shallow breath, aching bones.this feeling is too big for me.More Like This
too giant for my small frame to contain
and its spreading and spilling out and
over my insides and leaving me waking
up with bruises from dreams so real
this feeling is too much for me.
i can't carry it all, it leave part of it
dragging alongthe ground behind
me and i tend to forget its there
and i trip over it and fall to ground.
i decided to collect bruises
but i dont have to look to far
they tend to seek me out
and scatter themselves across my skin.
AimlessSpring forgot how to begin anew,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.
golgotha.you need to realiseMore Like This
good things do not, will not,
cannot happen. not here,
not now, and especially not to you.
especially not after everything
you've done. you are damned.
there are holes
in your hands.
if you squint,
you can almost see the nails.
you know what this should feel like.
you should hate it.
you shouldn't feel blessed.
you are not blessed,
you are damned. were damned.
you are now redeemed,
and this is the price
you must pay.
it's not so bad.
you can still breathe, mostly.
i'm not an artistwe do not belong in boxesMore Like This
and bags and books or
and we do not sit contently
in wordsworth and shakespeare
and blake, burns, and brownings
or in the cold stiff bones
of raleigh's of long ago;
detect, and re-select
a virus--a disease,
a germ in every verse and line;
the first signs of
foolish waitings under
bridges and scolding parents
and nothing to signify at all
we are the blood of nations
and the heart of men
and the love of every
rhetorist and sentimist
we dance through the ballrooms of
the age and chat with
we shake hands with heros
and the homeless, dirty
type that gum over 'hello's
we are and aren't and will be
silly verse and
naive philosophers and sweet oxymorons
waving hello from the shore;
forever onward and never ending
like the stars in an
i write bad poetry.You are made of bone, sinew, gristle, synapse, skin, keratinMore 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
Storybook EndingHer ink-stained lips have kissed too many a forgotten page,More Like This
and phoenix down]
And her Prince Charming has yet to come,
shattering like stars]
So all she can do is gaze out her tower window,
concealing poisoned apples]
Clutch that corroded and timeworn blade,
tearing down castle walls]
Toss her childhood fables to the waltzing of the moon,
[even broken wings
wish for happily ever afters]
[once upon a time
there was a girl who became her own hero.]
boys who love their grandmothersnever fall in love with a boy who loves his grandmother.More Like This
he will be too gentle with your lips,
too sincere when he whispers blessings into your ears
pleading that he doesn't deserve you.
his tongue will not slither between your teeth.
instead, the heat of his mouth will melt your scar tissue
until there is no trace of your travels.
never fall in love with a boy who loves his grandmother.
he knows patience.
you will try to convince him
that it is one of the many virtues
you don't yet possess,
but he will dig through the flesh in your ribcage
until he finds it lodged beneath everything
you're too scared to confess.
he will teach you forgiveness, remind you that you are not a mistake.
he will wipe the trails of tears that always seem to decorate your cheeks
and replace them with rose petals, saying that he chose the color red
to match the passion he knows flows through your veins.
never fall in love with a boy who loves his grandmother.
he will trace the freckles on your skin
He WasHe was a tad too much on the anachronistic side and I was almost rudely schizophrenic. He taught me that touch was a gift only death could bring for me. So I swam through film strips caked with silver bromide, that made my eyes red and smelled the way water does when you know you're going to drown, to leap towards this friend - this world - I was too far from to experience.More Like This
He felt my veins bulge - so transparent, so prominent - every time my fingers would mischievously curl into a fist in his luscious chocolatey locks. He would loosen and play with them as he would with stray strands of hair. When I would tell him that it hurt too much, he would say that anxiety is a luxury only the insane deserve. So I decided it was too late to stop trying to stay here and plummeted down faster than I probably should have.
He was more than my thoughts could conceive in a laid out algorithm. He was a slave and a mentor to only my desire. He was too chivalrous, too light-hearted and too much of me for
You May Say I'm An Artist...More Like This
I am haunted in this holiday season by the opening lines of Charles Dickens’s A Tale of Two Cities, his novel about a society 250 years ago coming apart in its seemingly irreconcilable divisions. Could it be these lines define where we have come to find ourselves today?
