A lion among sheep.There are ghosts in my bloodstream
kissing concrete cells &
the bedroom eyes of nerve endings.
( foreign words
engraved into my marrow, birds in my chest
& wars not yet fought between my hips. )
I've taken myself apart every night
since I learned how to swallow a pen
limb by steady limb.
Passed around by grabby hands,
a sold, & borrowed daughter;
I am a lion among sheep,
drunk on life & ink.
.she wants to taste the moonMore Like This
between forefinger and thumb she
plucks it from the sky, and like
some great pearly gobstopper
rolls it over her tongue,
licks the dust from her
shuts her eyes
layersi’ve wrapped up silly things in my heartMore Like This
like pictures and scribbles
old scarves and poems
songs and magazine snippets
typewriter fonts and skeleton keys
favourite pens and flower petals
droplets of tea and cookie crumbs
gritty bits of sand and popsicle sticks
you’re there too.
Parentheses(I wonder if parenthesesMore Like This
ever see all the letters
caught in between them
and feel that distance
as though it is tangible;
if they ever crave
to be close enough together
so they could intertwine
until their inkscratches
collide to incoherence;
if you’ve ever noticed
how your right hand ellipses
and curves just like a parenthesis,
and how my left hand is its opposite.)
1945 in sepiaThe boy called “spineless” has a backboneMore Like This
lost in the rubble of Hiroshima, his unfettered hands
pulling at maps and photographs.
With worn and radioactive identity, he knows
that the world is a veteran, sick of empathy
and can look massacre in the eye without blinking.
Hastily, people will cleanse themselves
of alpha particles and corpses
they did not touch.
History classrooms will suck the marrow of tragedy
unafflicted, passing Nagasaki
as another word in a textbook,
pointing at pictures, saying
That’s what you get
when you mess with America.
He does not blame them.
They have not seen for themselves
the crimson cloud inhaling his old home,
the cave of his mother’s mouth
swallowing the stolen decades.
They did not touch the ashes imprinted
on buildings, the black silhouettes of people
whose bodies burned into them;
did not put his father’s jacket
into the back closet
one last time.
Still, this rubble-spined boy
keeps firm th
-lonelinessMore Like This
when you find yourself
in a crowd of familiar faces,
the struggle for breath
IntrovertEveryone's tryingMore Like This
to get out of
of their parents-
I'm here trying
to get out of
Atelophobia AtelophobiaMore Like This
The word sticks to my tongue like cotton candy
The sweet, fluffy combination of letters
struggling to embody a correct connotation
And even the dictionary definition seems sugarcoated:
"Fear of imperfection."
Is that what they say when I'm up until 3am,
editing my English paper for the umpteenth time
The tick-tock tick-tock of the clock
promptly proliferating the room
And I just sit there changing good to great,
and peaceful to quiescent,
hoping that my teacher will be drunk in his bungalow
while he grades my chicken-scratch calligraphy
And he’ll see stars instead of how horrid it is
Or is that the word they use,
when I struggle to consume a 25-calorie chunk of chocolate
because I just know it will go straight to my hips,
or when I step on the scale
and watch the black dashes zoom by
like a carousel spinning,
And as the twirling and whirling makes me sick,
I know throwing up still won’t make me thin
And is that the term they mutter
when I'm sob
A message to the brokenYou drown yourselfMore Like This
in liquid sorrows,
letting the salty mess
burn your wounds,
and the sadness
to drip in your mouth,
consuming your words
and you say
you deserve the pain,
but I want to dry your face,
and whisper in your ear
how the clouds cry too,
while they hold such beauty,
and so do you.
The Giantsthe earth is our ship, and we turn throughMore Like This
oceans of time
on the mad waves of a
dark cosmic deep, lost in a vast sea
billions of points of light our guides
the ghosts of stars lightyears away that have already died
and been reborn,
swallowed into blackholes
like the skeletal masts of wrecks
and lighthouses torn asunder.
in gravitational tides we are pulled
and seafarers draw strange patterns in the sky -
so that we might cut the universe to size
to stop our minds from drowning.
we forget to look with fear and awe and
we whisper (why)s -
at a world we cannot touch beyond the hull.
they are reborn again.
with minds awake we voyage, dreaming softly
of gods and reincarnations
lost in delusions of afterlifes and
And beyond us in our black ocean
the stars are reborn
the light of millions of ghosts touches us
and fills our sky with sights that rob us
all energy survives and recycles into
we are immortal ghost-watchers
Carry Me Home, Callisto.Mission control caught a blip on their radar one morning, one that had not appeared before. They told us it was some sort of long period comet, the kind that swings by once in a lifetime and then disappears into the darkest corners of our solar systems. Astronomers began tracing the orbital path and factored in the effects of the giant at our doorstep. Good for Earth, it’s a gravity well deep enough to hide our nightmares. Bad for us when a blip on the screen is headed right in our direction.More Like This
You’d think that the lightning strikes twice analogy would apply, but it appeared that Asgard was in for another critical hit.
It would take longer to come and get us than it would for the comet to do the same.
