleat of lambs
and that fresh scent rushing past your nose in long car journeys,
the one that tugs your legs onto the map and tells you 'this is home,
all forty thousand kilometres of it'.
The world is your oyster. Be the pear
What If We Were Poets?Do you ever wonder what it's like to come face-to-faceWhat If We Were Poets? in Free Verse More Like This
with the planets? To curl your fingers in the air without
meeting thousands of plaster ceilings? What if I showed you
how to cross Saturn's rings, inhale the atmosphere of Venus?
You would enter the Earth (and it's a strange place to call home,
really) with ice crystals at the corners of your mouth and ash
clouds stuck to the insides of your fingernails. Let me tell you,
it's a beginner's worry that you'll burn up in the atmosphere,
but I've had helium and hydrogen daubed on the base of my tongue.
Oh, and do you ever brush past the windows on train carriages
and wonder what cornfields are like when they're your sky
and your Earth's crust? What if I took you to the white cliffs
of somewhere or other and taught you how to spread your wings
and not hit the ground? What if I showed you mazes, and became
the red threads around your thumbs? If you'll just trust me, I'll let you
see that getting lost should only worry you in jungles of co
wishingshe wishes she had pretty legs,wishing in Free Verse More Like This
all cotton and threaded silk
but masked behind an awkward, lolloping grin
stand teeth stronger than diamond, gritting
noiselessly when her arched feet fall
that churns with her motion and uproots
dandelion clocks, but leaves
tiny blue petals waving tenaciously
like garden palm fronds and her
effervescent eyes cast downwards,
where the girl with dirty soles
has forget-me-nots growing around her
wanderlust, and what i knowi know things.wanderlust, and what i know in Free Verse More Like This
i'd like to pretend to the listening frost on car windscreens
that i know these things from the song of birds down my ears.
'a little birdy told me' they say, but what they're forgetting
is that birds, if they could talk, wouldn't waste time telling
humans other peoples's secrets when they could be teaching
me how to grow featherdown and fly. yet here i am, a bird
telling scraps of paper what i do and don't know.
Lo Que Sera Sera (Only the Ocean)Hair stiff and wavy with sea saltLo Que Sera Sera (Only the Ocean) in Free Verse More Like This
she wipes foam from her eyes surfacing
from a thousand fathoms below where
the horizon quietly hangs.
Two footsteps on the sand, forwards
and backwards. A story of an idea,
a brief spark, seaweed lacing over
'I wanted to find the bottom of the
ocean. Stand at the very depths
and cup daylight in my hands.
Some fish have never seen the sun
or felt a breeze and I thought I'd
give them that chance.'
Even those not prone to childish whimsy
and hope can show a vague smile at the
thought of glittering salmon and anemones
gasping flickers of sunlight, the gentle
wave of fronds and floods and croon of an orca
to mimic rushing wind.
These are the things
the ocean has never noticed.
We're a little jealous of glorious technicolor
pebbles and pearls. Can the water feel envy?
Show it trees and Saturday mornings with a cup
of steaming coffee and maybe it will say 'yes'.
'I walked into the sea to find the
horizon. Don't look at me like that,
mythi ammyth in Free Verse More Like This
somewhere beyond hurricanes made
only of butterflies
and carpets pushing moss
between your toes
and trees that rut green
against stained glass
and dandelion clocks that blow
june around the snow-capped peaks
of your shoulders and the mountain
valleys of your collarbones
"we are all just stories"
and i have mine to tell
if we're all myths
strung up on strings of dragonfly wings
let me walk on fire i stole from
mount olympus, let me open pandora's box
of phoenix flames flashing purple and blue
and let me be a girl wearing a queen's skin
or cloaks of thistledown and lost baby
ugly ducklingi said i was ugly and youugly duckling in Free Verse More Like This
told me about ducklings and swans
i told you about ducks that were just ducks
no swan inside, no blossoming cygnet
mallards traipsing behind ruffled white feathers
in river water, too cold for
there will be no swan inside if, like a firework,
my skin becomes a storm of colour and morning dew
alights on my cheeks
there will be no ducks inside if, like a hurricane
her long locks slough into frizz and yellow teeth
crack like falling marble
"why is the duckling ugly? it looks fine to me."
