we're legal murderers.how to love a writer:don't. because we will turn your passioninto works of extended metaphors for death and decay,slipping you scarsserved sunny-side-up because, hey, we all want to befixed, right?not writers. writers want someone, anyone (usually the wrong one, because pain sells more thansmiles)to try and pour cement into the dents inside themuntil they realize that they're really justabandoned sidewalks located in the wrong side of townthat cannot be repaired. that is what we do.we break peoplefor a living.
how to be a poet: the basics.kiss all the peopleyou know you shouldn't,solely for the reasonthat they look goodin stanzas. look at your scarslike mothers peer into cradles. then makemore; make yourself intoa symbol for infinity,or at least try,because it never works. patch yourself up. say, "darling, you're okay," while staring at yourself in the mirror with your hairdamp and your lipschapped (refer to stanza one). change. grow. it's what we like to read, isn't it?miss the people in your lifeuntil they leave,and then miss yourselfas well. screw everything up,and then write about itlike it had to happen.try to believe it, ignorethe voice in your head that hissesand groans in your sleep,behind your eyelids."baby, you're a fuck up,you know it know it know it".try to carve the hummingout of your bodyby exit way of your veins. be hospitalized. give in, give up,play along, stop writing. get better. but then you start writi
/ we smile at the universe with ashes on our lips. there are boats inside of our veins. the blood is a metaphor and, hell, i can't even begin to write about her. i could tell any story. if i wanted, i could write a novel about my mother and how beautiful she was a sixteen or i could make a lighthouse a person, but i cannot tell you the color or her eyes. it's that that i don't know it; i just can't tell you. it's not a color, it's a place. her eyes are like Chicago. there's life and lights and lakes, but there's a sadness, too. even so, it's a happy kind of sad. the kind that gives you hope. sometimes when i'm high i think that i'm dead, because i get numb. not physically senseless, but just mentally dazed. i forget where i am. i like that. it seems sometimes like i am a place, i am all the street signs and the cracks in the road and badly painted house down the way. see the really faint dot on the map? that's me. scribb
don't love me until you've seen me bleed.i think thati'm falling in lovewith you.no. no, no no, don't you say that, because you've never seen meat 4 amwith my eyes glazedand my mind a battle field (and my arms paying for the weaponry).you haven't heard mechoke back sobs after midnightbecause god dammit i can't sleep,and the screams in my earsaren't helping matters,and i don't thinkyou will ever see me bre a kand shatter andfall into the greedy gripof a panic attack and then try in vainto claw myself back up. but there is that hot hope in methat tells me that youare different. youcan look pastthe scars and the tearsand the screams and the nightmares. andmaybefor once in my damn lifei'm praying that i'm rightabout someone for once.
all we ever wanted was the world.it still feels like summer.the rain tastes like late nights and cigarettes,sliding through the back door,still damp with the could-have-beens,our past loverstugging at our lips. we sit in downpourand watch the trains roll past,metallic stardust spilling from our mouthswhile we talk about how we could get on one of those trainsand just get off at the last stop."and we'd never come home."
,the thing they forgot to mentionabout being a writeris that we all live the longestand die the fastest.we feast on metaphorswith numb fingers and heartsuntil we crawl under a half moon to sleepand just don't wake up,because everything we areis arranged in our workand we start to becomeeverything we've written about, slowly but surely. and now i'm not so sureif i want to be a poet.i just knowthat i want to be a writer.
in our minds we rot.my lips taste like soot.feverish,i realize that we are nothing but hell-brought fire,the seven deadly sins(you be lust, i'll be pride) and a mess of upside down picture frames. my teacher once told methat most writers are introverts; we drink in the worldand spew it back in ink and titles.we tattoo wordsacross the inside of our eyelids--but somewhere in the processi must have drawn youinside the convex of my irises,because all i can think about is your wind-shaken frame and flames licking across your hips.you turn black beneath my hands. i can't write about that.
stars only die from drug overdoses.there's a boy i knowwho used to swallow coinslike hard candy;tree sapstuck to his chinfrom my own hands,Septemberlucid in our lungsand the roada blur from our sadistic words.he doesn't believe in hellandneither do i.but i believe in the stars and i want to know what happens to themwhen they die.
for the girl with kind eyes and a fiery laugh.this is a poem forthe girl withan ever pounding heart.i know what that boydid to youand i wish i could take it allaway; the fact that you stillsmile makes my soul jump, becauseyou are the kind of personpeople write aboutin the best kind ofway. you have a fire in yourvoice, and i hope that you never let anyonetake that away.you were the first friend i made without evenknowing it. one minute you were a pretty face and now you arethe pretty heart thati love, and i lovedearly.
