.i shudderwhen you speak;your words arecold when theytouch me
.some people are deadlong before they die -there's just no burialor cremation,no funeralfor the spirit
.he stood on the shore,and told the sea he loved her;the jealous wind tore hisvoice in two
.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 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
.and if you evermanage to get inside myhead, i'll wish you luck
.you were a passingstorm, a tornado scribblingyour name in the sand
.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
.you pulledall the strings;now i connect morewith the puppet thani do the puppeteer
.you're afraidto let anyonestoke the firein your chestfor fearyou will burnthem alive
.pour love allover, then strikea match;the fire willburn itself out,but the ruinswill smoulder
.i offered salt to thesea, heat to the sun, andlove to the moon; theytold me, this isn't enoughi offered my soul tothe devil; he said yes,this will be just fine
.you got given a life,now you have to earn your living
.there's no pointin leaving the chrysalisif you've gotno desire to fly
.the breathin my lungs -you tookeverything
.love grewand died repeatedly;she tore it out atthe root
.your heartalone shouldremind younot to beatyourself upyour pulseshould remindyoukeep steady
A lesson in realism:you areonly human.There is no suchthing as stardustfloating in your veins orgloomy poetry stitchedright into your heart.Your blood is made ofiron - unbreakable,unbending and unmatchedby any other stronghold,for you are a fortressthat they will never invade.Stand up,darling;wipe those tears awayand know thatyou are the only onewho can reinforce these walls.
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.
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.
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.
in which I become beautifulI drown my conscience inthe holy water of my wrists,I carve hearts from emptypaper for my galaxyboywith stars written in his skin,and I swallow moths tomuffle the emptiness andhelp me fly away.
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
For ScienceBrought toaster to bathtub.Shocking results.
.hell isthe devil's chest,an empty red cavernhe's simply tryingto fill