.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
.i heard that eventhe dead have nightmares; sometimesthey roll in their graves
.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
.i wanted to bathein fire; for the amber tonguesto lick me clean, pure
.the shadows bruise thesunlight while the moonweeps in the darkness
.little robin, wingsoutstretched in the dirt, a smearof red on your breast
.he told me prayersare uselessand if i really want hisforgiveness, i should get onmy knees and beg
.a sign reads:idle hands wanted
.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
.misery lovescompany aslong as it'son his termsand i've abetter chanceof winningif i just playby the rules
.dead flies scatterthe windowsill, theirbodies shrivelled anddried by the suni mourn the spider,hung with his own web
.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
.i keepbutterfliesin mystomach;pierce holesthrough sowe canbreathe
.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
.horrors prey ondreams, and sleep cando nothing about ita lamb straysfrom the flock;a wolf grins
.fistsclench; i brush myheart frommy sleeve, thenditch thesweater
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.
( 4/04/2014 )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.
( 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.
five second suicideand as i pour myself out on these canvasesi drip over the edges, spilling dots ofabsence on the hungry earth.they call me jane doe,and i am not art.every evening, i close the door,close my eyes, disassemble.slowly, i've become fleeting.i float, my feet don't touch the ground.how can i crash?i fade, i dissolve,but i've lost the motive to explode.there's no glory in my death;i leave no trace of the dramatic.a man on the train last tuesdaynudged me, apologized, and carried on his way.he's the last person who'sspoken to me since then.we hit a notch in the tracks,the car wobbled.i stared at him silently,counting the infinite futuresthat suffocated behind my teeth.i'm dying in my own penitentiarywith the cell door key in my pocket.
NaPoWriMo: Day 2sometimes,i have thissudden urge to cutmy hair.most of the time,i just wish I were anythingother than me.a rocket ship, a bird-the sweet flavored smokeI promised my girlfriendthese briar patch lungswould not in.hale.instead,i have fallen in lovewith the strangest of things-eyes that intimidategodless boys.the way my scarsplay hide and seekwith her hands. -the love lettersthat start and endwith kissespressed against limbs.i make promisesi know i can not keep.but if i were a liari would say i was tiredof writing to the stars.
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.
specter boys have always looked best sinkinghe says,i want to count all 206 &feel the notches of your ribs -i want you, weary boy, tophase yourself down whileyou are burning inside out.i will seethe inside your skulllike thoughts, like cigarette filters;you will thank me as i molder in your marrow.
the beauty's in the leavingRead aloud here.sweetheart, let's head out. let'sdrink up the desert asphalt and that last bottleof johnny walker blue--one last toast to the copper sunsets,to the good earth. a pair oftailgate stargazers, you and i:roaming curves across the glove compartment map, untilevery foldline is worn flannel-softand it'd rather stay openthan closed.let's forget route sixty-six. let's forget the numbersand pick up terra cotta dust--breathe in the mojave. let's pretendthat the world's already endedand it's just us.let's leave the door unlockedand gowest.
.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