How to pretend that you are a writer.Act like you're notokay when you are andthat you are when you'renot. Run barefoot inthe snow. Stand outin the rain for an hourand think about anythingand everything you can.Fall in love withriddles and things thataren't real and theway some starsshine. Cry whenyou realize that life isjust one big sham and writeone hundred cliché poemsabout it, and then write onethat you actually mean.Use profanity. Be theone fucking introvertin a room full ofextroverts and screamshit just for the fun ofit. Swallow every goddamnmetaphor you ever dreamedof and write them downwith your own blood.Eulogize your ownmisery. Put a crown onit and let it rule yourheart for six years beforeyou throw a coup d'etatbut just end up withyour head in a basket.Ask yourself whyyou feel soempty and whenyou forgot how tolaugh and where youlast left your smile andwho you even really areanymore. Mean every word.Don't cry at funerals. Cryyourself to sleep everyother night for
.and i stopped killing spiderswhen i realized that we are both just tryingto make our way in the worldand he hasn't got a cluehow he ended up on my bathroom floorand i can turn out the lights tostop the moths from killing themselvesbut i can't turn off my brain andstop myself from doing the same
.the reaper playssolitaire when he's gotsome time to killbut when your time'sup it's back to work, coshe's gotta make a livinglike the rest of us
and we'll rotoh, poet boy,you are notthumbed bruisesor honey bones& you have onlyever been a godinside of your own head
excuses for why I'm shakingwe live in a world of apologies.I made a mistake a year back,choosing my addiction to oxygenover less demanding things.I’m sick of trembling for problemsthat aren’t mine and I’m sick of tryingto romanticize black holes andthe indiscriminate nature of lithium andI’m sick of waking up every morningfeeling sick. and truly, I’m sorrybut I’m not ready to accept my rolein the making of myself. I’m not readyto lament for those with a smallerpain tolerance, and for my dislikeof anything that requires commitment.I’m sorry I miss you and I’m sorryI won’t admit that out loud.how scary is it to be somethingso unalterably heavy, to be diagnosedas your own worst enemy, but god,you’re so fucking beautiful,and not in the stereotypical boymeets girl meets fairytale way, butthe kind that makes my heartbleed a million miles quicker.I just wanted to cry on allyour scars and wash them clean.when things are bad for
Untitledi cut my mouthon the thought of you.blood fills myharsh tongued mouth and dr i p dri p d
.i would shed my skinwith autumn, but my veins wouldcrack like the dry leaves
HaikuWriMo1Church spire, stretching,weds the moon.2Slate skyand a heavy heat;collapsing.3Embroidered stars—celestial needlework.4Fairy wrens:steeds of elven knights,armoured all in blue.5Raindrops—wet wings,startled honeybee.6Huntsmanupon orange glass:a specimen, fossilisedin amber.7Scarred grape,veined in gold—kintsugi.8White blossoms,fallen like snowdrops.9Eagle in flight,great wings cradlingthe half-moon.10Pastel sun,peeking from a soft,smoky grey duvet.11The world settles;the heavens awaken—storm.12Black swans:two arrows in tandem.13Mirror-verse—sunset’s reflection,river-bound.14The yellow of anold book:crinkled paper moon.15Tangled in old web—a spider, noosed.16Rough brushstrokesof a smudged landscape:Impressionism.17Giant’s treasure:pot of molten goldspilledalong the treetops.18Raindropslike gemstones,flinging light.
Autumncaptured by the coldembrace of autumn, the leavesare swept up to dance.
.i dream of drowning inlakes, belly up, a petalshaped bruise of your thumbon either wristi dream that what laysin my bed is so muchmore terrifying than whatlurks underneath it
He and SheHe was religion,she was the world,it took her a while, but she slowly believed.His verses filled her with a hope, beyond her wildest dreams. He was love,She was society.He seeped in her structures built skyscrapers in her skiesand mended the cracks in her fragile bonesHe was imagination,and she was insanity.together they were the sparkof an idea, that ignited a blaze on her mountain peaks He was the winter,and she warmed him up.She was the summer,and he was her shade.They blended together, a match set by fate. Their path was dark,so they lit a candle and were burned by its flames.The autumn of their loveturned into falling leaves, and she was the victimof a passion that killed herin her early years of spring.