"it's just...not a swan, i guess."
"it's a duck. it doesn't need to be a swan.
it eats bread and glistens in rain just like
elegant swans. swans lay eggs and nest just like the
ducks do, you know? the duck isn't ugly, it's
and even if white wings burst from my back
i will not be a swan
and if tomorrow i glide on the lake
i will not be a duck
The Lover and the LionLover:The Lover and the Lion in Free Verse More Like This
I am made of matchsticks and red ribbons and tiny
sparks of Saturday-morning duvet hopes ricocheting
around my brain into a pattern of torn petals from
daisies. Lovers are destroyers of flowers, we know
this. This is why we belong under trees and in wheat
fields, letting buttercups and dandelions grow between
our toes and around our shoulders. We are made to belong.
Whoever said that a lion is made by birth was
not telling anybody the whole truth. If you would
like to know how, when you stand up, when you roar,
does it feel right? Are you brave? Only the brave can be lions.
a sheep dressing itself in fur and mane will only convince its herd
that it is delusional. You can take the lion out of the desert,
but you will never take the desert from the lion.
Anyone who thinks otherwise must know that you cannot tame what is not willing.
I am made to serve my purpose. To hold anyone who is interested
in the palm of my hands and in the chambers of my heart, to chase
Crayon SoulmatesDear Stars,Crayon Soulmates in Free Verse More Like This
I have a bone to pick with you. You see, when I was six, I called myself the nowhere girl... and I coloured myself a soulmate. I made him on crumpled sheets, with broken pieces of crayon, on a playground that was too busy wondering whether growing up entailed stealing their mother's cigarettes and their father's dirty magazines (I suppose I was already wise enough to know that growing up meant choosing one of the many ways of breaking yourself in two.)
I hope you remember him, stars...he was important to me (My best friend threw that drawing away on my seventh birthday and told me that someone like me was not supposed to have such dreams.).
He had hair as ebony as deep onyx and a smile that never grew up (Peter Pan would have been proud). He was magic in soul form, and smelled like cinnamon and the earth after it has rained. His eyes rivaled a lions on the best of his youth, his words were story shaped. His skin was an ink coloured canvas of wonder and even in crayon
UndeservedI don't deserve to be an artist.Undeserved in Free Verse More Like This
I don't know how to hold deep meaningful conversations with strangers.
I don't lament at night about a lover I have lost.
I don't watch the white smoke ebb into darkness.
I don't spend lonely nights admiring the true beauty of the world.
I don't sleep restlessly from the truth of suffering within this world.
I don't lie through my smiles or struggle to create them.
But I do think I am a writer.
I am completely, irreparably damaged.
I cry all night over old words and emotional baggage.
I weep over my lost innocence.
I spend nights wishing for skin against my own
I long for insomnia to inspire me.
I beg for worlds to collide so I can breathe.
So am I writer really?
Or just another misguided artist?
What it wasn't.No, my love. It's not the way you don't listen when I speak.What it wasn't. in Free Verse More Like This
I've realized that you do listen. You just forget.
No, my sweetheart. It's not the way you don't find me witty.
I've learnt that our senses of humour are different.
No, my darling. It's not the way you pick on my flaws.
I've understood that you love me despite them.
No, my dear. It's not the way you always ignore me like I'm just a girl.
I've figured out that I'm more even when your friends ask who I am.
No, my pet. It's not the way you never call me back when I need you.
I've come to the conclusion that you won't be there when I need you.
No, my sweet. It's not that you do not say it at all and when you do it's forced.
These are not the reasons why I've finally realized you don't love me.
Maybe years from now, when you sit and wonder about me, you'll realize
The reason I left was not words or sentiment or ideas or feelings
It's because your eyes are always wide open when you kiss me.
