.he told me prayersare uselessand if i really want hisforgiveness, i should get onmy knees and beg
.dead flies scatterthe windowsill, theirbodies shrivelled anddried by the suni mourn the spider,hung with his own web
.does a weedever wonderwhy it isn'ta flowerdoes a treeever feel likeits roots areholding itdown
.i wanted to bathein fire; for the amber tonguesto lick me clean, pure
.i was born with thecord wrapped tightaround my neck; itwould seem fitting todie the same way
.the sea spitsme back ontothe shore -the waves saythis is not theright tide, theright time
.is it worse tohear a truth,or give oneto tell a lie,or live one
.the shadows bruise thesunlight while the moonweeps in the darkness
.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
.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
.when you claim your slotin the ground, it will claim yourbody in return
.i dug up thepast again, thosememories viciousand snarlingi set them looseinside the houseand now we haveto leave
.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
.i will bury myselfoutside in the garden;like the spare keyor the dead dog,i'm never there whenyou need me
.you say youlie because youcare, and ibelieve you;i know you'duse the truthif you reallywanted tohurt me
.my cat has ninelives and i fear he willspend each one doingthe same fuckingthingstaring out of thewindow at the birds onthe fence, when he could beout there, sinking histeeth in
.i keepbutterfliesin mystomach;pierce holesthrough sowe canbreathe
.pour love allover, then strikea match;the fire willburn itself out,but the ruinswill smoulder
Cancer has a smell.Old classics,lilac air-fresheners,the half cup ofpeppermint ice creamthat’s beensitting in your freezerfor weeks, and cat litter.He won’t eat anymore,but there arepiles and pilesof dirty dishessitting in the sink.He’s slowlydisintegratingbefore your eyes.You can wrapyour whole selfaround his tiny bonesnow.You can hold himlike he used to hold youall those years ago.And you are angry.You try to findsomeone,or somethingto blame.You hate doctors,and you hateNovember now.November meansbirthdays, diagnoses,chemo treatments,and realization.You have to force yourselfto stop crying,every day.This is the one personwho’s always had faithin you.He’s read every poemand hoarded every awardyou ever won.You ignore statistics,because rosesthey alwayssmell nicer.
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 gave up on trying to write about youthere are millions of poemsdetailing the beauty of another’s eyes,but your eyes, my love,put all their cherry-picked words to shame.ew, that verse is disgusting.way too sappy.I’m no good at love poems.okay, hold on, let mejust start over.you’re freaking excellentno.shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?thou art more lovely and more temperatewait.i can’t take credit for that.sonnets aren’t my style,and anyway,shakespeare beat me to the punchfour hundred some years ago.uh, i mean, you’re funnyand really cute, likei seriously love your eyesbecause there’s meaning in theresomewhere.and, and, you make me laugh.you’re so hilarious.and I have the drawing you gave metwo years ago, still hiddenfolded up in my notebook.plus, i mean, you’re everything to me.no big deal, right,considering the fact that we neverreally speak anymore.it’s cool.i’m fine.really.oh my god that doesn’teven
The Day The World Went AwayThe world went awaywild and untetheredfrom now-loose neurons -Oh how it flewfor that blind momentbefore the lacework brokeand flung serotoninagainst baroque wallpaper.
( 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.
we're all drunk and always have beennoi haven't felt smaller than this beforeand it could bebecause i don't breathe poetry inand out -inand out,inand out -i write it under my eyebrowswith the precisionof a drunk snipertoasted into admissionwith irony s-st-tutter-eringdown his throat.you wouldn't take a damned bullet for me.beautiful is a word keptfor the riseand fallof her tidal chest,not my shallow breath,not my sunset, heartfelt,hollow silhouette.i would have disappearedbetween your accusing index andneglected thumb -rub me,rub me?rub herrub herdon't you feel calmer?noi haven't felt smaller than thisbefore.i haven't felt smaller than this beforeand it could bebecause you found a home betweenher stroking index andcomforting thumb -i haven't forgotten,no, i still remembernow twenty two penumbrae in the pastdidn't stop mefrom settlingin one of several crevassesat the bottom of your oceanic mind;you may have forgotten,and slept inon the details,but i haven't,not yet,not ye
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.
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.
All Her Little ThingsStop hating her for the littlest things.The things she can't prevent,The things she can't save herself from..Stop demanding her to do things,Things she can't accomplish,Things she can't imagine being done...Stop lying to her,Telling her you love her,Want her, need her...When all you've ever done is make her want toDie.Stop hating her for the littlest things.The things she can't prevent,The things she can't save herself from...Because,When those little things you've doneTake her down...The little things won't matter anymore.
.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