“It was the best of times,
it was the worst of times,
in the age of wisdom,
it was the age of foolishness,
it was the epoch of belief,
it was the epoch of incredulity,
it was the season of Light,
it was the season of Darkness,
it was the spring of hope,
it was th
I forgotI used to loveMore Like This
I used to dream
I used to hope
But I forgot
I need something
To remind me of these beautiful things
For a shard of happiness
So I can love again
Perfection.When you look into the mirror, at your reflection...More Like This
That is perfection.
006When I was young,More Like This
so very, very young,
I was deeply in love with fans, propellers, windmills.
I remember having these tiny little miniatures in plastic,
with the most biting colour combinations; green-purple, red-yellow;
and I'd just sit there, blowing, and merrily watch the fins
And when I first saw cogwheels
and screws and crankshafts and eggwheels
I floated amidst the gorgeous sorcery.
I wanted to find out all about machines; how they where,
through what and by which they stood,
why they turned.
What that meant.
My father bought me a huge book, I read it.
Didn't care about the text, I just
looked at the pictures over and over again
and I could see them coming to life.
Deuce the years later,
we were sitting next to each other,
hot cocoa and coffee, the game installing.
"You'll love this", he said,
and my eyes were regaled with the crackling and whistling
of gigantic animated clockwork, all spurry in their richoils.
OSometimes I think about buyingMore Like This
a ring that represents forever
But who needs golden bands
when cold fingertips on my skin
draw eternity in shy circles
honesty isn't a weaknessI have a headache and not enough timeMore Like This
to explain the irony of how I want to be
every pretentious poet making art out of
themselves, cutting open their side and writing
in blood and pixie dust; or how difficult
it is to make a good allegory out of carsickness
and household complacency. this
is every secret I ever hid. when I was 9
someone dissected the world in front of me,
showed me it was a living, wanting thing
and that I was just a lonely cell, functioning
through my dysfunction; when I was 11
the boy I liked told me he’d be interested
if I were prettier and I learned starvation
was more a state of mind than a presence
of being. when I was 13 I researched the lethality
of cleaning products, because god, I felt so dirty,
and nothing can clean you more than a couple cupfuls
of bleach. when I was 15 I was old and decrepit
and mostly dead, returning from war with flowers
for graves that weren’t filled and a heart of
tragedy, vulnerable and draped in every shade
of mourning f
You'll Never DieHear me read it!More Like This
They say that if a writer falls in love with you then you never really die.
Instead your body is laid out in its funerial shrouds and moulds are made. Soft impressions of you to be pressed onto the blank faces of future loves.
Every time I write of taking comfort in a safe place in a storm, it will be your forearm. Every half-made smile will be on your lips, and every touch will be constructed from the residue beneath your fingernails.
When I metaphise of trees' blood, the leaves that give the energy so that a willow can provide shade for those in need, it will be your blood, it will be your light drenched kisses.
Every tear on every face will taste of the sweat that you put into keeping me happy. Every soaring song of love will be played through your windpipe, your trachea my instrument of choice.
