.just try not tothink ofthat memory, that onewolf that callsfor the restof the pack;you'll spend allnight howlingwith them insideyour head
.i shudderwhen you speak;your words arecold when theytouch me
.the breathin my lungs -you tookeverything
.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
.your heartalone shouldremind younot to beatyourself upyour pulseshould remindyoukeep steady
.some people are deadlong before they die -there's just no burialor cremation,no funeralfor the spirit
.and if you evermanage to get inside myhead, i'll wish you luck
.you got given a life,now you have to earn your living
.you were a passingstorm, a tornado scribblingyour name in the sand
.you're afraidto let anyonestoke the firein your chestfor fearyou will burnthem alive
.and goddess,this isn't something i cansweat or starve out of me,i'll have to write and it willbe madness,see i've often thought aboutplacing my head in the pestleand mortar, i wonder if i couldgrind out the hell inside, becomea red pulp on the worktop, andeven the oven keeps tutting at me,it's so easy, just open the doorstick your hand in, feel his forkedtongue on your palm,orange lover, youknow you'rea cowardfor thisand it's truethat the dead are never reallysilent, they grunt and they groanin their damp soil sheets,toss and turn overagain(fill the bath with water, and just drop me in it)
.spillyour emotion,or drownin it
.he stood on the shore,and told the sea he loved her;the jealous wind tore hisvoice in two
.hell isthe devil's chest,an empty red cavernhe's simply tryingto fill
.a storm breaks insidehis mouth; my name washes upon his tongue, stranded
.everything i hold deari hold too tightly;i am so sorry you weremarked when i had tolet you go
.lies can slipthrough your teethwith ease,the truthgets caught inyour throat(i wish it was a lie, that i'm your flesh and blood and i wish it was the truth, that i hadn't been drinking)
.you brokea heart,convincedthat there wassomething goodinside
Evanescentonly the mostbeautiful of creatureslive the shortest.red roses and quiveringbutterflies and otheruseless things, like theway she wishes on every starshe sees for a differentsoul because she can't standthe way it's rotting inside.and it's only whenthe thorns beneath her skinstart to bleed that hermonsters whisper, "haveyou ever trembled, my dear?"because they knowfor every whimper that hidesfaintly in the dark,there is a pair of lips stretchedinto a smile pretendingthat all that is beautifulis timeless and unbroken.
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.
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.
My DiseaseMy fingers bleed wordsthat my lips cannot say.When they try to trickle out,I scowl and turn away.It may not be contagious,but it is a disease.Holding myself deep inside,it's getting hard to breathe.Lies come so easy,to cover up the truth.It’s like my second nature,grown from my very youth.It’s deeper than conviction,more earnest than a thought.It’s my wayIt’s my lifeIt is my disease.
How to pretend that you are a writer.Act like you're notokay when you are andthat you are when you'renot. Run barefoot inthe snow. Stand outin the rain for an hourand think about anythingand everything you can.Fall in love withriddles and things thataren't real and theway some starsshine. Cry whenyou realize that life isjust one big sham and writeone hundred cliché poemsabout it, and then write onethat you actually mean.Use profanity. Be theone fucking introvertin a room full ofextroverts and screamshit just for the fun ofit. Swallow every goddamnmetaphor you ever dreamedof and write them downwith your own blood.Eulogize your ownmisery. Put a crown onit and let it rule yourheart for six years beforeyou throw a coup d'etatbut just end up withyour head in a basket.Ask yourself whyyou feel soempty and whenyou forgot how tolaugh and where youlast left your smile andwho you even really areanymore. Mean every word.Don't cry at funerals. Cryyourself to sleep everyother night for
What I Can't HaveI wanted wings To wrap me gently In such a wondrously beautiful embraceAmongst the stars and angelsSo I delicately ripped flightFrom the butterflies surrounding my windowIn the hopes they could fly me away.I wanted to feel loved To feel the doting heat Of a lovers breath on my neckAnd grasp on my heartSo I kissed the sunAnd held it ever so gentlyAgainst my breast tillIt burned me awayAnd I could reminisce in its loving burn.I wanted to be wholeWithout flaw Without ugly bones to trap my soulWithout a lifeSo desperately wantingEverything it could never have or beSo I embraced the seasSubmerged my entirety My being Letting its infinity ConsumeAll that would be left of me,Till I could only Wash among its waves
windfallI would gather allthe seven seas for you.for me, you would notspare a raindrop.
( 4/03/2014 )Oh,little godless girlyou talk likethe rootsof your powerhouseare showing throughyour teeth—you’re no nymph,or autotrophbreathing &surviving offyour own carbondioxide.It’s been 64 hours50 minutes, &33 secondssince this whole thingstarted& you’re already fallingapart.You left your skillesstonguein the waste basketby the bed,your limbsspread &weepingin the alley.You are your ownflailing masterpiece& by definitionyour work deservesno title.
LungsMaybe ifour lungsexhaled moneyinstead ofcarbon dioxide,we'd valuelifea little more(or maybe we'd just go broke).
.you pulledall the strings;now i connect morewith the puppet thani do the puppeteer