.when her love left, it leftthe house emptyand she saysi hope one day it'llcome back to me,cos i don't keep this shotgunon my front porch for nothin'
The Problem With Elia.she could have been a violin;born a week too late, she hadmelancholy in her bones: doctor lizbettook time out of her schedule to pluck hernewborn strings - calloused sanitation againstmottled pink-and-yellow flesh & thrashing limbs.in three more years, she will havenothing in her bones at all: doctor estairdiagnosed her with iatrophobia to fuel herinstinctive chords - ripple-free shells of liquidlobotomy & a capsule to callous her pink-and-yellowflesh against the thought of just getting over it all.ten years after that, her mother willfind her face down and thrashing: her dustbunny bones will flex as she retches up her memoriesfor display - lawyers will spend the next few years pawingthrough them with clawed hands and heaving breathing untilone day, they find lizbet and estair huddled amid the rubble of her bones.
.you are dead and buriedsix feet under yourself,still feeling the way you didwhen you were seventeenand when you bathe, you stillkeep your head under thewater, wrists upturned, redeyes open, trying to drown yourselfout
sati(ate)dit's ironic,isn't it? the waythey say "hunger gnaws"like the way our teethscrape against bones.for all thecalories that are counted,you still feelempty. you aren'tbeautiful untilyou are digestingnothing but airand maybe your own guilt.that's just the wayliving is thesedays: swallowingglass shards toslice up your insides soyou can ignorethe other kind of pain yourstomach is feeling.but when people askif you're doing okay you justsmile and nod even thoughyou can't help butthink "if honesty wastangible, i'd eat it rightnow."life hasan acquired taste andsome days you'dlike to rip yourtongue out.
slowly, and then all at onceand for once, he slips on his wedding ring, to cure the monotony. it slides over his knuckle, a perfect fit, and in the morning release of sunlight the silver gleams at him. it glares, calling him a liar: she is not a whorehouse and you are too broke to own her, you harlot, you. he buttons up, tucks in his shirt tail, and buckles his belt. the clinking of metal parts is the only sound in the room besides the dusting of her breathing beside him. and when he's gone, the only thing he leaves behind are the bruises on her collarbone.-you find him because you're lonely, (well, it's actually the opposite.) he finds you because his wardrobe is black and his shoes are scuffed and he asks you where your castle is. you're the only princess he sees 'round here. the rain soaks into his shirt and he curses it, grinning. and damn girl, you follow him, because you think you see some kinda warmth in his ice blue eyes.-it takes you days t
how to be a writergrab a sharpie and paint your nose,your cheeks,(yes even under your eyes)with freckles;write about them.adopt a dishonest love forbooksand showcase it with your speech;fill it to the brim with references.love bukowski,especially if you haven't read himand don't know who he diedloving.listen to music you will never liketo write verses everyone elsewill;make them say yeswhen you're writing about sayingno.glorify your sadness.it can be innovatedbut nevereradicated,and every chance you getat it,is ill-fated.fall in love with people youknow your parents will hate.love till you are out of space tobreathe,write about the seaand how it's fuckingunderstanding;write about space and howthe universe is either against youor with us all in equaldamnedproportions.belittle yourself,praise yourself,(deny it)hideliecheatbehind your words;start writing the truthwith your lies.engulf metaphors in the morning,condemn sobriety,find depression a
Cancer has a smell.Old classics,lilac air-fresheners,the half cup ofpeppermint ice creamthat’s beensitting in your freezerfor weeks, and cat litter.He won’t eat anymore,but there arepiles and pilesof dirty dishessitting in the sink.He’s slowlydisintegratingbefore your eyes.You can wrapyour whole selfaround his tiny bonesnow.You can hold himlike he used to hold youall those years ago.And you are angry.You try to findsomeone,or somethingto blame.You hate doctors,and you hateNovember now.November meansbirthdays, diagnoses,chemo treatments,and realization.You have to force yourselfto stop crying,every day.This is the one personwho’s always had faithin you.He’s read every poemand hoarded every awardyou ever won.You ignore statistics,because rosesthey alwayssmell nicer.
ellie.she was always agalaxy, and i am not allowed to touch stars.