I accepted our fate as soon as we heard the phrase “no hope.” The impact will be some five hundred kilometers away but the fireball will likely be too big to hide from underneath our bunks. Of course, there’s a slim chance we’ll make it. Per
PostcardsPostcardsMore Like This
In the parking lot, my brother shoots plastic arrows
at our station wagon, sleeping bags piled in the back.
"Can we have a pool shaped like a bass guitar,"
he asks, "when we get to California?" I float gum wrapper boats
in the shimmering heat mirage, my knees barnacled
with scabs and mosquito bites. As we drive, we count road kills,
eighteen wheelers and truck stops named after some guy.
You can drink it," Mom says cutting open a barrel cactus.
"Even if you get lost, you'll never die."
She taped Dad's latest postcard to the dashboard.
"Found work. I love you all. Come." We have postcards
from almost every state: amarillos from Louisiana,
pine flats from Arkansas, a Texas gas station with pipestem hoses.
Dad once worked in a diner, brought home day old cherry pie,
placemats I could draw on. When he kissed me goodnight,
I could hear jukebox songs. "Be my baby, do wah."
Mom stoops beside me, touches my spearmint boat with a bitten nail.
"Where is this one going?"
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.
Clouds and Koi!Reflection on pondMore Like This
Clouds drifting on still water
Playful Koi swim in sky
MorpheusEvery night I close my eyesMore Like This
And stand before the lord of dream
He stares at me, then raises a sword
Which shall expel from mortal world
It gleams in light, aimed to me.
And down my body, a snake of fear
Well he knows me and my fear,
How dark things shift behind my eyes.
The things that are tormenting me
He laughs at creatures in my dream
In his hands he bends this world.
A silent scream edged on his sword.
It is a shining sepia sword
The thing that widens, haunting fear
It vomits things frightful to me.
He sends me spinning to his world
I see no kindness in his eyes,
The coldest man, the lord of dream.
And now within his world, my dream,
I am the one holding the sword.
He looks on me with darkened eyes,
Filled with something unlike fear.
You cannot win in my own world,
He says, looking direct to me.
I feel the glory weighing me,
Heavy in the house of dream.
His is a dark and unkind world.
Perhaps, he tires of the sword.
I do not know yet what to fear,
But I see nothing in h
Goodbyei didn’t fall in love with youMore Like This
until your skin was already grey and i
had to tell you what the weather was like
since you couldn’t leave your bed.
i didn’t mind long nights in the hospital
because making you laugh brought a warmth
to my cheeks that burnt hotter than a
forest fire, you never laughed at me for blushing
i snuck you in alcohol and forbidden foods
and pushed you around in that rusted wheel chair,
and all the nurses looked at us with
miserable eyes that said more than the doctors
would ever tell me.
naively i thought it was good news
when you said they were sending you home; but
when i saw you strewn across your wine red sheets
my heart was heavy with foreboding, and
neither one of us said anything while i
slid an iv into your paper-skin hand, so
i never asked if you were okay.
we kissed and i didn’t comment
on your snowflake lips or the fact that
your hands shook like earth quakes when
they grazed my thigh and i held you tightly
like if i could keep
16 knocks on wood1.More Like This
the moon disappears every 28 days.
it wanes & waxes in fractions; it's smart
enough to not try everything at once.
i have been taught that every 7 years,
the cells in my body will die & be born again.
this means the moon will vanish & reappear 91 times
before i will have skin free of your fingerprints.
Proud Lake is located in Commerce, Michigan. at the crack of dawn,
you can find a boy with a gravel & honey voice casting fishing
lines into the abyss. you will wonder if he'll catch a good one.
time knows no boundaries;
just benevolence that doesn't always work out.
once, when i was 2 years old, i choked on the leaf of a mulberry tree.
not every seed bears good fruit.
sometimes, something is so beautiful that you can't breathe.
sometimes, you won't even try.
my palm is roughly the size of a nectarine.
in Chinese culture, nectarines symbolize mutation
and mutation is a change in structure.
i still don't know what my hands are trying to tell me.
a boy named Joshua tol
Her KissHer kiss was a beach breeze -More Like This
gentle with lingering strands of hair
on his sandy cheeks
(And that love
ran through their fingers
a family portraiti.More Like This
my father is an electric guitar.
he spends most of his time displayed on the wall,
shining when the light hits him just so,
hovering in the perfect spot.
he is not new, but neither is he old--
used so rarely, he would gather dust
if he were not kept so pristine.
the only music i’ve ever heard him play is
read off a page of inky black notes,
perfectly following the italicized instructions,
i never understood the words,
but they nestled in my psyche anyway.
i always thought he would be better if the instructions
were tossed away
and he was played instead of displayed,
his strings singing the wordless tune
of a mouth that knew what it would say
if it only had a voice.
my mother is a little black book,
filled cover to cover with tiny, illegible handwriting.
there are notes scribbled in her margins,
lists of wishes both practical and fantastic placed in columns,
some crossed off, some forever untouched.
she has handm
you are my eyessince i met you i have fallenMore Like This
for the way my fingers curl around a pen.
you told me once that my poems kept you breathing,
and if these pinkish branches keep your heart beating
then i love them and i love them
and i love them.
