.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
.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
.you brokea heart,convincedthat there wassomething goodinside
.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 dug up thepast again, thosememories viciousand snarlingi set them looseinside the houseand now we haveto leave
.the sea spitsme back ontothe shore -the waves saythis is not theright tide, theright time
.you say youlie because youcare, and ibelieve you;i know you'duse the truthif you reallywanted tohurt me
.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
.the shadows bruise thesunlight while the moonweeps in the darkness
.i wanted to bathein fire; for the amber tonguesto lick me clean, pure
.sleep left himexhausted;when he closedhis eyes he sailedthrough graveyards,and every nighthe threw himselfoverboard
.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
.i was born with thecord wrapped tightaround my neck; itwould seem fitting todie the same way
.tiny heart drummingin your chest, i canhear youred gravy pumpingin your veins, i cansmell youyou are such a freshmeal, and i can almosttaste you
.when i look back atthe past, she looks right back at meshe points at thefuture, glint in her eye
.sometimesthe voicein my headdecides tocurl up inmy throatinsteadand sometimesthe beat ofyour heartdecides tomake itselfknown throughyour fists
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.
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.
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.
titans.they don’t tell you thatone day,sisyphus just let the rock roll downand collect his bodylike dust.they don’t tell you that you can still walkwith holes in your legsand you can still lovewhen your heart has already been ripped open.they don’t tell you thatyou are 75% of an oceanthat is six miles deepand eats ships alive,75% of the water that shapes canyons,75% of the rain that drowned the earthfor forty days and nights.they don’t tell you thatyour body is made of the same carbonas starsand diamonds.they don’t tell you thatthere is a fire burning inside of youor that your bones are stronger than steelor that the things that fuel youfuel tigers, too.the greeks and romans wrote stories abouthow strong you wereand you are icarus,and you died laughingbecause they didn’t tell youhow beautiful the world really waseven as it was swallowedby the waves.
Sticks and StonesThey say words can never hurt you.Silence does a better job.
How to love a poet: Expect them to be flawed, a field of wild flowered- imperfections, sticky metaphors & an inability to speak. Love them anyway. Know that when they look at you they are noticing the little things.
You asked for dark poetry.i will neverbe niceto my enemies.i will devour them all.slowly.methodically.with a fork.
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.
and we'll rotoh, poet boy,you are notthumbed bruisesor honey bones& you have onlyever been a godinside of your own head
.is it worse tohear a truth,or give oneto tell a lie,or live one