BurntBurntMore Like This
in a bitter
like a well-read
or else i
my pupal stage,
that can lift away
& stop getting
Infinite Infinitesimal InfinitiesInfinite Infinitesimal InfinitiesMore Like This
Everything is infinite; only we aren't. Our inconsequential lives don't allow us the time; we parcel it out individually, as we see fit. A slice to art, a slice to sex, a slice to words, a slice to thought, a slice to cycling trivialities. And no matter how many slices we serve ourselves, there is never enough and we never are full. So we hunger, but there is no mercy; we never starve.
Words are infinite. We, as humans, never tire in our experimentation, twisting and wringing out old verbs and adjectives for new meaning, and usually finding it, weaving tales of wonder for all to gawk at on our looms of dreamfulness. Those who do not dream, do not breathe.
Fish are infinite, and after all, we are just fish out of water, who forgot to grow gills and still drown in this depthlessness. We all like to sink into the deepest, most thought-provoking corner of ourselves, and we'd all like to think of ourselves as "layered", like onions or cake,
A Fissuresometimes the dark is unforgiving,More Like This
just the universe and you.
among the constellations,
you're just a star,
there's no world outside of you.
money cannot be stacked
high enough to reach the heavens,
money cannot erase time
or buy time or stop time.
there is no ctrl+z,
no gift receipt,
for life or our time here.
when we die our slate is white
but while we live, the world is green.
we auction off our feelings
and hope someone will know what it means.
but meanwhile, we are tied to earth,
our money our worth,
our savior our anchor.
i never knew empty space
could weigh so much,
i never knew that dreams
could be a crutch.
i'd like to know
what it's like to be in touch.
my brittle hands
make it hard enough to clutch
onto dust, and make it mean something.
what is it like
to feel and be nothing?
we burn hot
then we burn out
we are mortal
a fading shout
what do our lives mean?
nothing, if we're just existing,
we hide inside our cubicles,
though the prophets keep persisting.
the thoughts, they ke
exo-I knew a girl once, she wore her bones on the outside.More Like This
every caress felt to her like a car crash.
strong to the eyes, weak to the touch- the downside
of building your walls out of straw, hoping not to collapse.
And when she smiled, she smiled like shattered glass.
And when she didn't, the glass cut her cheeks
so that, without having to wait for the feeling to pass
she could smile ear to ear, though slightly oblique.
And when she kissed, she kissed like a splinter,
burrowed deep in your soul with no plans for departure.
You won't pry her out for fear you might miss her.
She'll hang you to dry, but still play the martyr.
Though she might kill you, she never will leave you.
You'll wear her like scars or thorns in your sinews.
You'll be hung on a cross, but still you will thank her
for killing you kindly, like a king with his scepter.
And you can't even be mad, 'cause you know that you let her
Enter your veins and turn your blood sceptic
hypergraphiashe writes in the empty spaces between the wordsMore Like This
between the world,
world-weary fingers and toes and pengrips, knives
letter-opener swords, typewriter machetes
arm-wrestling with fate and the universe on a piece of paper,
computer screens painting faces with colors
stained-glass hyphenated hue-tint-shade glory
she is patient.
she's their patient, doctors and nurses
emergency room, operating room, clinical study
they wish fervently to cut her open.
her insides will be beautiful, they say,
beautiful and pink and full of words.
unwords, she says.
she writes on her skin, on napkins and paper bags
inscribing fate and the universe in ink and pencil lead
sharpened down to stubs, nails bitten short
pens running out, she is falling
stable decline, not irreversable
your insides will be beautiful, they say,
let us cut you open with ornate scalpels
ritual sacrificial tools from a dead religion
and she makes mouse scratchings, cuneiform
hieroglyphics, kanji, cyrillic
letterdearest dead,More Like This
i can taste your death in the dregs of my tea (tea is such a melancholy thing).
when i see your stark beauty plagiarized on canvas, when i leave 3 candles lit in constant vigil, when i remember the soft rhythm of your careful footsteps down this now abandoned hall, the sudden collection of dust on my organs is almost palpable and the delicate toothpicks supporting outward appearances snap about halfway to broken.
it takes my breath away to realize how much i miss you.
i feel it deep in my ribcage as my everything collapses onto an ohsovulnerable chest. no wonder they call it a rib cage because my heart is the prisoner to your ghost.
the dead, limp gi
You Deserve to SmileDo what you have to do to be happy.More Like This
Eat an entire chocolate cake,
Swallow all the pills you need to take -
'Medication' isn't a dirty word.
Wear a princess dress
Or a band t-shirt with
Jeans in distress -
Boy or girl or anything in between,
Stand before that mirror
Take a twirl
And see how beautiful you are.
Go for a run,
Have some fun,
Watch Netflix until your eyes burn,
Curl up in bed -
Take a vacation from your head.
Phone a friend
And talk for hours,
Or stay in your room
And wait for the darkness
To end -
No need to pretend,
Just do what you need.
Paint a picture
Or write a sonnet,
Or just sit still
And breathe -
Pick some flowers,
Just for yourself -
You are just as special
As anyone else.