.the sea spitsme back ontothe shore -the waves saythis is not theright tide, theright time
.i wanted to bathein fire; for the amber tonguesto lick me clean, pure
.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
.little robin, wingsoutstretched in the dirt, a smearof red on your breast
.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
.is it worse tohear a truth,or give oneto tell a lie,or live one
.i was born with thecord wrapped tightaround my neck; itwould seem fitting todie the same way
.she carries more mistakes thanthere are stars, behind hereyesa lifetime ofconstellations,a human supernova
.crescent moon- silverhook in the sky fishing forstars; you catch my eye
.does a weedever wonderwhy it isn'ta flowerdoes a treeever feel likeits roots areholding itdown
.dead flies scatterthe windowsill, theirbodies shrivelled anddried by the suni mourn the spider,hung with his own web
.when i look back atthe past, she looks right back at meshe points at thefuture, glint in her eye
.you are a walkingcoffin; there are sentencesburied alive inside you, all thethings you could not sayand they will fester therelike maggots, eat you fromthe inside out
.he told me prayersare uselessand if i really want hisforgiveness, i should get onmy knees and beg
.i hear those sailorslost at sea, those white winged soulsfloating in the blue
.i keepbutterfliesin mystomach;pierce holesthrough sowe canbreathe
.i dug up thepast again, thosememories viciousand snarlingi set them looseinside the houseand now we haveto leave
( 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.
How She BurnsShe has astral eyesand the tongue of a phoenixthat scorches youshould you dismiss her.With those milky whiteswith a galaxy dropped inand spooling in the irisshe sees right through.She has asteroid eyesthat flicker so fastyou might not notice -you just might notnotice the milky waysthat a galaxy dropped inspools in the irisof a phoenix gone wildburns.
While It BurnsWhy does a moth flyDirectly into the flame?Perhaps its captivatedBy the beauty to be foundIn such pure recreationOr perhapsIt flies so surelyInto its own deathBecause it believesThe flames of rebirthWill allow it a second chanceAt metamorphosis,And perhaps that this time...It will appear a butterfly.Perhaps this is the only thingIt can force itself to believeWhile it burns.
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.
You asked for dark poetry.i will neverbe niceto my enemies.i will devour them all.slowly.methodically.with a fork.
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
i don't need to sell my soul laughing against frost, kissing stylish arsonists + I still love every sky escaping from your lips
The Dead SeaThe Dead SeaI offered water to her,but she was a seaI offered love to her,but she was deadI offered words to herand she hated me.
BrokenCan't fixwhat's never been whole.
.the shadows bruise thesunlight while the moonweeps in the darkness