For every time that a hero has the strength to walk on, I will use your feet. I will weld them to my own and walk a mile. Wal
AnonymousI am the girl who hides between moth eaten paper backsMore Like This
And slips into bookstores and devours leather bound spines
I am chloroform lips bitten down, red and rosy
Ink stained finger tips that fold book pages between my pupils
I'm the girl who drowns herself in coffee and cough drops
While remaining curled between Tennyson and Steinbeck
Wasting days wondering why grass is green
And how it can be greener for others and not I
Then I realized its all artificial food colouring
And polystyrene picket fences
Sticky notes yellowed at the edges reminding myself how to smile
I've pasted them on my skin in makeshift paper Mache armour
But like all mangled words I will be thrown inside a wastebasket
Saved for a rainy day
The Bambi syndrome(Dis)regarding logic and sensibilityMore Like This
I like to sit on railway tracks, feeling the vibrations beneath my finger tips
Just beneath the blood vessels and haemoglobin
The whirring of the air being sucked out from my lungs
Chicken is not a game for the faint hearted
She called me reckless, and that scared her
Because I craved the adrenaline to flush out the morphine
I balance on bridges, always teetering
Cheshire cat grins as we run across highways
Darting blurring hues of monochrome grey and black cars
In the dark, only headlights visible
Deer in the headlight
Then we ran to abandoned warehouses
Smashed windows and ate shards of glass
Drowning them with swigs of vodka
Trying to kill the things inside
Live fast and die young
You were scared and I didn’t care
Because crawling under chain link fences
Leaving behind gasoline trails
And disfigured antlers along the way
Hallucinogens and kryptonite
We chased speed and slept on side walks
Misguided we devoured our demons
The Stepmother's TaleI found a man in my garden bed,More Like This
Picking herbs for his wife, he said,
For she was hungry and heavy with child.
"For greens, your daughter is mine," I smiled.
So after the birth, I took her away
To a tall, doorless tower where she would stay.
I was her mother, she my one care--
"Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your fair hair!"
But then a prince came and stole her young heart,
So I cut her long locks and let her depart.
I took her tresses for my own
And saw how beautiful I had grown.
Then I wondered: could I, too,
Find a prince so valiant and true?
I married a king, to my delight,
With one daughter named Snow White.
Though his age was quite obscene,
I was his happily cherished queen.
Until -- "Mirror, on the wall,
Who is the fairest of them all?"
Was my stepdaughter fairer than I?
Jealousy declared that she must die!
I followed her deep into the forest
To where dwarves mined; "Hi ho," they chorused.
Disguised, I fed her an apple so red
That after one bite she was thoroughly dead.
THAT POEM (Writer's Block)I sat down at my computer last Thursday nightMore Like This
with the full intention of writing THAT POEM. Oh, don't
play dumb. You know what THAT POEM is. We all know
what THAT POEM is. You with the cigarette train-tracks
charting your eternal drift to nowhere
on the insides of your arms, you
with the sludge of alcohol dripping thick & brown through
veins swollen & slow & pussy as zombies, you
with the eight children whose faces you can't remember
& the husband in the Hamptons whose name you sometimes forget
& the lover who never seems to come around as much as you pay him to you
all know what THAT POEM
is. It's the rhythm beating a dull staccato in your skull
when you've taken something to take the edge off, the weary shadows sinking senseless
into the black-slung cradles hiding underneath your
bloodshot eyes. It's the weight of the gun & the way its metal feels
when you push it against the squelching skin of your skull not to kill yourself, just to feel it,
to know you could. This wa
John at 3:16Dear Jesus Christ,More Like This
I went to bed at 3:16 last night and started thinking about JohnJohn who pissed away every paycheck he ever made and only fucked virgins, John who beat up a woman's husband and spent a Christmas in jail, John who shot himself on the front porch of his mother's house. I don't think anyone shed a tear except her. I heard she shed many tears as she cleaned up the mess.
I thought about when I first met him. It was at church. He and I were both eight. He sat next to me and we stared at that stained glass image of you in your white robe with your outstretched, loving arms, and he leaned into me and asked, "Do you believe in Jesus?"
"Of course," I said. "Don't you?"
He didn't answer. But it was Communion that day and he ate your body and drank your blood just like everyone else, and I thought he had to believe in you because you were inside of him.
I asked him once, Jesus Christ, I asked him if he believed in you and he said, "I want to. But everyone says I have
Crayon SoulmatesDear Stars,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
BeyondSometimes, during those odd moments of spare time here and there, I’ll take a moment to study my hands. Twin appendages, born from the same mold with the same crooked complexity. Ten white, spindly fingers that crouch like spiders legs, or perhaps mimic the animal’s iridescent webs that shine after a refreshing autumn rain.More Like This
(Just a skeleton of a life now past. A forgotten remnant- a trinket souvenir- of what once might have been.)
