.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
.and if you evermanage to get inside myhead, i'll wish you luck
.you brokea heart,convincedthat there wassomething goodinside
.i shudderwhen you speak;your words arecold when theytouch me
.your heartalone shouldremind younot to beatyourself upyour pulseshould remindyoukeep steady
.you're afraidto let anyonestoke the firein your chestfor fearyou will burnthem alive
.you pulledall the strings;now i connect morewith the puppet thani do the puppeteer
.just try not tothink ofthat memory, that onewolf that callsfor the restof the pack;you'll spend allnight howlingwith them insideyour head
.the breathin my lungs -you tookeverything
.some people are deadlong before they die -there's just no burialor cremation,no funeralfor the spirit
.you were a passingstorm, a tornado scribblingyour name in the sand
.he stood on the shore,and told the sea he loved her;the jealous wind tore hisvoice in two
.and like a stone atthe bottom of the riveror the sea,i think life might just beflowing right past me
.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
.i will marry the moonand adopt a son, teachhim not to play with thehearts of stars(but he will)i will bring home a man,give him hope, hear himoutand then coughup his gutson the floor(i will end up there anyway, might as well say a prayer whilst i'm down there)
.love grewand died repeatedly;she tore it out atthe root
.you were life's newwork of art;small easel bonesand a blankcanvas of skinbut he ruined you over time,added the brushof a scaror two
.hell isthe devil's chest,an empty red cavernhe's simply tryingto fill
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.
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.
( 4/01/2014 )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.
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.
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.
She's a WriterShe sits at her deskHer headphones in,The world shut out.She bleeds for othersAs words fly from Her mind to her fingertips.She stares at the screen,At every little comment,The good and the painful.She forms her emotionsInto books and poemsTo throw away the hurt.She's a writer,And her best weaponsAre her mind and her pen.
( 4/02/2014 )It’s day two& I already feelshriveled, lungless,overworked.I’ve been livingout of my suitcasesince I got home,sleepingon the couch &leaving my laundryon the floor.Everything in my refrigeratorscreams 12 days too late& rent money is due.She’s slapping mein the face,you see.Depression,that heartless bitchwith the longspider legs& hot mouth-she enjoysthrowing meinto furniture-up againstthin walls& having her way with me.
War.If someone tells you, "War is hell." They lie.There are no innocents in hell.
You asked for dark poetry.i will neverbe niceto my enemies.i will devour them all.slowly.methodically.with a fork.
.everything i hold deari hold too tightly;i am so sorry you weremarked when i had tolet you go