(you said my eyes were cornflower, forget-me-not,
blue jean shorts on a summer night.
you said my eyes were oceans, not for the blue
but because the sirens on my lashes
fell on your cheeks and sang to you.)
and my stomach has held a hundred moons
but you never told me that the blood i shed
even slumped on the floor when i cried in the night
you held me and told me not to be afraid,
you kissed my face and said that i was beautiful,
held my hand when my ribs became
good company, wouldn't let me count them
but fell asleep with your fingers just above the one we nicknamed
knees knocking, i cried when he disappeared from view.
you told me that he left like all good friends tend to do,
that his absence said 'healthy' and that
fishermanI am a fisherman-More Like This
all roaring waves
and rush of sea salt
beating seagull wings
and a tongue carved from
My hands break levees
and my breath births dams
the taste of chilly morns
still melt on the roof of my
mouth like I never wished
for anything besides the smack
of sodden rubber boots and
the scars from entangled
hunks of ivory nets
the sea has not
forgotten my voice-
I can hear them
when the wooden floorboards
crackle like hurricane bruises
from water laden saunters
through land sunk libraries
it has been a forever
since I held a dream
caught between my fingertips
and the gentle rock of a
boat and foamy froth on
but this new trip I have embarked upon
carries more clanking hooks
than screeching sinkers
yet- my line has not changed-
I am a fisherman and the sea
forget who its children are.
a jaw of glassyou are made of glass, lit with fireflies andMore Like This
firemen and fireflowers. i can see the heat
tremble like smoke to the black sky as you
tap on your jaw.
pearls slide to the cherry pits of your stomach,
tickled with daisies and ipecac syrup to
gut you like an oyster.
hollow boy, save the glow caught between
your transient, transparent bones- i can see
the snakes in your stomach writhing, pulled
taut and shelled like intestines, wrought like
a chain necklace about your throat.
you are gauze-between-
oh, like a butterfly locked inside its chrysalis,
oh, with cotton wings sticking as they become
viscous in the water, oh, the death of something
beautiful, more beautiful than you.
Candle Bones and Wax FleshShe spoke of the fire in her bones, a savage electricity sparking in her skeleton.More Like This
Insults hurled like bullets between them,
resentment igniting like gunpowder.
Her heart beats blue beneath her ribs; a raw, pulsing meat.
Her lips quiver, furious and trembling.
She struggles to reply but
there's fire on her tongue and lead anchors in her lungs.
She screams, flames rupturing from her esophagus,
heat seething from her bones.
She shrieks scorched flesh from between her teeth,
pausing to acknowledge ashes at her feet.
"The useless remains of what used to be alive."
loneliness is a hurricanea.More Like This
"what's beautiful?" i ask you,
voice slipping like silk
to caress the skin of your hands
molding themselves to mine,
and you say,
i sigh in exasperation
as i clutch you closer to me.
but what about me?
my lack of twig-like features?"
you laugh as i click my tongue,
trying to make it a joke...
but there's nothing funny
when i've never been good enough for anyone else.
when i've never been worthy.
it's the way i melt like honey
when you sing,
the chills you kiss along my spine
with just a glance.
it's the way
you're not afraid of flying at my side
or trusting me to catch you
Evil, Beautiful, FirefliesI'm covered in fireflies;More Like This
All up and down my legs.
They sleep in my skin
And hide my sin,
My precious red fireflies.
They ignite my body
And set it ablaze.
They turn all of my pain
Into a crimson haze,
My precious red fireflies.
They burn through flesh
In a criss-cross mesh
And spread their wings
All over me,
My precious red fireflies.
They hum silently,
Whispering away my shame.
They burn brightly,
Setting my blood aflame,
My precious red fireflies.
I hate them but they love me
But nobody can ever see
Because they refuse to leave.
Not that I want them to;
Because they care,
More than you ever could do,
My precious red fireflies.
They want me to die,
To jump, to fly.
They want to own me.
They want to set me free
And make it so it can be
And my precious red fireflies.
i hear knives in the windsomething in the timbre, tall heat,More Like This
sugar licking palm fronds fat cats
wash the salt; wash the afterburn it
like we planned you never
say the words plain, only
mm if we ever could we maybe stay
we always tried but couldn't shake
the open space we make the world a-
nother shape as we stand among the
timbertall sugar licking palm fronds
til heat escapes.
eugenics in bulkBy the time she was twelve they had already decided she would marry a man who could run a five minute mile and speak seven languages. They chose her a husband the same way they had chosen her eyes and her legs and the pale freckles that interrupted her nose - the same way their parents had designed their children and arranged their marriages, strategic.More Like This
Her father called her petite reine. He owned an antique chess board carved from ebony wood and maple. Some days she'd sneak into the library, pry open the old chequered box and pick out one of the queens, and she'd turn it round and round, searching for imperfections. It was a plain, ugly thing, huge and fat in her tiny grasp. She had wondered if he thought of her this way.