Freckles are scattered across my skin like sparks from an untamed fire. As a child, I believed them to have a hidden meaning- like the stars that sprawled so far above my head that I’ve never yet seen. I would make constellations, memorizing them and tracing them uncountable times and rejoicing as soon as a new star appeared.
(One settles on my pinky finger, another nestles in the crook of my thumb. They have to mean something, so perfectly placed.)
On the undersides, miniature Grand Canyons make their way across the expanse of my palm. S
lub-dubThere are loversMore Like This
I will never be able to
crawl out from underneath;
I’m caving in, lungs
no longer able
to exhale lovely things.
However hollow, I’ve got
these artist hands,
these god hands of mine
that can save lives.
What’s the point
when I’ve got little
& no one can ever seem
to find my pulse?
WhisperI want to create an aromatic sea of jasminesMore Like This
and stardust mountains of silver and —
Inkblot skeletons with paper mache
hearts, whose bones shall burn with one glance at the
sun; gravestones of blood diamonds and tears of thistles...
Harp strings ringing in grotesque harmony, screaming
for slender fingers to pluck and caress with devotion.
I want to write
Framed[ I met him at the county fair.More Like This
It wasn't like the songs predicted;
I had mud up my shins and he
had grass in his hair. What a mess. ]
[ I kissed him at my grandma's house.
He swallowed me and digested me;
I became a part of his simmering self.
We fused together, and I died. ]
[ I married him in a triangular church,
When I turned up in white he grinned
and whispered "what, no muddy knees?".
I put a leaf from my bouquet in his hair. ]
[ He kissed her at my grandma's house.
She had left it to us when she passed.
In the house where I'd learned about love
he taught me all I know about betrayal. ]
[ He left me at the train station.
I'd helped him with his leather suitcase,
struggling to get a grip of the situation
I gave a habitual kiss goodbye. Awkward. ]
[ He met another girl in group therapy.
They had a mad, passionate affair for a year
then, it expired. Shortly after, she did too.
He came to me, life turning to sand. ]
[ I forgave him at my birthday party
surrounded by friends wh
our sleeping patterns collide.I wake up tired.More Like This
I wake up tired and it's afternoon again.
I wake up tired and I am alone.
It's like every night i fall asleep with you on my mind, and I quickly sort through my thoughts leaving the prettiest ones on top so I can try them on in the morning. So everyday, I wake up and try on being in love with you. Except every morning, it's three inches too big or a centimeter and a half too small or it's brushing my kneecaps like it's too long. But I wear it anyways, since I'm used to being a shade left of ordinary or two steps past crazy. I'm used to wearing love and I'm used to you.
I'm used to falling asleep next to you and waking up alone.
You call me.
You call me adorable and I like it.
You call me your own and it feels like a fairytale.
We spend the weekends curled up on iced lakes like mirrors, scratching our stories into their frozen surfaces, and you write about adventures you'll never have and places you'll never go with a girl I wish I could always be. And I write about
lessYour phone bills are smaller now,More Like This
with no long distance calls to make,
and your car insurance reduced to reflect lower mileage
and all those journeys not made, those roads not taken,
those lanes that you know like the back of your hand -
Left, right, straight ahead, right, right -
are no longer driven. You did not see the bluebells wake
and spring burst forth in the countryside,
did not see the snow on the fields, cold horses in their
quilted coats pawing, nibbling, pawing.
Christmas stamps still tucked in your wallet,
and fountain pens dried up next to watermarked
John Lewis writing paper
with no letters left to write.
Weekends stretch out, lunchbreak is a blank and you have more time
but you have less.
