.is it worse tohear a truth,or give oneto tell a lie,or live one
.i dug up thepast again, thosememories viciousand snarlingi set them looseinside the houseand now we haveto leave
.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
.does a weedever wonderwhy it isn'ta flowerdoes a treeever feel likeits roots areholding itdown
.pour love allover, then strikea match;the fire willburn itself out,but the ruinswill smoulder
.throw my boneson the fire justto warm up yourownthen sitthere and wonderwhy you're alwaysalone
.you brokea heart,convincedthat there wassomething goodinside
.dead flies scatterthe windowsill, theirbodies shrivelled anddried by the suni mourn the spider,hung with his own web
.the sea spitsme back ontothe shore -the waves saythis is not theright tide, theright time
.some thoughts get so loud thatyou cry out for them to leave;they scatter like birds startledout of their trees, before landingagain where they wereand after a while,you just have tolet them sing
.i wanted to bathein fire; for the amber tonguesto lick me clean, pure
.the shadows bruise thesunlight while the moonweeps in the darkness
.my head isthe apple and youare the worm;watch mesquirm
.i shudderwhen you speak;your words arecold when theytouch me
.sometimesthe voicein my headdecides tocurl up inmy throatinsteadand sometimesthe beat ofyour heartdecides tomake itselfknown throughyour fists
.when i look back atthe past, she looks right back at meshe points at thefuture, glint in her eye
.sleep left himexhausted;when he closedhis eyes he sailedthrough graveyards,and every nighthe threw himselfoverboard
.tiny heart drummingin your chest, i canhear youred gravy pumpingin your veins, i cansmell youyou are such a freshmeal, and i can almosttaste you
hometown bluesthey say home is where the heart is,but they never claimed it had to be beating.if this town is all there is to living,then I'm dead,and these dusty dirt roadsare my sad little gravestones.there's a harsh winter wind.I'm breathing,but it's the same air I've inhaledsince I first opened mysurgical steel eye to the world.remember the pale pink dressI wore to our senior prom?you held meunder the fuzzy yellow confetti light.I loved you because you were so gentle,and when I fell apart,you were the only person who knewI could fix myself on my own.you twirled me like I mattered,because you knew that one day I would die.you forgot that you would, too.you are wrought iron starlight,my crooked grey dove.you live in the sidewalk cracks,moaning my name as Icautiously step over the gorges.my mother calls, from time to time.I've learned to let the phone ringbecause her voice is not the one I want to hear.she's too tepid, unsure.she's the link strangling me,pinning me t
I can't write poetry for dead girls.there are toomany pills in thisworld and toomuch misery inthe human heartbut that didn't meanthat you could justup and leave whenwe both know itcould have gotten betterand i miss you likea wolf misses her packor a goddamn dragon missesher fire and i'm sorrythat i can't give youa bouquet of jasmines(they were yourfavorite, after all,because that wasthe only princesswith a pet tiger)because poppies aretoo cliche and i'msorry i wasn't therewhen all you neededwas a hug and for someoneto whisper "it's okay,you're perfect enoughfor me, don't listento that junkie bitchwho just happened togive birth to you" and didyou know that i'm still waitingfor a reply to that oneemail about the world'sbest puns because fuck,there's a stubborn partof me that still refuses tobelieve that you're gone.
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.
all of your lives have been addictsmy cathas turnedmy front porchinto a graveyardas if to say:this is what we needbut tonightshe tried to lick my clawsback to hands& I said to her:"I do not have 9 livesto spend on the bathroom floorwith 13-hour insomniacan't we just kill the mockingbirdspull the concreteout of our throats& get this dyingover withalready"butshe's got 8 lives down& doesn't answer questions twice
Keep your secrets, wolfgirl.I have been suffocatingon the stars of my pastlike horny gentlemendo with innocent lookingwolfgirls at 3am- their bitefearless as thieves.My lilac lungs are breathing indust and the tears of Saturn’snameless moons,while the rest of me -well, shes warm off wineand poems leftunfinished.
It's not hatred, it's incredulity.when i was ten years old myteacher asked the class,"if you were god, what wouldyou change?"and i rememberbiting my lip so hardthat it bled. carefully,i wrote abouthow i would teachkids from an early age on how tolove yourself and no oneelse and that there is no such thing asan almighty power that will pityyou and answer your desperate prayersat three a.m. because you're the only onewho has that kind of control.when i handed it in she just lookedat me like i was themonsters underher child's bed. the next day iwas sitting in her office wonderingwhy it was so wrong totalk about what's in your heart at a catholicschool when that's what the priest tellsyou to do at every sunday mass andthe teacher asked meanother question, "do youhate god?" and iwanted to scream "yes, yes!" becausehow can a god let the worldslip through their fingers like this one has?but instead i answered,"no. i just don't think there is one."and sat in the chair,staring at the cross on t
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
vacation artifact."Last summer I took my cell phone to the beach,"she says, "and the ocean drenched it. It hasn't worked since then."She's messy, truly, a dead battery, a gauge hovering on empty.I tell her to call the phone company,get a back up or refund or some other nonsense.She sighs (her lips didn't move).For a moment I thinkshe's going to push me away again,film up like ankle-cutting sea glass."I can't replace it.I'll lose the last text messagehe ever sent me."I fall quiet because I know.Today I see the cell phone, cold and silent
You asked for dark poetry.i will neverbe niceto my enemies.i will devour them all.slowly.methodically.with a fork.
.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