.he told me prayersare uselessand if i really want hisforgiveness, i should get onmy knees and beg
.i wanted to bathein fire; for the amber tonguesto lick me clean, pure
.i dug up thepast again, thosememories viciousand snarlingi set them looseinside the houseand now we haveto leave
.you brokea heart,convincedthat there wassomething goodinside
.my head isthe apple and youare the worm;watch mesquirm
.the sea spitsme back ontothe shore -the waves saythis is not theright tide, theright time
.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
.pour love allover, then strikea match;the fire willburn itself out,but the ruinswill smoulder
.you were a passingstorm, a tornado scribblingyour name in the sand
.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
.the shadows bruise thesunlight while the moonweeps in the darkness
.the breathin my lungs -you tookeverything
.winter gavebirth to a baby,cold and still
.hangman, could you showme the ropes? i'd rather doit all on my own
.i shudderwhen you speak;your words arecold when theytouch me
.my thoughts want toflee, but there is no fireescape, no guide to theexit of my head, and theyconsider digging a holethere, i feel it, maybe acrack just wide enoughto crawl through, drop arope through the backof my neck and climbdown, prise open theearth - a tremble turnsinto an avalanche, anda snowflake in the flurrywonders am i the same asall the rest? he coughs andsplutters and chokes onit - i wake in the earlymorning, heart lodgedin my throat, that redbird in that chimney, he'sgoing to starve there andi'll be spitting feathers;i won't claw the insideof my neck again fornobody, i'm past that,pick me up by thescruff and drop mewherever you're going -but wait, when lightningstrikes a tree, well isn'tthat love? and when therain pelts the ground,well what about then?when you miss the acheof wounds as they'rehealing, is that it? wellwhen your nose bleeds,that's still love right?cos i've got an entirepack to get through -and what a funnything it is
.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
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.
( 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.
For ScienceBrought toaster to bathtub.Shocking results.
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.
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.
the drifter i.i tried to tell you that Marley was a ghost,but you wanted to walk with wingsacross gleaming midnight. How marvelous, this stone stands sturdy and musty; this glorious church holding up a ticking sun that slowly cracks the trippy stained glass.you drilled way below the church stone, and found dried palm leaves and old jointslike clues to the map of an exceptional life. I love this torrential literature, I love a racing heart. ii.i cannot sleep, i keep dreaming, ezekiel's visions leave me breathless. Take it up with the Big Man. Surely the cannabis creator must exude a presence that lingers on synapses.iii.i've lost my ability to fly.a tender sky with reddening clouds, the sights of death give birth to no life. Well, I'm l
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
butterfliedit is a snakecoiled in my stomach,the urge to vomiteverything inside of me, to purgeall the toxic not-good-enoughs. to retellthe same story and expecta different ending isthe dysfunction that landedus in here. I'm sorryI don't follow you intoyour dreams at night. I'm sorrymy smile is not the moon,I'm sorry I did anythingto make you noticeme at all. no fingerdown the throat could evertake thataway.
lost my voice.I wrote "I love you"in the sand at the beach.The tide swallowed the wordsand drowned thembefore I could speak.
.i scrub loveoff your knuckles