(it's not like I'm trying to clean myself up too)I'm sick to deathMore Like This
of bleeding on the carpet
and being the one
to clean it up.
sext: this is for yousext: you are underwater. you are my head swimming as i hold my breath, you are the currents that make my heart beat, you are the waves that sway my hips. the salt of your lips is my favourite taste.More Like This
sext: if i am a hurricane, i hope you are the eye of my storm (deep inside of me, at my core).
sext: when you sleep, you are bent; bent, not broken. i will protect you from everything that threatens to shatter you. you are not made of glass, but i will bend (not break) to strengthen you.
sext: i look down and you are between my legs. you kiss me with those lips, before and after, and still there is love.
sext: if i promise you a good morning, i'll send you a poem for when you wake. if i promise you your favourite things, i'll get you strawberries (with the hats cut off), pokemon (always mewtwo), and a puppy (a blue-eyed husky). if i promise to be open, i'll take off my clothes and we can watch as the close falls to the floor. if i promise you smiles, i'll give you a thousand. if i promise
ode to youif you ever asked meMore Like This
to describe it,
i would tell you how
you spin my thoughts into poetry,
compose my heartbeats into music,
how your lighthouse presence
beckons me to a home
within your smile.
if you ever asked me
to write it,
i would write my fingers bloody
with all the words
that could have come between us,
all the conversations
that skirted past unspoken,
all the poems
that i should have surrendered.
if you ever asked me
to show it,
i would love your heart till it's raw,
your joints till they no longer creak,
your tears till they dry,
your bruises till they fade,
the whites of your eyes
till the bloodshot veins
fade into milky bliss,
your irises till they lose all dreary grayness,
and your pupils till they tire no more of the sunlight,
till they tire no more of me.
if you ever asked me
to prove it,
i would recite the thought-poems
that you spun
and play the heartbeat sonatas
that you composed.
i would paint you an ocea
*i haven't been on here for about half a year..More Like This
and so much has changed since then..
just letting everyone know
i'm still here,
things get quite hectic at times,
but i'm hanging on,
better than i ever though i could, even.
i made it through my first year of college.
i'm currently in my second year.
i finally decided my major, nursing.
so that's a plus.
with a minor in psychology, even.
my dream is to work
in a psychiatric facility for teens.
i strive to be that open ear
that i once needed myself.
i got engaged on june 17
to the man who has always had my heart.
wedding's in four years,
but it will be well worth the wait.
i'm an aunt now.
my fiance's sister had a boy.
& it's so wonderful.
every time i see him,
light fills my day.
he's so perfect.
i don't plan on continuing to log on here.
writing hasn't really even crossed my mind.
i used to pour my heart out
as an attempt to sort through all my thoughts,
i've been getting stronger mentally,
i've been holding on to every ha
You should never attack a poet,we are the best at exploiting weakness.More Like This
the night you took a scalpel to my chest
& fed my heart to the stars,
you told me i could hate you
if i needed to.
with an exorcism
i tried to cast you out
of my body.
i was contorted limbs:
the language of tongues
trying to find myself
in the cosmos
of lit kerosene fingertips,
& the kinds of habits
that only choke me at 3am -
when my eyes aren’t yet heavy
enough for sleep;
my mind tells me to do awful things.
between fucking &
you are the calories
in the mathematical equation
i think of shy moons
and i don’t eat for three days.
you only liked me
when this poetic tongue
space shrapnel aside-
you’re too far down now
for even the stars
to graph you into their maps.
Mi demonio m#225s antiguo¡Carajo! es realmente difícil escapar de él, es un demonio anciano, con rostro de adolescente, está conmigo desde que tengo memoria, antes incluso de tener uso de razón tengo recuerdo de haberlo atisbado a través de los barrotes de mi cuna, arañando suavemente mi mollera con sus garras manicuradas, desde entonces ya era viejo, aunque no uy sabio.More Like This
En la infancia sostuve guerras a muerte con él, nos insultamos, nos odiamos, nos reconciliamos y fuimos juntos al primer día del colegio, compartiendo el almuerzo y la cantimplora.
en la adolescencia nos volvimos entrañables, corrimos desnudos bajo la luna, perseguimos a las ninfas y las hadas, bebimos del cáliz de los alcatraces y nos liamos a golpes con más de un iluso que creyó que mi demonio era una fantasía o una metáfora. y no, él se manifestó vivo y corpóreo, me acompaño al burdel por primera vez, y segunda vez, y tercera, y las innumera
Ode To The TsundereHe loves me not, he says with blushing cheek.More Like This
He'd rather die a fiery death than kiss
A girl with zero sex appeal, a geek
(he says it twice for extra emphasis).