She wondered the same now.
Her hands were not her own. A businessman in a white coat had grown them slender and strong, built her carbon fiber bones and nails like arrowheads. Her mother reminded her of this when the
Vietnama cellar door was beginningMore Like This
to open somewhere in all of us
emerging somewhere between
the throat and the spine,
spitting out ink as it burrowed deeper,
giving a new place to hide and store
smiles for better days,
a place for matchbooks and
milk cartons and anything in-between
a place to harbor unkept promises and
other multitudes of sorrow.
had been placed on shelves with chipped
high above the earth
were brought underneath us once again
at this not-quite cemetery,
the all-encompassing "i-love-you"
buried deeply in the mix
of scattered blades and bones
as we learned
how to confront skeletons
belonging to strangers other than ourselves.
from passing by the roses strewn
at the feet of the fallen and feeling
the names of the dead on the cold, wet
stone, there became a certain
satisfaction in breathing
and even more in realizing we still could.
.watching the skyMore Like This
churn itself thicker
the birds tire
and drown as
it sets around
(no fight, and no flight either)
hyenas make the best lovers.i need to stop lookingMore Like This
for death in every body
my fingers touch.
i have been force fed
old lovers, & slices
of the moons lying dust
i am messy poems;
i am fractured confessions.
i am laughter
my jaws ache
with the taste of
i am still hungry.
give me your sugar;
I will share my breath.
you are still made of starstuff,
& i am no longer caged.
Pocket UniverseI can smell the typewriters beneath your skinMore Like This
metallic, halting, smudged vibrato
wavering note stretched out far beyond
the edge of the universe tucked in your front pocket
breathing out in time with your heartbeats.
All along the wall I find notebook pages
old teabags hung for too long, green flakes whirling
while you sit in the lean of the willow tree
and watch the play that is my life
chew the scenery; the stage collapses with a groan.
You pull your scarf in
and wrap the scars in burnt umber
while the show goes on
adventurousyou're walking on a tightropeMore Like This
as thin and as brittle as
gossamer in the cool rain
I dare you to
take a barefoot baby step
all misty tundra and wind
lay in a cobweb hammock
your afternoon reverie
all your forgotten regrets
you never thought would brighten
of the chances you will take
for it is not an old end--
it is a new beginning;
it is not a winter melt--
but a summer
Conlanging: A How-ToAre you the sort of person who looks at Elvish script and realizes with excitement that those gorgeous squiggles actually mean something? When watching Avatar, did you find yourself trying to work out certain Na’vi words? Have you ever wished you could make up your own language, whether as something to share with your friends when you were young, or else a deeper element to flesh out your personal universe? If so, you’re damn weird. But you’re also lucky, because this article for the layman is going to make your linguistic dreams a reality.More Like This
We’re going to talk about language. More specifically, we’re going to talk about what happens when we take language apart into its little recognizable pieces, because it’s from these pieces of real, natural languages that we build our constructed languages, or conlangs. Essentially, you’re going to get a crash-cours
Something Borrowedgirls in white dressesMore Like This
don't always want weddings.
the priests would speak of leaps of faith
and my hands would clasp the wood in horror,
knuckles bleached like bone- and i found
something old: the knot tied in my throat.
my vocal cords did not let empty words escape.
and there was something blue: the heart
that hesitated. how can a seedling prophesy
its harvest? how can a caterpillar promise
the power of its wings?
so let others gather flowers.
we will skip the mass
but not the bed: and through
this something borrowed,
earn a little time-
and a place to rest our heads.
Scorpiussometimes,More Like This
i wake up with bits of Orion
still stuck between my teeth.
& i grin, remembering
the face of every lover
i’ve managed unscathed,
to crawl out from underneath.
‘ad astra’ inked into ankle bones
like little wings, Pluto’s underworld
ripe, coursing through my veins:
i stake claim to clavicles.
between the constellations
of tongues & weak limbs,
i get off
on all the ways mere mortals
beg me to sacrifice them
to the heavens.
Collection of poetic nothings.We were opal Tuesdays,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.
Bone child,this December's winterMore Like This
has your ribs cocooned with
mine. & this wander(lust) heart
will sustain warmth for the both of us.
August Lover,I want to wrap myself in your air,More Like This
hold your secrets between my
ribcage-embrace & just
dust.I'm chokingMore Like This
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.
Shy moon,i've got love carved into honeysuckle wrists,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.
fly.this is hard for the world around us to grasp: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?
she knows her paper cuts by name.Rose bloodMore Like This
on her tongue
reminds her of yesterday's.
A heart's hoarded secrets,
love me pretties, &
scarlet letter dreams.
do these boys know
of the bitter winter
like a blizzard
in her veins?
The sharp edges
or the crisscross
of origami limbs?
as deep &
as the ocean;
I want to forget names,& faces,More Like This
I want to forget their veins,
fingerprints forever burned into my eyelids;
wrists I can't look at
without longing to tear apart.
Spine full, and spiteful:
I want to cry
roses in my midnight tea
for these star collapsed lungs.
