.i shudderwhen you speak;your words arecold when theytouch me
.he stood on the shore,and told the sea he loved her;the jealous wind tore hisvoice in two
.some people are deadlong before they die -there's just no burialor cremation,no funeralfor the spirit
.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
.you were a passingstorm, a tornado scribblingyour name in the sand
.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'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
.the breathin my lungs -you tookeverything
.you pulledall the strings;now i connect morewith the puppet thani do the puppeteer
.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 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
.and like a stone atthe bottom of the riveror the sea,i think life might just beflowing right past me
.love grewand died repeatedly;she tore it out atthe root
.there's no pointin leaving the chrysalisif you've gotno desire to fly
.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.
.she never carried enough oilto keep her own life burning
-she knew he was a grave, but she buried herself in him anyway.
float onnow I'm thinkingthat the moon's smarter than me:she's in love with the earthbut keeps her distance,keeps moving,keeps living.I lose my orbitwhen you're not around,and I find myself without gravity,waiting for you all nightwhen I know you'd rather besomewhere else.
.hell isthe devil's chest,an empty red cavernhe's simply tryingto fill