a poem about too many people and too much heart.you were myconclusion- the last paragraph and the last thingi got to say. i loved you and itook words frombetween my eyelashes and iput them down foryou, i took you aparta million times in my mind and always put youback together-and i drewyou, soft and silhouettedagainst mywindow, the panefoggy and i thought of youin the darkest of times, because i kept telling myselfthat you were thelight (like you promised). i know that i am justa girl withtoo much heart andtoo weak of ribs; buti was hopingthat you would help the foxeshunt the hounds, just fortonight.
bird lungs and a burnt tongue.someone once asked mewhat it's like to be awriter;and i thought abouthow i always feel like there is a crow stationed in my chest, residing under my lungs like they arean umbrella- it hums andi think that i hate this bird for the wayit is pecking against myheart in the vain hope of findingspare typewriter keys. it puts thefiction in my blood; it keeps mealive, and that is the worst thing itcould do.so when someone askedme thatquestion, i said that being a writer isvery lonely, and it is very sad, and that i would not choose any otherway of living.
.quietly, i was kissedin a house ofcandles. they burned out;i began to fall in lovewith all thewax stuck to myskin.
april.here is thetruth: i am just a sad teenage girl withtoo many scars anda healing heart.but here is whatis true: i am learning to findhappinessin the misery-i am internally alone andseemingly petrified (which is aterrible mix, really), buti am finally ableto let myself fall in love. and i may be bad atendings, but i thinki'm beginning to understand that minedoesn't have to beright away.
you ate the stars and i ate my heart.this is how i wasdestroyed: ifell in love with a boywith razor sharpteeth and apoet's heart. it's really adreadfullypretty kind of thing.using his borrowedcraft-man'stongue, he took me in like afour a.m cigarette (slowly, andwith loneliness in every one of hisjoints). we both thoughtthat enough smokewould fill in the cracks in ourrib cages; we were bothwrong.he told me that he wouldlike to be aplanet: "all that openspace, all those dyingstars. it would give me room tobreathe".instead of telling him thatthere is no oxygen inouter space, iwatched him feel his lungsimplode. it broke mybones to witness it; but it's really adreadfully pretty thing tosee.
the infinity complex.9:42 p.m; i am heresitting on stained whitesheets and choking onan infinitycomplex. in a world full ofpeople, i am stuck feelingempty; there is nothinghuman inside ofme. it is allsloppy stanzas and half-finishednovels for a girl i loved and never got to love. approximately 7.046 lives on thisplanet, and i am left feelinginconsolably lonesome.
a poem for the roads and skies.shaking, icarve religion into myarm just to remind me that i amdifferent.somehow, i have lived inhellmy entire life- i'm telling you, thedevil is in the details.it's in the waythe trees bend outside thechurches and thefuneral home, the smell ofconvergence in thepeople;and i am stuckhalf-in-love and humminghallelujah while burning my heartout.
untitled.there are days when i can'teat- i am full ofcheap cigarettes and wordsi never got tosay. i have gone to theplanets. there is somethingin my bones that tastes a lot likestars- i broke them open andsaw everything i everwanted to, and that was whatdestroyed me in the end. if you were to take meapart, i'm not sure what you wouldfind; i am a mess ofhalf finished sentences and scars that have eaten their way into myheart.
.last night i dreamt thatyou took me to my bed andspread me out-you planted roses in the creviceof my ribcage and wipedaway the tears and the bruises, and youtold me that scars were nothing more thananother story that i will someday write,and that was the best thingyou could havesaid.
underdog.if home is where theheart is, thenthat's probably why my bones feel like they cannot yetsettle: i have been homeless for seventeenyears.i find myself caught betweenthe fibers of thread andthe curls of a lover'shair- and i came to realize thatit hurts to be thisvacant. the light behind my eyes isflickering out.the wind tastes of lonely nights andmakes me wonder if anyone elseknows what it'slike to have your soul residebetween the pages of abook that nobody cares to open,to have dust caked on your lipsfrom kissing highways andthe places you've never been wrapping around yourneck like a noose.late at night or very early in themorning, i think to myself thatif home is where theheart is, then we're all justfucked.
1:33 amto the angry young man withhungry ocean eyes: i do not wish to knowwhat crawled insideyour ribs todie; i just wish you wouldlet it leave.
the lives of past loves.i. nabove all else, iwould like to thankyoufor waiting under themulberry tree; i'm sorry i never gotto see youthere.ii. myou- the boy whoate my heart. i'm glad you showed me whatmonsterslook like. iii. jyou made me believethat i actually didhave eyed as brightas the ocean.but you taught methat following yourbrainis not always the rightchoice.iiii. gwith your heartin places you'venever been, you left behindthe only onesthat gave you a placeto love-that red Camaro won'tget you outof your head.iiii. boh, those big gentle-killer eyes- i loved you for wantingto put me backtogether;you loved me for howi cameapart in yourhands. iiiii.i ethe one with his soulcaught in theclouds- don't let these one way streetsbring you down.just promise me that youwill always rememberhow happiness tastedon your tongue.