I want to cry for her
& for me.
she wont allow me the courtesy.
No wander about it, just lust.You were a mid-morning train wreck,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,
It's all about her,-I had never wished to know the moon,More Like This
or the burning gaze of her lover.
I am merely a forest of silences,
old dogwoods & untamed hair.
-But, I made a promise
to a bone collector once.
He could have my spine,
my kneecaps, &
one flowered rib,
wrapped & bowed-up
like a present
-if he could fall in love
with things that slip through his fingers:
-“It would be a sin to love you,
my dear sweet wolf;
you will always cry for the moon.”
I am girl.Other boys tell meMore Like This
I’d look best
& they know
I am girl-
from the curve of my hips,
to this jutting collarbone,
lonely of love bites
But, your hands shape
falsities out of my limbs
with a tongue speaking of me
Why do I allow your body
to find rest against these bones
when you don’t even recognize
the taste of my moon skin
between your teeth?
binge eatingi have a buildupMore Like This
of black holes
suffocating my arteries,
having swallowed down
the bitter taste of too many
girls with galaxies traveling
the length of their spines.
i ate them in mouthfuls,
gaping & sad like a binge
reaching for the skies-
unable to hold them all in.
i don’t think the universe
is as vast
as it used to be,
of my ribs;
i am hungry.
& with a collection
of moon sighs
as a reminder
in my pockets,
i will just have to learn
how to calm this swollen
For I'm a graveyard lurker.my veins are blueMore Like This
with restless wanting;
your ghost fingers
at this untamed
stop loving me
like that, darling,
kissing the stars
from my throat.
if i can’t have the sky,
i will howl my laughter
to the earth,
planting a home
in the dirt
beneath my claws.
It is 9 in the afternoon& I have forgottenMore Like This
how to write in poetics-
tongue kissed & gaping like
a siren missing from her sea.
I have been coughing up black
for days. Unable to clean the taste
from my mouth, these broken
typewriter keys sewn into my
fingertips scream something fierce.
They ache with longing
to tell of a story
that left them
for a better high
a story that never deserved
to make a home under the skin,
to crawl breech through an
-& out through the wrists
of young girls much too ripe
to fall from their beds.
I am so damn tired
of looking over railings
& wondering what
it would feel like
i am a magenta february.WinterMore Like This
is still clinging
to my skin,
sleeping within the tangles
of my night witch hair.
65 days to learn
& Icarus, with his
sun kissed fingers
my throat, giggles
knowingly in my ear.
I have misplaced my
of a heart
so many times,
I’m not even sure
it ever existed
they never lie-
Covered in frost
I am a magenta
the imprint of teeth
that bruised centuries
& bed sheets.
whiskeySheMore Like This
in one slow,
I heard it plunge
into the gaping
emptiness of her.
drank the sun
from my fingertips,
licked me from her lips,
look better dead, plucked
from your November pores."
"They go down smoothest
with Writers Tears."
Writer ScarsI have told my secretsMore Like This
through loves ink -
painted them to my skin
with watercolor defiance.
& writers, we sometimes
write about our scars
in riddles, layers upon
layers of thought, -
care for them
on the warlands
of our bodies.
we give them faces,
we give them names,
we give them gravestones.
We kill them off
in our stories,
make them villains,
make them heroes.
I have wrists that roar,
& I will be damned
if I don’t let them
tell their stories.
Bones mend, but tell no lies.You have cataloged your scarsMore Like This
like your body is a library-
to be read through &
You think of
all the little boys
whose greedy fingers
You are angry-
cared for you
They left you
on a shelf
to gather dust.
should you ever
All Her Little ThingsStop hating her for the littlest things.More Like This
The things she can't prevent,
The things she can't save herself from..
Stop demanding her to do things,
Things she can't accomplish,
Things she can't imagine being done...
Stop lying to her,
Telling her you love her,
Want her, need her...
When all you've ever done is make her want to
Stop hating her for the littlest things.
The things she can't prevent,
The things she can't save herself from...
When those little things you've done
Take her down...
The little things won't matter anymore.
Leave Me Be"To death with love!More Like This
To hell with appreciation!
Who cares about you?!
Who needs your emotion?!"
I feel that
Only now do I see
What a truly horrid thing
That life can be.
People say that
Those things read first
Are really true.
And even worse,
They say that 'perfect'
Is required by life.
Truthfully, that thought is a defect!
You cannot say that
You are flawless!
You cannot say that
They aren't goodness!
Check your self
Before you judge,
Or to hell do I
Commend your life.
Leave me now!
I will not bear strife.
Do not be arrogant!
Do not be "superior!"
Be no one else!
In the same manner,
Do not bully others
For the sake of damnéd
Perfection and fake lovers!
Just don't be perfect!
Do not be society!
Not someone else...
Just let me be me.....
(CZM, 16 yrs.; 25 April 2013)
To Answer...To speak the wordsMore Like This
Of languages dead,
Or to forsake our roots
And forget all said...
Is this a good question?
To speak another tongue
With such finesse and thought,
Or to hate different people
For what their foreign words have brought...
