SilverInkblot

but saturday night i wanted to offend god into listening to just one line- needed to drag someone into hearing the roar between my ears with me. i'd like to write something you can put music to- lyrical and pretty. funny. maybe irreverent.but today what is most real to me is not laughter. it is feeling short of breath. empty of poetic language. unfunny. too long for a limerick. unsuited to sonnets. musical only  in the slamming of my heart.  an erratic beat at best. endings. comparing crises of the mind to someone throwing up in the bathroom after too much beer pong and hard rock- both are shameful to repeat in therapy and i feel like i ca...

Cinnamon, Sprinkled upon domestic comforts and pumpkin pie, Enchants us like the crisp leaves that begin to litter sidewalks And the leather seats of school buses, Trusty steeds that carry the chatter of children away on adventures, A cacophony also associated with the costumed pursuit of sweets, A happy roar only quieted by the humming of a mother on a rainy eve Minding an oven that fills the home with rich and savoury scents. She fills you with comfort until it pleasantly pains your abdomen and heart, A pain cured by the loving liquid embrace of coffees and teas. Warm and sweet, like the blanket that has been sitting on a shelf, Waiting ...

Transparenthues fade from the eyes of humans, clear tinged reds and blues falling to the wayside—reminiscent of summer nights when the purple glow of  a setting sunwashed over the viridian trees that dominated long, contemplative strolls;ears awash with nature's rhythms—chirping crickets a subtle cadence joining the whisper ofemerald leaves and sloth of crunching footsteps, the night's faithful song lost within the murmuringvoices of shared love and hammering yells of children at the crest of becoming teenagers, lostwithin the delicious swirls of vanilla twilights and chocolate dreams—sweet tastes of honeyand sugar lie on lips crusted with...

I've been away for a long time. I've deliberately avoided this site, My portfolio a time capsule, The tomb of my childhood. I've spent some time recently Reading over my old poetry, And a thousand questions have been chasing me since, But one in particular haunts me, Echoing over and over in my mind; When did I die?

I spent days trying to write the perfect letter for you.I wrote and scratched out words. I crumpled paper until my floor started to think it was a cotton field, and I thought of inviting you to come pick through it,to see if you could find the softness I was trying to tell you aboutbut I was too afraid your fingers would wear raw on the bolls, that you would grow tired of stooping to pick up the things I'd grown in my headso I put an empty envelope in your mailbox, and wrote     Love me, please,on the outside, instead.

There are no old firsthand bookstores, but there is always an ancient artifact of a brick building, scented with nostalgia and soft light and softer hearts that is settled snugly into a decaying strip mall;there’s always another old secondhand bookstore.

the first time i looked into your eyes was one year after meeting you. my toes barely dipped into the pond of blue before i realized there wasn't much to swim to.i fooled myself long ago into thinking that if i was ever brave enough, i could plunge into your endless depths and bathe in purity. soak up your little-boy grins and weave laughter with you, creating the most infinite soundtrack.but when our irises finally connected, i felt the make-believe ropes i had looped through your fingers snap like convictions too heavy to maintain.it was the first time in a while that i had a name for the reason i was broken.i shook in a rhythm so violen...

blame the solar flares for the color in my cheeks, for the green-blue-purple that stains these fingertips and kidneys, call this qualified, a certificate of authenticity; we became ashes in the six-letter sectors that crystallized our capillariesit's still far away, like dust inside the galaxy, the second-hand air inside your lungs - this is all a distance, a certain kind of infinity we only cross without intention, the silence of the water in our ears, a hundred timesyou stopped me, once, and I could swear you felt a little like a static charge, cracking with the peeling taste of copper that confirmed for us ( our emptiness ), the respons...

we talk in rivers. I have noticed them flow in the midst of our conversations – mine the thames, serpentine slipping as a whisper through the low meadows, quiet and hissing. yours the five rivers of the punjab, vying like brothers in a tumult of froth and noise, wrestling their way through mangrove roots and mazes.the rivers raised us, taught us their ways.somewhere two oceans meet in a place where there is no wind, the doldrums silent and still as two currents cancel out in a moment of collision. as the thames flows into the punjab and halts, so too do we stand together, silent, over-brimming with restrained tidal waves, our currents ceas...

David liked driving forklifts. He was the best forklift driver Constructech had. He never missed a pallet, and things always got where they needed to go in one piece. Working on the new SuperEnergy plant had been a particular treat for him. So many important and delicate pieces of equipment needed to be brought in, and David took care of them all. Not one load was dropped, misplaced, or forgotten.It was this fact, above all else, that had allowed David to keep his job after the new Awakeness tests came out. IQ was a thing of the past. Awakeness tested for a person’s awareness of themselves, and their surroundings. Construction companies no...

how the veterinarian still has my name and number on file. Funny that I should decide to check my stacked-up voicemails today, a task to feel productive, a brief reprieve from the low-hanging threat of my mother’s suicide. Funny how the office assistant on the other end had no way of knowing she’d tacked on one more blow to my coattails. Funny that one of our cats that we loved since we first saw their wiry, unsure bodies when they were eight-weeks old should be ill in some way, some way I don’t and won’t know about because you’ve cleared me out of your little life in Dallas entirely.   Funny how everyone knows this except the nice people ...

i. i have searched maps, road signs, songs, hearts. i have opened my eyes and my hands to the rain, fairytales singing in my ears. i have closed my eyes and let my nightmares and demons find me, i havescreamed on the insides, heart barely beating. i have dreamed of my own destruction, whispered into the silence, prayed for the answer -ii. could i ask you for one last favor?when you're sad, remember the way i would hug you. when you're laughing, remember that my laughter doesn't sound the same without yours. when you're lonely,remember that i tried to fill your empty spaces. remember that i'd fall for you if it saved you from the scratches,...

biology class and i am learning—cells of one's heart cannot divide;they cannot replicate nor duplicate;damage to the tissue is permanent. ( does this mean the cracks  making their way across my heart will not heal? )this explains why i have spent the lastten months aching for you wheni should have spent time being a real, breathing human. ( once  i stared at the tip of an onion  through the lens of a microscope and saw tiny cells frozen  and dead    and wondered if that was  what i was going to end up like.) i blink at my worksheet:the first thing i see are the words' consequences of injuries to the heart' it's hard to believe. i can ident...

Some days, we grow old:our memories folded, packed away; little love letters, dated and sealed, a correspondence of youth, dumped on the roadside, incongruous with the fag-ends and drifting crisp-packets of the fast lane.

This year   I am resolved   to choke out every single weed that grows and hurts me,ripping them   all out from the ground then planting new seeds where old weeds died, then maybe things will go better or maybenot