.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
.he told me prayersare uselessand if i really want hisforgiveness, i should get onmy knees and beg
.little robin, wingsoutstretched in the dirt, a smearof red on your breast
.i heard that eventhe dead have nightmares; sometimesthey roll in their graves
.i wanted to bathein fire; for the amber tonguesto lick me clean, pure
.the shadows bruise thesunlight while the moonweeps in the darkness
.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
.misery lovescompany aslong as it'son his termsand i've abetter chanceof winningif i just playby the rules
.the sea spitsme back ontothe shore -the waves saythis is not theright tide, theright time
.i was born with thecord wrapped tightaround my neck; itwould seem fitting todie the same way
.a sign reads:idle hands wanted
.i keepbutterfliesin mystomach;pierce holesthrough sowe canbreathe
.tiny heart drummingin your chest, i canhear youred gravy pumpingin your veins, i cansmell youyou are such a freshmeal, and i can almosttaste you
.i hear those sailorslost at sea, those white winged soulsfloating in the blue
.dead flies scatterthe windowsill, theirbodies shrivelled anddried by the suni mourn the spider,hung with his own web
.horrors prey ondreams, and sleep cando nothing about ita lamb straysfrom the flock;a wolf grins
.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
.crescent moon- silverhook in the sky fishing forstars; you catch my eye
lung canceri will die with your name on my lipsbecause there is nothing else i'll need to say.you are my coffin, my funeral pyre.as my bones disintegrate, popping and snapping,you will greedily swallow my ashesuntil nothing is left of me but secondhand smoke.i've danced with you, love, across hospital tile,the scent of antiseptic cloying as valentine's chocolate.you dipped me into unconsciousness,and i willingly closed my eyes.the intrusion of your scalpel teeth no longer scares me.you, my rigor mortis soul mate, always take me under.your tent of frostbitten shelter pulls me down, an anchor,while i gag on pills too abstract to save me.forgive me, lungs, of my cigarette abuse,but i've found happiness in a reaper's cloak.i find comfort in these carcinogens.i've made my nest in a swaying tree,my body destroyed by the nauseous rocking.they smile at me with pity in their eyes,scribbling nonsense on those jaw-like clipboards.their crisp, stark white world still has faith in me,yet
Evanescentonly the mostbeautiful of creatureslive the shortest.red roses and quiveringbutterflies and otheruseless things, like theway she wishes on every starshe sees for a differentsoul because she can't standthe way it's rotting inside.and it's only whenthe thorns beneath her skinstart to bleed that hermonsters whisper, "haveyou ever trembled, my dear?"because they knowfor every whimper that hidesfaintly in the dark,there is a pair of lips stretchedinto a smile pretendingthat all that is beautifulis timeless and unbroken.
( 4/01/2014 )I’ve been toldladies are supposed tocover themselvesin flowers, fine wines,or men.Fuck poetry,ladies don’t havetime.But lately,Bukowski sitsupon a barstoolin my headlaughing.He’s telling meto fuck her, poetically,emotionally, physically-figuratively speaking.I can’t decide which“her”he is referring to,( the new or the old )when jealousyon both endshas meby thethroat.Why do I attractbroken girlslike abandonedpuzzle pieces?Why do my wordsnot sit rightin my mouthwhen I can’teven stand upand speakfor myself?I don’t deserveto be apoet.
( 4/04/2014 )Everything here is so fuckingloud and this dragon eyed girldoesn’t feel like filteringanymore.She doesn’t want to answerthe phone today, either, so-she stuffs her ears withsilence, andher mouth with newnamesas she kissesswollen knees.She’s ponderingsocks now toowiththeir mixed &matched indecency.Real ladies wouldn’tdare step outsidewearing one pink& one green sock,only,but she’s no lady.-A red lipped hermitholding a knife to herown throat, screaming-writewritewritewriteidareyou!maybe,who embracesthe sun andthe rain on her facefor the first timein weeks.Oh poets with yourpretty words andold souls,this is what truewriters blocklooks like.
i don't need to sell my soul laughing against frost, kissing stylish arsonists + I still love every sky escaping from your lips
to the girl with hungry footstepsI'm sending all my words backto the people who need them--people who wear scars likewar trophies, like jewelry, likean identification for those sufferingfrom the same acceptance ofself-hate. this is to the peoplewho sleep with one eye open, whocry when footsteps enter their roomat night; this is to the girlswho love by cutting their heartsinto snowflakes and watchingthem melt. I left you behind andI can't be sorry for that.you are the type of beautifulthat kindly asks the worldto fuck off. the days we buriedhave decomposed, headstones aresnapshots; sanitized breakdowns,rusty tongues, sighs lacedwith fear, I love you, I loveyou. saturdays were the bestbecause we could sleep throughthe nightmare. you painted me apicture of the world with your wordsand they made us wash it awayfor being transparent.we were afraid of nothingbut the monsters in our eyelids.back then, we counted dayslike shooting stars; it took 67to wish myself away. thisis for you, skygazer;
hyenas make the best lovers.i need to stop lookingfor death in every bodymy fingers touch.i have been force fedold lovers, & slicesof the moons lying dustfor years-i am messy poems;i am fractured confessions.i am laughter& teeth.my jaws achewith the taste ofwolves blood,& names.i am still hungry.give me your sugar;I will share my breath.remember,you are still made of starstuff,& i am no longer caged.
.i'll measure my lifein coffee grounds, in summerfreckles and you
wednesday's childit is the third of octoberand i am building a castle for usout of feathers, bird bones, ocean waves and library book pages. anything to keep our feet fromtouching the ground.you are sin, he whispersand his fingers trail cold fire down my side, scorching fleshand freezing bone;brittle pieces of me shatteras they hit the stained linoleum floor.don't wake me from this nightmare.i whisper a nursery rhyme as i walk down ourautumn path.kamikaze leaves fall, trailingfire as they throw themselves fromthe branches, down, down,to cold pavement below.your words echo in my minda constant reminderthat i am sinbut you,you werenevergod
.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