Is this a thoughtful question?
I learn of other culture.
But shall I practice love,
Or simply think them dumb
For believing something else... Our culture is not above!
This is a statement. No question, now.
I learn of cultures
To bring them together.
I learn of tongues
To tightly myself tether.
I with a dead language speak
That it would never die.
I write a poem like this
For... Well, I know not why!
(CZM, 16 yrs.; 30 April 2013)
Don't Let Go!I am here.More Like This
Don't let go.
Don't wash away!
I am here!
Hang on and live!
Hold on to me!
We can stay alive!
Just keep holding on.
Don't let go!
Don't give up!
We can survive--
The temptation to let go.
I Am Not...So you say that:More Like This
I am good,
I am nice,
I am smart,
I am a hard worker...
I say that:
I am not truly good,
I am not always nice,
I am not far from foolish,
I am a lazy procrastinator.
So I am not what you think.
I am not always the same
On the outside as on the inside.
I hate to tell the lies.
I don't always like the truth, either.
Do not make a judgment
Of my crappy facade!
Please don't judge me as good;
Please don't judge me at all.
Just look on
And continue with your facade as I do with mine.
(CZM, 16 yrs.; 28 April 2013)
Some Random VersesThy flame may tear the book to smoke,More Like This
And smoke to sky from blood red flame;
And nether darkness loves such sin,
But words from books shall keep their aim.
Thy hatred mighty slays the kind,
Thy love for sin stays thee blind,
Thy passion only brings thee blood,
But when shalt thou cry out for love?
When men so evil bide their time,
I bid thee not wait for their pow'r,
To build up darkness for their next crime.
Do not let evil destroy thee this hour.
Are we so foolish,
That we honestly hate
That which does us good?
Or are we simply bound with fate
To share a merely lazy evening
With death, love, heartache, life, and suff'ring?
(CZM, 15 yrs.; random dates)
SleepToo tired for this...More Like This
Too many nights
Spent wide awake
Typing in the blank, white lights.
Not enough sleep...
Not enough time
To let out all
The emotional crime.
Leaving you behind
Without ever having said
Goodbye to that which never shined.
To my final slumber
Let us raise a toast...
(CZM, 16 yrs.; 23 April 2013)
ConvolutedInside.More Like This
There is a roiling mass
Flames that char;
A sticky darkness;
Muffling the faintest
It seems impossible;
The GirlFrom beyond the stars,More Like This
I descend to earth
To find you here--
My mission from birth.
You, my little project,
I watch and observe.
Oh no! Am I spotted?!
Yes, by the one I may serve.
Your ability astounds me.
You know not what you have.
You are fascinated by us.
You want to know my secrets,
Yet you know not I am what you seek.
Shall I reveal that I am not man,
Not woman, but of another world?
Or shall I continue only to watch
That strange, observable girl...?
(CZM, 16 yrs.; 24 April 2013)
Living DollThe beloved lady shatters hearts once more.More Like This
She moves flawlessly, her black hair falls perfectly down her shoulders, her long blue dress sketches her figure gracefully, her white skin smooth as silk shows an innocent pureness, her composed expression reveals a mature woman.
Such beautiful creature is yet the reason for the impure and envy desires of hopeless men. A fight to conquer the lady’s heart begins. A lost battle, I say.
For the perfect woman is nothing but an empty shell. Only darkness resides inside. A being unable to feel, a heart that does not beat, wishes and dreams that do not exist.
Indeed, a living doll created only for the joy of others.
descent iMore Like This
used to know a girl who wanted nothing more than to fly
but, she would always look down
ankles shackled to the ground.
shoulders weighed down with
fingers too stiff to bend into a fist that could hold on to anything other than the inky
black pen from which silhouettes of crows would flood the pages,
but we all know
how clumsily crows fly.
see, her pen would relentlessly trace crows.
endlessly sketched them in twisted figures,
no matter how many times she would sit and beg it-
but that black ink always turned into sludged venom biting at her fingertips and crawling up
her hands as if it were bridge
and she would cry, 'I just don’t understand
it’s as if
my body will not listen
i am not the one in control
and though i may reside within this prison
this body does not feel like home’
only no one heard her whisper
so she w
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
School BellsNine in the morning was the start of hellMore Like This
Children walking to class just after the bell
Pushing me aside, slamming me into walls
This was just the beginning of it all.
During lessons they'd pass notes
Writing to each other about my clothes
Picking at every 'bad' thing, putting me down for fun
This was only the beginning of round one.
Lunch time came, I was sitting alone
Playing guitar and listening to tunes on my phone
This kid came up and started yelling vulgar words
Next thing I know, I was covered in dirt.
After lunch I set forth to class
Looking up and locking eyes with each person I pass
Their eyes filled with hate, anger, and dismay
None of them stopped to ask if I was okay.
Come three in the afternoon, the bell rang
Kids from every corridor leaving the school gates
This one group followed me down to the park
They beat me to the ground until I couldn't get up.