Nothing Lives Foreveri.Nothing Lives Forever in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
When you were a child, we would sit on the porch to talk about your day. And sometimes, we would find a dead bird, or a frog on there. And you would ask me about death and why it happens, looking at the poor creature in my hands, its life cut short and touch it tenderly. I would always say the same thing.
Nothing is meant to live forever, my dear.
The school called me in on your twelfth birthday and asked if I had known how clever you were, that your test scores were the best in the state. They asked me if I knew I had a genius child on my hands who grew bored easily in class and tended to distract others in his classroom, sometimes causing arguments, fistfights and could manipulate his classmates into doing anything.
We don't think this is the school for him. He needs to be challenged appropriately.
You fell in love at seventeen and she was lovely. Kind, caring and beautiful, I couldn't ask for a better girl for you. She was our neighbour
Sea of Liesi.Sea of Lies in Free Verse More Like This
My father never read me the story of Icarus. I found it for myself. I suppose he did not want me to know what it was like to almost touch the stars. But it was only after I had read the story did I even try to reach so far. It is a little like falling in love...and then drowning in the sea.
(I would be lying if I said the fall didn't break everything I had once believed was solid.)
My science teacher knew well that I was a dreamer. When I told her I believed fairytales were as real as love is, I could see the disapproval and disappointment in her eyes. I suppose thats why in her classroom, when I was asked what the greatest force in the universe was, I answered love. I suppose thats why she laughed and reminded me that love was as much a fairytale as the fairytales I believed in.
(She was wrong. Love exists...its just been broken into a million little pieces, set afloat in a sea of heartbreak.)
My mother didn't want to speak about t
After Words"I wish you would give it back to me."After Words in Free Verse More Like This
"Why? You'll just break it again."
"It's my heart. I will do whatever the hell I want with it."
"Yeah? Well, you take terrible care of things that are yours."
"Fine. Keep it. I am equal parts concrete and soul anyway."
"You say that, but I'm not entirely sure that you are. I think you're deep, and fragile and broken, and that makes you beautiful."
"Again, concrete and soul. "
"I wish you wouldn't make this so hard."
"So hard? I'm making this easy. You gave me dreams of half feathered swans and a stupid house on an endless beach and a city made of an ocean, and now you're taking it all away. But at least I had them for a while."
"Don't be that way."
"I am going to be awake every single night and wish for a shooting star, so I can wish upon that shooting star to wish thoughts of you away."
"I wish this could be easier on you. You gave me so much and so many too."
"So much of love and so many wishes?"
"No, so much wishing and so many love
I'm Not the Marrying KindI'm not the marrying kind.I'm Not the Marrying Kind in Free Verse More Like This
I have stones in my hair instead of flowers,
And a rosebush of thorns is more poignant to me.
I'm not the marrying kind.
My words aren't pretty or wise,
And I can't sing about anything but a broken heart.
I'm not the marrying kind.
I am the sort of damaged you see in an old recorder,
And the kind of old in an instrument that breaks into a billion pieces at a touch.
I'm not the marrying kind.
Neither neat, nor tidy, nor correct in my behavior,
And yes, I did in fact tell you to fuck yourself.
I'm not the marrying kind.
I do not stay silent in arguments,
And I like to lie compulsively, just to see your face change.
I'm not the marrying kind.
I am not the ideal of any lady, nor her likes,
And I do not allow any man to walk all over me.
No. I am not the marrying kind.
But I do like the idea of a little girl with her mo
You call it Judgement, We call it SinEmily needs the words to understand that she isn't being unreasonable. She just wants them to mean something and not be a string of words which flows into itself over and over again.You call it Judgement, We call it Sin in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
She doesn't like her name either. Not because Emily isn't a pretty name but because she would rather be called something she feels like. (She has never quite forgiven her parents for choosing her name for her.) If she could, she would call herself Glass, because that is what she wakes up feeling like every morning. As if crystallised pieces of glass are edible and her insides tingle as she swallows them whole.