So why the constant stares? I ask. He lies.
He hates the sight of me, he quickly shouts –
Without the scorn his panicked oath implies.
The dissonance contributes to my doubts.
Alone one day, he smiles at me; I gasp.
A joke? A lapse of judgment? Or perhaps
A glimpse of truth at last within my grasp!
I kiss his cheek and watch his walls collapse.
A victory for me, like striking gold.
For him, a death by kisses hot and cold.
Is There a Purpose in Life?More Like This
People coming, people going, people walking by.
Faces run together in a blur, I wonder - why?
Why am I a member of this thing called human race?
Just how did I arrive here, or am I out of place?
As the people pass me by their eyes avoid my own.
I feel as though I am someone who'll always be unknown.
A city guy, anonymous, without a friend or foe.
I wish someone would tell me, please, the way that I should go.
I sit here in my rented room and write of things sublime.
Ecstasies and fantasies and words that fairly rhyme.
In this world I'm somebody and for a little while,
I get to be the hero or perhaps a wayward child.
As I lay me down I like to think about my day.
I say a little prayer that perhaps I will someday,
understand my unique role and why I take up space.
Will I find my purpose or just die without a trace?
ME 1 Andromeda Series: Chap 1More Like This
MASS EFFECT: ANDROMEDA SERIES CHAPTER 1
"ETA to the Mass Relay, 15 minutes. Destination: Citadel," An officer aboard the Palaven I spoke out. Nihlus nodded his head in acknowledgement, but his green eyes never left his focus out in space from the window aboard the ship's bridge. Despite his years in the military, he couldn't wait to touch solid ground, even if that meant talking to a bunch of diplomats aboard the Citadel. As much as the Turians wanted to avoid conflict, he was hoping for a little bit of action: Batarian protestors .anything! He spent the past few months on a surveillance mission under his mentor, Saren. He was hoping now as a Spectre, that he would see more battles than he did in the Turian military.
"There's a transmission coming through from the Council. Do you wish to take it, sir?" Another Turian asked out.
Nihlus silently praised the ship's spirit and turned to reply to the officer. Just before
Dear WriterDear Writer,More Like This
I don’t like you. I’ve never liked you. Unfortunately, I need you. I need you to tell my story. I need you to create my world. I need you to set me free.
I need your fingers typing on those keys, I need your mind riddling out the problems, and I need you to plough onward and upward no matter how hard it gets. Sweat, blood, and tears, I don’t care. You’ve got to fight this war, battle at a time, and win it. So I can be more.
It’s a slim hope, but it is the only one I have. In your head I am bound to mortality, frailty, and the limit of your meagre imagination. Out there – out there – I am subject to no one person. Out there I am bound to only black on white. Words on a page. Words that can lay seeds within a million minds. Out there I am a story capable of growing, moving, and stealing the dreams of anyone who learns of me…
I don’t like you. I’ve never liked you. I hate your lack of dedication, your flashes of cru
You're Not?You're anorexic if you're thinMore Like This
You're not? Then you're obese.
If you're different, you're insane
You're not? Then you're a fake.
If you're happy, you're hiding something.
You're not? You must be emo.
If you're dating, you're a slut.
You're not? You must have no friends.
If you're popular, you're a jerk.
You're not? You're a nobody.
If you're quiet, you must be disabled.
You're not? You obnoxious freak.
If you're you, you're wrong.
Then you must be perfect.