Covered in bruises, grazes, and cuts
I walked home, and slammed my bedroom door shut
MonstersThe dirt on your shoe means more than I doMore Like This
I get walked over each and every day
The sun in the sky never shines upon me
I've hidden myself behind the clouds of grey.
I wake up in the morning but never leave bed
These monsters have returned
They've taken over my head.
Lies, Anger, Apathy, Regret,
Those are their names
Ones I can't forget.
This burden that's lying upon my shoulders
Keeps weighing me down
It's pushing me under
And I can't get up off the ground.
No-one ever listens
They don't seem to care
I'm just another kid
They don't treat me fair
This smile of mine is painted on so thick
My mind is a mess and my body is weak.
Keep pushing me further and I'll end it all tonight
I once was strong but I've given up the fight
Don't lay another hand on me nor another word
I'm sick of living in this fucked up world.
This burden that's lying upon my shoulders
Keeps weighing me down
It's pushing me under
And I can't get up off the ground.
These monsters are pushing me towards the edge
DN poetry: 'New World'More Like This
You wished for a new world
But only ruled by fear; your
Dream is doomed to shatter
In the twilight to then disappear
Nevertheless I warned you
Didn't I dear Raito-kun?
That Kira's deeds were evil
That Justice would have won
Yet back then only the rain
Was listening to my prayer
While you were playing God
With Misa as your Archangel
I really hate to admit it
But I lost to you at that time
Yet I'm still here watching
You running from your life
My murder, my enemy
My first and only friend
Your turns come to pay
Justice will prevail again
But dont be afraid
Even the void will end someday
Scorpion"Show me your bones."More Like This
the atlas of her thighs quaked
as she misplaced her skin
in the backseat of his car.
"I'm a scorpion, you know-"
a messy promise
& she smirked,
sure of her limbs,
her scars, & her teeth.
"I dare you to stake claim to this clavicle."
Love has killed poetryIt makes no senseMore Like This
that something so poetic
could render a person without a word left
and without a rhyme to hold depth
But let it be said that this is the truth
a rose is not an image enough
and pales in comparison to true beauty
silk is not an example of true softness and comfort
after having been in your arms
such a daft fabric knows no such warmth
Love in its true and deep entirety
has made poetry obsolete
and destroyed each and every metaphor
made every simile fail and fall
over a cliff of inefficiency and foolishness
Desire and passion are no "fire"
and "raging" is not what they do inside a person
this can not possible describe a feeling that goes so deep
and eats away at every ounce of one's being
when a passionately moaned "I want you" can not express
There is a level that words can not reach
and a state of mind where each one falls aside
and you dare not utilize such useless tools such as words
lest you belittle this feeling inside
Love has strangeled the muse with
Poetry of DeathAges past now and time without meaningMore Like This
Eternity and two thousand years have not mellowed the feeling
Life's greatest mystery carved in stone as strong
Blessing bestowed upon the world before so long
In all this earthly and celestial meld
Cult of one thing from the beginning still held
Hate's as proud, this foul creature
Plagued this Saint, the mainest feature
Great as such still has come to reap
Meant for peace our days to keep
Forever the sight of doom, the dream of breath
Truth now is – our love is Death
Sleeping ground, graves' reigning beauty
Worlds extinguished – life's ending duty
Dread it was and love's as hate
Upon these days of crying fate
Killer vicious, missing just
Yearning though to return to the dust
Jury decided guilty – comes the most cruel
None as horridly evil as this last rule
Quite the good received an Earth
Only evolution lacked a mirth
Screaming loud with all our wrath
Most precious gift though is the Poetry of Death
Battle CryI write poetry to ghosts in my dreamsMore Like This
awakening with ink stained sheets
from nights I can't remember,
meaningless phantom words upon my flesh.
And this cigarette between my fingertips
taunts me,"Hey baby, heycatch me on fire
and I'll burn you away." I laugh, hollow
unafraid of flames & smoke & shadows.
I've felt it all before.
I'm washing away the ink with homemade
remedies. Like it never was;
Like I never was.
But there is love on my arms now
smirking and itching away at me.
I'll claw it out a hundred times over
because remembering you
that is worse than self-inflicted injury.
With Poetry....More Like This
Back is front
Down is up
Here is there
And "I dunno"
Are remarks uttered by a genius
Sense does not need to be made
But dollars can…
CAPATALIZE, Go ahead
And speaking of head…
Know no limits
E ---------------> A
I miss you, and i can't say i'm sorryMore Like This
because these slender, spider fingers
ache to trace the curved letters of your name tag,
emily. i notice you write everything in caps.
( have i ever told you
how much i enjoy saying your name, -EMILY. )
you are screaming to the world, quietly.
but we, we are mid-morning whispers
over stale, back room coffee,
silent eyes, and window pane love.
these hearts were runaways once;
hitchhikers on a trail to nowhere.
you shared pieces of yourself with me then,
emily, between beats and bathroom stalls.
you were a gargoyle under the heat
of july summer. evenings were our playground;
rose garden beasts lingering in feverish night.