Emily lets the words call her names sometimes. She writes them on her knees so that she can remember them. Sometimes the words call her a whore, and sometimes stupid, and sometimes a loser and sometimes a tramp (She has never learnt that loving too much is a crime and boys with pretty eyes sometimes lie.). She sits in the bathroom with a pen the colour of blood and writes them carefully
City of LightYou are my city.City of Light in Free Verse More Like This
Your eyes are the gates,
Your soul is my transport
Your veins the roads I must travel.
You should never ever be afraid
of my knowing you too well.
Or of my being too close to you.
Can you ever,
Even after living your whole life in it,
Know a city too well?
Epiphany No. 289If I had known you before my heart had been broken once.Epiphany No. 289 in Free Verse More Like This
I would not have been the girl who you liked enough to say hello to.
If I had known you before my heart had been broken twice.
I would not have been the girl who understood your beautiful sad eyes.
If I had known you before my heart had broken thrice.
I would not have been the girl who felt your music in her sore heart.
If I had known you before my soul was ripped from me.
I would not have been the girl who appreciates you the way I do.
If I hadn't been damaged,
You would never have wanted to know me.
They say the universe works in mysterious ways.
And you, you are my mysterious way.
Sky EyesDesert hands tell talesSky Eyes in Free Verse More Like This
of a hundred arid summers, but
you are no longer as cloudless as they
(there is a storm
creeping through blue, blue veins).
But tell the sky to keep her sorrow,
that grey cascade blurring against
eyelids and horizons;
and suppress her misbegotten
droplets, seeping into the sodden
for there is still sun in your sky eyes.
SundropoSundrop in Concrete Poetry More Like This
rise and rage
with a new year
untamed and glorious,
pulling the years together
with a snap of your fingers.
but some days you are languid,
stretching like the summer dusting
of freckles along your forearms, the
slumberous strands of hair shuttering
your sky-eyes from the morning light.
on these days, I think the earth spins
slower and the birds sing a little
quieter. on these days, I look
at you and I think:
NymphTranslucent asNymph in Free Verse More Like This
a dragonfly wing—
her hair fans
in the water, and
the sun bleeds.
NetherThe world unfurls:Nether in Free Verse More Like This
becomes a gemstone, sinking
a mirror breaking
a thousand splintering realities
and I am lost —
forgotten who I ever was,
forgotten how to breathe.
DebussyRestless under theDebussy in Free Verse More Like This
dreams quiver like
a long-lost muse.
SurrealismThree a.m., andSurrealism in Free Verse More Like This
God is in my bathtub
a freshwater moon
in the mother-of-pearl sky.
SehnsuchtOctober again;Sehnsucht in Free Verse More Like This
and the curtains billow
with broken glass echoes and
Mendelssohn's bride waltzing
to better times
She becomes the rain,
and breaks her own heart as the sound
right through us.
1,001 NightsIn a land of1,001 Nights in Free Verse More Like This
dreams and dust:
the curve of
a half-hazed sun,
WinterbleederCurled around alpine legs and caughtWinterbleeder in Free Verse More Like This
within hollows and inclines of pale skin,
she carries her endless winter always.
It settles upon frosted shoulders and
caps heavy-lidded eyes, clinging close to
the darkness of each snow-flecked breath;
lingering above cracked lips and the
remnants of a long forgotten warmth.
But darling, don't we deserve each other?
(She'd been Spring's child before Winter's whispers.)
HaikuWriMo1HaikuWriMo in Haiku & Eastern More Like This
Church spire, stretching,
weds the moon.
and a heavy heat;
steeds of elven knights,
armoured all in blue.
upon orange glass:
a specimen, fossilised
veined in gold—
fallen like snowdrops.
Eagle in flight,
great wings cradling
peeking from a soft,
smoky grey duvet.
The world settles;
the heavens awaken—
two arrows in tandem.
The yellow of an
crinkled paper moon.
Tangled in old web—
a spider, noosed.
of a smudged landscape:
pot of molten gold
along the treetops.