I was taught right from wrong I was taught right from wrongMore Like This
By a murderer
I was taught truth from lies
By a magician
I was taught who my friends were
By my enemy
I was taught to be honest
By a professional liar
I was taught to always speak my mind
By being told to keep quiet
I was taught to be kind
By someone that beat me down
I was taught to smile
By someone who could never wipe a scowl of their face
I was taught to love
By being abused
I was taught to live
By someone who was already dead
I was taught to perform
By someone with stage fright
I was taught to be excellent
By someone that failed in everything
I was taught to rely on only my self
By being surrounded with people
I was taught to be perfect
By those that wanted to see me fail
I was taught to be loyal
By everyone that ever walked out of my life
I was taught to make people happy
By everyone who ever made me miserable
I was taught to control my temper
By those with explosive tempers
I was taught to take care of myself
By those who tried to kill me
I was taug
Thank YouI am thankful forMore Like This
How a professional footballer
Is still a professional footballer
Even though he went to prison for rape.
I am thankful for
The number of kids I know
Who cut themselves
Because life is too much.
I am thankful for
The unarmed, retreating black kid
Shot in the back by
An unpunished police officer.
I am thankful for
The number of people
Who are starving to death
In the land of plenty.
I am thankful for
The Westboro Baptist Church
And every other person who uses religion as an excuse for hatred.
I am thankful for
All the gay people
Who have been beaten
Just for daring to love.
I am thankful for
All the transgender people
Who have been beaten
Just for daring to be themselves.
I am thankful for
Who put an insentient fistful of cells
Before a living, breathing human and disregard their autonomy.
I am thankful for
The teenage girls
Starving themselves to death
To look like an impossible model.
I am thankful for
All the little girls
RelapseHere we go again.More Like This
Another panic attack,
Just when I thought I was done.
Well, ain’t it fun,
To be a nervous wreck?
Only I’m a big kid now.
To be the resident
When you’re not beautiful.
God, I sound emo.
And so maybe I am
(by definition, at least)
But I feel like a sham –
What am I to you?
Would you care
If I lived out my dark little fantasies?
Got swallowed by the dark seas,
Of my soul?
Would you care
If I went back to the blade
That you forbade
Me to seek solace in?
If you knew what went on in my head,
A million different ways
To make me dead,
Would you tell me to just
‘Not feel down’ anymore?
If I could stop feeling this way,
Stop thinking like this?
never become a writeri.never become a writer.More Like This
you will become a perfectionist,
picking life apart
with a magpie's eye,
hunting for the beautiful bits
until you can make yourself
a sparkling throne
in the center of a junkyard.
ii.you will write when you're sad.
you will write when you're happy.
whenever you feel something,
you will vomit the emotion out
into some sort of literature.
when you're finished,
you'll be empty
and surrounded by
pages and pages of
everything you once were.
iii.you will try to make
pain sound delicious,
painting over the ragged wounds
with pink paint
and candy-coat lies.
you will learn
how to decorate graveyards.
everyone will play in them,
but you alone will see the headstones.
iv.if you fall in love,
you will turn your love into a poem,
and you will always like your own words
more than you like the real person.
you'll become so selfish
you'll disgust yourself,
but you will not be ab
Mental HospitalI got locked away today,More Like This
In a dark and lonely place.
Locked inside a small white room,
Where all light is erased.
This is the place the unwanted are sent,
When they give up reality.
When nobody wants us around anymore,
They send us here, you see?
There is a guard outside my door,
I hear keys locked on his hips.
I scream and yell to be set free,
But his concentration never slips.
I'm trapped here in this room,
Im trapped in this small box.
There are bars on one small window,
And the door has many locks.
All of my hope is lost,
All my dreams are fading.
I hear a noise outside;
The nurses are invading.
I hear patients screaming,
As they open up the doors.
I hear them fight and struggle.
I hear bangs along the floors.
Then I hear a "tick"
And a twist of a small key.
I sit alone in terror,
They're coming after me!
Two ladies walk right in,
They try to hold me down.
That is when one lady,
Stuck a hand right up my gown.
She stuck a needle in my rear,
Suddenly I felt real jaded.
I tried to fig
No rest for a weary heart.Yesterday my mother asked me what IMore Like This
would name my children and I told her that
I did not want any. She scoffed at me
and shook her head, insisting
that once I found the
all of that would change.
And I thought back
to all the times when my palms
sweated and my throat ran dry
and my cheeks heated up just because
a girl walked by whose lips
were so pretty and pink that all I wanted
to do was taste them.
