.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
.when i look back atthe past, she looks right back at meshe points at thefuture, glint in her eye
.the sea spitsme back ontothe shore -the waves saythis is not theright tide, theright time
.sleep left himexhausted;when he closedhis eyes he sailedthrough graveyards,and every nighthe threw himselfoverboard
.the shadows bruise thesunlight while the moonweeps in the darkness
.my head isthe apple and youare the worm;watch mesquirm
.tiny heart drummingin your chest, i canhear youred gravy pumpingin your veins, i cansmell youyou are such a freshmeal, and i can almosttaste you
.is it worse tohear a truth,or give oneto tell a lie,or live one
.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 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
.pour love allover, then strikea match;the fire willburn itself out,but the ruinswill smoulder
.little robin, wingsoutstretched in the dirt, a smearof red on your breast
.i dug up thepast again, thosememories viciousand snarlingi set them looseinside the houseand now we haveto leave
.does a weedever wonderwhy it isn'ta flowerdoes a treeever feel likeits roots areholding itdown
.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
.dead flies scatterthe windowsill, theirbodies shrivelled anddried by the suni mourn the spider,hung with his own web
.a sign reads:idle hands wanted
SeclusionSeclusion Sometimes you need seclusion to reclaim your mind.Blacken your vision and close your eyes,Plug your ears from the outside,As you fall back, back inside of “I.”And not “we,” “he,” “she,” but me.Sometimes to find myself, I must lose everyone else.
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.
blowing my teeth out the back of my skullI.we are hynagogic wasteland words, unravelingcorpses clutching at bruised throats - white gasolineII.and when your skin heals, i hope i've permeated your bones( i will never be rid of you ).
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
Slow, LoveI am a box of bones; attic-drenched,mildew-hearted remnantsgathered in the grief of storms.I am a catalogueof failures, listed alphabeticallyfor ease of use; God knowswhy, since no one ever looksbeneath the covers.
Chalk OutlineA chalk outline waits for mesometimes it slips into bed with my shadowand I can do nothing but roll my eyeslike a mis=abused and weary parent,but every night when my shadowmerges with the edges of the day's pageand blurs into a dirty midnight orangeI lie in bed and shudder;without my shadow's protection I feel it,a chalk outline waits for me.
Goodnight MoonThe battered sky bloomsas the dark teabag stainunder her weary eyes.Like the coupletstrung around her necklaceand embeddedwith teeth marks -jewels impressed intothe vast expansive skyof her laden shoulderbones.The bruise darkensand the stars seem impossible.Too far awayand smiling a long dead smile.But somewhere a pomegranate lip,swollen with the disdainthat he made her swallow -somewhere, those lipsfind the courage to sayGoodnight.
suicide can come in bottles.dad was an alcoholicby the time he was twenty-two.he was thirty-threewhen i was born.-i am eight years old.dad is drunk on the couch.he wakes up and tells me to buy him foodand i tell him i’m his daughter.he gets up to yell at methen, as if realizing, starts laughing.hard.i am scared.-i am nine years old.there’s a picture i don’t understandprinted out on the table.i look at the web address and type it inand there’s a site full of them.the men look like they’re hurting the women.they call them mean namesand tie them up.in the one my dad printedthere are no faces. just genitalsand i am nineand i understand.i don’t tell my mother.-i am nine years old.every night i get up when dad leavesto close the browsers open on his computer.one night,there are seventeen openand i close themone at a time.some of the pictures are scary.one woman is screaming.another is one who looks young,like a high school girl.“SIXTEEN
Awareness.She writes such lovely poemsBut nobody really caresShe hides them all the timeTo avoid the judging staresShe wrote one yesterdayAbout a boy who said he loved herBut to her own dismayShe caught him with anotherShe wrote one about schoolAnd the words painted on her locker“No one likes you, stupid bitch.You’re lucky I’m at soccer.”She wrote about her parentsAnd how she wished they were togetherBut she knows that won’t ever happenAnd forgetting’s probably betterYes, she writes such lovely poemsBut there’s so much more to thisSee, her pencil is a razorAnd the paper is her wrist.
.i wanted to bathein fire; for the amber tonguesto lick me clean, pure
I can relate to having this feeling.
luv all your poems!!!