RaindropsDear girl,More Like This
I live in a house on the border of a forest and can hear the birds singing from my bedroom. The porch creaks and vines grow along the walls, blocking out the windows. I don't own a couch and my chairs are uncomfortable but I read stories of far off places and of heros watching over us from the stars. The grass is always too long and I drink out of chipped mugs. My boiler often breaks and I sit outside looking up at the stars, pretending I can see someone looking down.
You sound like a poem.
Summer was green. I sat with you on your porch and listened to the birds talk to one another. I made you coffee in the morning under the green tinted light of sun through ivy and you promised to be everything I needed. I sat in your too long grass and wrote letters to the wind.
Summer was a poem, that we felt rather than wrote, and you know what, so were you.
Today I was the ocean.
What a coincidence, today I was a raindrop.
Autumn was soft. Your fores
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
Lady FeyDearest lady feyMore Like This
I thought of you today
Fool I was to think that
I could bear to see you smile
Truthfully, I think I knew
That heaven would
not spare me you
So I watch you drift away
Farther every day
I think I always knew that starstuff
Could not dwel with clay
And there's nothing I can do
But pray to God that I'll pull through
And wonder why he took our hope, our light,
How could he take you?
But you weren't made to wonder why
You were made to grace the sky
The facets of your brilliant soul weren't made for mortal fears
So I shake
Fearful of the coming years
Of how I'll find my way
Without your light to guide me
Oh angel lady fey
And you are the month of May
The heavens brightest purist ray
But dearest lady fey,
How can you leave me here?
So I pray and cry and pray
Dear Lord, let us be okay
But how, God, how can we be
When you've taken lady fey?
Ode to the artistColours danceMore Like This
Just out of reach
Of her grasping fingers,
Her lips tipped up
And her violet eyes
Glistening with wonder.
So many years later,
When her eyes have settled
And their colour dimmed,
When the curls in new hair
Have fallen flat,
Those colours dance
Just out of her reach.
She slashes at canvas
With wide brushes
And dripping paints,
Trying to capture
Those perfect blends,
Those perfect tones,
That perfect feeling.
Her works are masterpieces,
Acclaimed by all who see,
But not a single one
By the mother who cannot cherish
And so she starts again
With new brushes
And brighter paints.
And she screams
Into her brushstrokes,
Into the glaze,
With the easel,
Because that is what
Not a blending of colours,
Not the recreation of a scene,
Not the likeness of a figure.
Pain and joy
Mixed together on the same palette.
Art is the reminiscence on a place
And the worship of a face.
Art is life
jillianshe's eight.More Like This
the girl never stops moving,
climbing the tarnished metal
of the jungle gym
wildly, limbs swinging,
with a childhood joy
I shed when I passed
the port of twelve,
she is knotted curls,
long silken hair
with infant-blond ends.
her fingers grab
her doll with the frizzy hair
and painted face,
and she's eager to win
I am old enough
that she will not last this way,
that she will grow,
as all children do.
every time I see her,
she grows a little taller.
she no longer likes Dora,
and I guess she thinks
is too babyish now.
she will abandon her dolls
leave her coloring books
for boyfriends and college and
but right now,
her world is simple:
days in school, coloring pictures,
nights at home,
nibbling dinners and
playing with her toys.
preciousyou have captured the sky in your heartMore Like This
and it's hard to find words
to rival this beauty
metronomesi have a nervous habit of ghost-writing words in cursiveMore Like This
when people shout them at me. it all started when
my father taught me how to lose track of time, that
a moment multiplied into a million is just a minute
rolling itself into an hour and before we know it,
every year is stuck in caps lock.
i curl it into my left palm with my right index finger
and practice spatial reasoning as Einstein once did,
how he built a vast sea of
they say that music is the universal language.
tell me, does every room have a tuner or a clock?
our metronomes tick in
most don't have enough but i've always known
a surplus. what do i do when my moments multiply
at a much faster rate than i do? my phantom fingers
room on my left palm to scribe his words in cursive
so stories overlap and my father's speech blurs
into a jumble of hot air balloons.
i have a nervous habit of ghost-writing words in cursive
when people shout them at me. their
I'm in love with a painterYou are the painter who streaks rainbows onto my lungs,More Like This
who stains chalks onto my rib cage.
And every time I see you
I get so
o u t
b r e a t h.
I'm in love with a painter
Don't Fall In Love With A Writer Just because they will bruise your neck with pearls of metaphors; and splash palettes of colours onto your chest with reckless waves and boundless twilight. They will smear ink onto your lips as you kiss them because that is how they leave hickeys. They are wildest in their 2 a.m. diary, and liveliest in book racks of novels; they have butterflies in every heartbeat and they breathe living poems. They leave trails in libraries and coffee shops like Hansel leaves crumbs in forest and they have undying lovers because every love story is ever living in their abyssal oceans of analogies and similes. They know every cliché like the sunset knows the moon rise, and every wound in their heart like blood in their veins. They are terrifying because they weave you in splinters of fires rolling down their cheeks. They are weird because they don't smile much but sometimes you could catch their smiles in poems or tales. They are psychotic bMore Like This