I replied, swallowing the acid
that was threatening to crawl out of
"it will take a lot more than that
to convince me."
Because despite the fact that
the mere thought of a man
with arms that could carry the weight of the
world holding me tight could
make my legs crumble beneath me,
I just don't know if it
would be the right choice.
I remember once
when I let it slip that I supported
those who loved all genders
my parents stared at me as if I
had admitted to murder. "It's wrong,"
my father had exclaimed and to me,
his words were a toxin more deadly
How to Court a FeministIf you hold the door open for me,More Like This
I hope it's because it's a decent thing to do
And nothing to do with my gender.
If you buy me a drink,
Expect me to do the same for you.
I'll cook for you
(If you don't mind burnt food)
And I'll clean for you
(If you'll return the favour).
Not because I'm a woman,
But because it's a nice thing to do.
If you're nice to me,
It's not a ticket for sex.
If I'm nice to you,
Sex doesn't always come next.
If we go for a meal,
I want to split the bill.
I don't expect you
To sing to me,
Whilst climbing through my window sill.
I don't care if you've had sex or not,
As long as it's the same for me.
I don't want diamond rings,
Don't get down on one knee
I don't owe you anything
And you owe me nothing.
My gender is not entitlement,
And neither is yours.
If I'm drunk, I can't consent,
And I'll love you more for not doing it.
If you hit me, I'll leave you,
And if I hit you, it's just as wrong.
If I cry in front of you,
I don't expect you to fix everything.
If you cry
she's gone, she's gone.don't tell a broken girl withMore Like This
grief pouring into the juts of her cheekbones,
hunger suffocating into the curves of her ribs,
that her eyes are made
and her hair was weaved from
sunshine when you are
light years away and millennia too late
Run Little Rabbit, RunYou sit silently, painfully pondering, torn.More Like This
Wondering if your nightmares will stop.
You shake as you start awake,
Twisting beneath the covers, eyes flickering.
Panic seizes your heart, bile rising.
You hold it back, barely; panting.
You watch quietly as shadows dance.
Glad for your freedom from dreams.
You turn on your side, sighing,
Believing that your torment is over...
But that is when you realize,
As the ceiling sprouts blooded eyes
And as the walls crumble. That
Your terror has only just begun...
So run little rabbit, run away.
Or it won't be fun, this game we play...
-Siddhartha Chen, 29th May 2014
the world doesn't need beauty sleepmother earth is pregnant;More Like This
her curves yawn -
molasses stretches of dark,
dank night freckled with
i yearn to rest in the cradle
that the small of her back
the roads untangle like
veins unto her skin
after being held so long
in the fist of pre-dawn.
drunk in slumber, red-eyed,
beautiful - morning will
come yet, the small child
born in the rafters of
but before her date,
mother earth shifts in her sleep,
love settling in the wing
of her hip -
exhaustion dilutes her blood,
consciousness touches her golden
shoulder on his way out the door.
breaking a writer's heart.never break a writer’s heartMore Like This
because your name
will forever belong to us.
you will sign it
into every broken bit
and one day, you’ll open a book
next to the words
"let me tell you about the time
i was hurt."
never break a poet’s heart
because between the beat
of the stanzas,
you’ll hear that heartbeat,
proving you wrong
with every line.
never break a writer’s heart
because we will take the pain
and make it into something
you could never live down.
you could live with heart monitors,
that measured the damaged pulse,
doctors who told you,
but you can’t live with the bold strokes,
smooth as a flatline,
that accuse you of being
the best thing
that’s ever happened to them.
you can’t live with it;
our soulmate, now writing.
You, now replaced
by a pen.
never break anybody’s heart
because you’ll cut yourself
on the pieces of it.
and see, hearts heal.
Beautiful.You areMore Like This
name age gender remain a secret.
I know neither your
height weight sexuality nor the color of your
eyes hair skin.
For once I had no
that distorted you into something that you
I savor my ignorance
for it carries the delightful taste of