.i dug up thepast again, thosememories viciousand snarlingi set them looseinside the houseand now we haveto leave
.pour love allover, then strikea match;the fire willburn itself out,but the ruinswill smoulder
.a storm breaks insidehis mouth; my name washes upon his tongue, stranded
.sometimesthe voicein my headdecides tocurl up inmy throatinsteadand sometimesthe beat ofyour heartdecides tomake itselfknown throughyour fists
.does a weedever wonderwhy it isn'ta flowerdoes a treeever feel likeits roots areholding itdown
.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 brokea heart,convincedthat there wassomething goodinside
.in yourhead liesa well troddenpath;i want thewilderness
.i shudderwhen you speak;your words arecold when theytouch me
.is it worse tohear a truth,or give oneto tell a lie,or live one
.i was born with thecord wrapped tightaround my neck; itwould seem fitting todie the same way
.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
.the shadows bruise thesunlight while the moonweeps in the darkness
.the sea spitsme back ontothe shore -the waves saythis is not theright tide, theright time
.when i look back atthe past, she looks right back at meshe points at thefuture, glint in her eye
.i wanted to bathein fire; for the amber tonguesto lick me clean, pure
.dead flies scatterthe windowsill, theirbodies shrivelled anddried by the suni mourn the spider,hung with his own web
.he told me prayersare uselessand if i really want hisforgiveness, i should get onmy knees and beg
I'm the type...to try and smile when they're gunning me down andI won't tell you until I'm full of empty shells thatthe world wasn't built on land but onsuffering anda lack of better term for human desire for satisfaction that does not exist.To be optimistic when one's soul is a realist butit doesn't matter how many petals you count becausethe last draw will always end with a dead end thattakes you to a new beginning where at first you feel.. this is it. And I'm going to make this myhome.. If not for the eyes that prey on your identity while perched ontrees that take root on ground made of greed andsuffering.Is happiness a paradoxical conspiracy that finds salvation in the dreaming minds of those awake. Or perhaps justsomething I have only caressed but never tasted toremember.Is suffering that which is beyond the first dream that we all awaken to after sleeping that first sleep when we break free of Innocence.Or are my words not but images that you have unconsciously
You asked for dark poetry.i will neverbe niceto my enemies.i will devour them all.slowly.methodically.with a fork.
Poetry,you’re atemperamental bitchthat moans when I go.You comparealcoholto happiness.You creepfrom throats& boneslike somehungry monster.But Poetry,languagewas inventedfor you.You awokea rhythmbetween myfingertipsthat stilltauntsme.You’re either avital organ,or blood.However, Poetry,are you cheaperthan the womenin the empty spacesof my life-or the secretsI writebetween my thighs?Poetry,I am Fifty Shadesof girl.Why should I feed you?Do you knowwhat to dowith my bodywhen you are merelyink stained fingerssoaked in passing& the feversconjuredwithin burning stars?I didn’t think so.
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.
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.
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.
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.
( 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.
how to be a poet: the basics.kiss all the peopleyou know you shouldn't,solely for the reasonthat they look goodin stanzas. look at your scarslike mothers peer into cradles. then makemore; make yourself intoa symbol for infinity,or at least try,because it never works. patch yourself up. say, "darling, you're okay," while staring at yourself in the mirror with your hairdamp and your lipschapped (refer to stanza one). change. grow. it's what we like to read, isn't it?miss the people in your lifeuntil they leave,and then miss yourselfas well. screw everything up,and then write about itlike it had to happen.try to believe it, ignorethe voice in your head that hissesand groans in your sleep,behind your eyelids."baby, you're a fuck up,you know it know it know it".try to carve the hummingout of your bodyby exit way of your veins. be hospitalized. give in, give up,play along, stop writing. get better. but then you start writi
.i saw marshit venus,sent herspinning likea marble;a firerose withinher soul,i saw ared seaflow