.the sea spitsme back ontothe shore -the waves saythis is not theright tide, theright time
.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
.little robin, wingsoutstretched in the dirt, a smearof red on your breast
.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
.is it worse tohear a truth,or give oneto tell a lie,or live one
.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
.she carries more mistakes thanthere are stars, behind hereyesa lifetime ofconstellations,a human supernova
.she calls down angelsjust to burn theirrighteous wings,to see them rise thenfall, those flailingdovesshe tells them, thisis what it's liketo be humanand they say judgementwill arrive for you, mygirl, you will becleansed by burninglightand i strike another match
.horrors prey ondreams, and sleep cando nothing about ita lamb straysfrom the flock;a wolf grins
.i was born with thecord wrapped tightaround my neck; itwould seem fitting todie the same way
.does a weedever wonderwhy it isn'ta flowerdoes a treeever feel likeits roots areholding itdown
.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
.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 keepbutterfliesin mystomach;pierce holesthrough sowe canbreathe
.crescent moon- silverhook in the sky fishing forstars; you catch my eye
.i hear those sailorslost at sea, those white winged soulsfloating in the blue
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.
( 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.
.she'll hold him tight tonightand dread the coming mo(u)rning
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.
AlcoholicYour tux is the colorof a coal miner’s faceafter a long, hard day of work:something you’ve neverhad to experienceYet you talk as thoughyou’re just as worn out;your trivial chit-chatis turning syrupy with every sip,although your sentencesaren’t getting any sweeterAnd you grab another glassof the effervescent liquid,hoping the sea of black will blend together,and it will be dark enoughfor you to fall asleepAnd as you walk tipsily to the bathroom,the overpaid opera singerbelts her last high note- a bit too high;your crystal glass shattersinto a thousand piecesAnd with it, you shatter too.
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.
You asked for dark poetry.i will neverbe niceto my enemies.i will devour them all.slowly.methodically.with a fork.
float onnow I'm thinkingthat the moon's smarter than me:she's in love with the earthbut keeps her distance,keeps moving,keeps living.I lose my orbitwhen you're not around,and I find myself without gravity,waiting for you all nightwhen I know you'd rather besomewhere else.
( 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.
.the shadows bruise thesunlight while the moonweeps in the darkness