.in the nighttime you arebetter; moonlightembroiders yourskin and stitchesyou up with apurer love, untilthe morning comes,the sun runs histeeth through yourseams again, splitsyou open
.you should haveemerged with life; yourlittle roots should haveclutched the soil in theirtiny white fists, andgrowni did not mean to trampleyou, i did not mean tolet my body killyour body
.the sea spitsme back ontothe shore -the waves saythis is not theright tide, theright time
.little robin, wingsoutstretched in the dirt, a smearof red on your breast
.i was born with thecord wrapped tightaround my neck; itwould seem fitting todie the same way
.he told me prayersare uselessand if i really want hisforgiveness, i should get onmy knees and beg
.we are one and thesame, that old willow andme, we stand tall with thescars that life gave us -with the names of loverscarved deep in our limbs,and old burns from mydads cigarettes
.they say that you are thework of the devil; you'll haveblack orbs for eyes and a tongueas sharp as your fathersand i hope you will not feel a thingwhen they pull back your blanketsand carry you out, when they leaveme with nothing but creases
.i heard that eventhe dead have nightmares; sometimesthey roll in their graves
.i will bury myselfoutside in the garden;like the spare keyor the dead dog,i'm never there whenyou need me
.i wanted to bathein fire; for the amber tonguesto lick me clean, pure
.the shadows bruise thesunlight while the moonweeps in the darkness
.she became a seabed noanchor could grip, with ahabit of turning everythinginto a shipwreck
.i hear those sailorslost at sea, those white winged soulsfloating in the blue
.the cat keepsleaving dead meaton my doormat,a pile of bones,bloody and rawhe wants me toknow what i'mwalking into, hewants me to knowjust what i am
.tiny heart drummingin your chest, i canhear youred gravy pumpingin your veins, i cansmell youyou are such a freshmeal, and i can almosttaste you
.in yourhead liesa well troddenpath;i want thewilderness
.winter gavebirth to a baby,cold and still
a.m./p.m.i put my handsin the stars-feathery hair, coldskin and cyanosis fed, i realize that i amnothing. born in neither winteror spring, crying aboutcherry tree spines andthrowing stones, iwas left for thewolves. it is the dawn ofFebruary, and i am so close toseventeen that i cantaste it; i am very nearly choking on age. the sky beckons me most at 11:49 pm, becauseit's hovering between tomorrow and yesterday--that destroys me. i want to burn it to theground, breathethe ashes in like cigarettes ondirty curbs. i am stuck here in a windowless town witha thousand memories stuck between my canines;into the wind, i drop words like deadweights. take me home.
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.
in which I become beautifulI drown my conscience inthe holy water of my wrists,I carve hearts from emptypaper for my galaxyboywith stars written in his skin,and I swallow moths tomuffle the emptiness andhelp me fly away.
You're Not Dead Yet.You have been called "ugly."You have been called "weak."You have been called a "failure."You have been called all of these things.But at least you're not dead yet.You've still got your life ahead of you.You've still got all these years to cherish.You've still got a lot to live for.You might be on life support......but you're not dead yet.All these years you spent in isolation.All these years you hide away somewhere dark.All this time you think about the odds.But even while that appears to be the case,You're not dead yet.You have cancer in your whole body.You have mesothelioma and bronchitis.You have six days left to live.You're running out of time.But you're not dead yet.Look at what all you've done with your life.Take a look in the mirror.Tell the whole world what you see.Believe in the fact that there's an afterlife,Because you're not dead yet.
or maybe it actually is.thisis nota love poem:this is not aboutme and how i hatethe way realism tastes.this is about you.this is about how youare one too many shades arrogant,how nearly every night youtry to forget that time hasleft you behind. this isabout your laugh and the way itwhispers "i can't rememberwhat i was like before ibecame this." and,if i'm being honest, this is abouthow i will never see your toococky for your own damn good grin thatmakes me go weak in the knees.this is about youand how you're not real and how i wishto god that i wasn't either.
all of your lives have been addictsmy cathas turnedmy front porchinto a graveyardas if to say:this is what we needbut tonightshe tried to lick my clawsback to hands& I said to her:"I do not have 9 livesto spend on the bathroom floorwith 13-hour insomniacan't we just kill the mockingbirdspull the concreteout of our throats& get this dyingover withalready"butshe's got 8 lives down& doesn't answer questions twice
So SilentIt was so silent on the hill,She could hear her steps,Her breath...A look at the watch;Time's not passing,Not going away,Like a friend who waits, insists;BegsThat she must do something at last.
Shy TruthsI spilled a cup of oceanand opened my handshoping to catch the truth.Empty seashells,broken clams,and a palm-fullof worn pebbleswere all I caught.I guessthe truthis shy.
Wistful"I am the boy who wants to loveyour misshapen words,your broken hearted pieces,andyour ink split fingers.I am the boy who wants to kissthose scar tattooed arms,that tear stained faceandmend what has been broken. I am the boy who canand willmake your heartsing poetry again."If only he would say itnowlike he hadthen.
.i keepbutterfliesin mystomach;pierce holesthrough sowe canbreathe