Untitledi cut my mouthon the thought of you.blood fills myharsh tongued mouth and dr i p dri p d
the words do not come.i am told to writefrom my heart, but i cannotfind it in my chest.
8:15i.silently, with hushingeyes, he watches the atmosphere-he treads it around hishair and his fingers and heart, breaths it in; ii.when he is done dancingwith devils and dead friends, he reaches into me andpulls out a flower- he puts it behind myear, and he loves while he burns.iii.i take his ashes andi put them on thepetals (he said not to forgetthe beauty indeath, and i'm tryingwith all the heart inside me).
How to love a poet: Expect them to be flawed, a field of wild flowered- imperfections, sticky metaphors & an inability to speak. Love them anyway. Know that when they look at you they are noticing the little things.
reflexive verb.a note scribbled in a torn notebook: "Quedare": tostay (oh, i wish i could).
the great untitled.an introduction to the in betweens and tight lip lies.i.- the whorish age.i was born young, but i thinki've somehow always beenseventeen. that's really the most impossibly lonesome ageto be. here you are, stuck in the middle ofinnocence andadulthood- god, seventeenis such a fuckingtease. it's all the want, and noneof the get, none of the have.ii.- the epitome of in betweens.maybe it's justme. after all, i am constantly grasping at thein betweens. i liveon 'maybe's and 'perhaps's, feast on'could-have-been's. it'swhat i breathe. the worst one, to me, is 11:49 p.m.; it's almost a new day, but it's just11 minutes away. it'sin between yesterday andtomorrow. i wonder if11:49 p.m. is lonely. i wonder ifit can feel the buzz ofnothingness, the hum of everything itis not. i wonder if i am 11:49 p.m., because i amdrowning in the thingsi have yet tobecome.iii.- the ty
goodbye is a human emotionmy therapist saidi'm idolizing you.
clipped wingsI wonder if gods fear dying.
.i can't sleep and the sky makes me sickit can see you -but what can i do? untie the limbsand remove the gagand let my poetry go,feel the rivers start emptyingbursting their banks,pay attention -your heart was a foreign body, rejectedyour hands, your hands had no shame,greased with blood and losing their gripon the world, but what could you do?there was no sense in the way that theyhurt you, the way they poured salton the wounds(the way they smothered one pain with another)
resurgencelet's make small talk,six month silence swelling;sticking inside our throats,filling the space between us.let's make small talkand skirt furtive eyes aroundthe absence we never quiteaccustomed ourselves to.this is easy,but then it's always beeneasy.we move lightly,flow smoothlyin synchronous;an oh-so similarfamiliar scene.let's make small talk,stumble on faux pas promisesand the intimacy between twowho are no longer intimate.orbiting the past,we dance in words.
how to wish on impossible thingsThere is a girl made up of impossible legends. She lives in the fragments of wishes that will never come true.When pennies lose their shine and heads become tails After every eyelash is lost in the whisper of a breathUntil wishing wells dry up and all the stars fall from the sky, She will only be the words that created her
Morpheus Hexi.I am the moon walker,the black coffee athletein the star-dotted evening gown.I am young, but I feel old,like an antique withfresh paint.Sleep lives in my shadow,a morphine caregiverwith gentle hands,but I dare not fall into his arms.There is a sad knowledgein his eyesthat I do not trust.ii.You left me behind,but my pillow stillsmells like you,and now my bed feelslike a fucking coffinwithout you in it.iii.Nights like thismake me wonderwhat it feels like to die.It bothers me thatonly the dead know,and they refuse to share their secret.One day I will find outthe truth for myself,and that scares me.iv.Three a.m. teaches youhow to suffer quietly.Sleep pulls on my sleevelike a black-cloaked child.He tells me everything will be alright(but by morning, I knowhe will be gone, andI will be alone again).
are my words poetic enough for you?maybe not.because i will never be the fire-hearted girl with remedial stardust lips,dancing with the astral wolves that hunt beneath her moon-kissed skin,with the courage to plant wilting lilacs into every crippled soul she finds.but what if they were?then i would be the ink blots coating the archives of humankind,the fractured jewel tucked away in a catastrophic dragon's chest,and the lyric every mismatched bone engraves into their marrow.if only.
six steps to fixing youstep onecry. scream. bang your fists against the wallsthat keep you locked inside.kick your feet in the air. tell your sister she's stupidand wrong and that you've never loved her.cry. scream. apologize via him to you.let your tears catch on your lashesuntil you can no longer see anything but your owndemise. taste the bitterness left inyour mouth from your own bitching and rot in it.step twobreak a mug. break two. kickthe pieces around the kitchen floor and cry some more.break a plate. break a cup. break a bowl.break a finger because nothing can take away thissort of pain. you are empty and yetyou are filled with so much anger.break a razor and paint pictures across your skin.step threeyou are okay, you tell them.you break three days later and you liein bed, unable to move.step fourstart picking up the pieces. clean up the messyou've made and he's left.use windex to polish off the dirt and
windfallI would gather allthe seven seas for you.for me, you would notspare a raindrop.
.she said to lookat the sky whenever i missed her-"i'll be the closeststar". but she never said what todo when it'scloudy.