.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
.i shudderwhen you speak;your words arecold when theytouch me
.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
.you're afraidto let anyonestoke the firein your chestfor fearyou will burnthem alive
.you brokea heart,convincedthat there wassomething goodinside
.you pulledall the strings;now i connect morewith the puppet thani do the puppeteer
.the breathin my lungs -you tookeverything
.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
.you’ve gota lioninside,a heartfull ofpride,and you’renot lettinghim roar
.you were a passingstorm, a tornado scribblingyour name in the sand
.love grewand died repeatedly;she tore it out atthe root
.he stood on the shore,and told the sea he loved her;the jealous wind tore hisvoice in two
.just try not tothink ofthat memory, that onewolf that callsfor the restof the pack;you'll spend allnight howlingwith them insideyour head
.pour love allover, then strikea match;the fire willburn itself out,but the ruinswill smoulder
.is it worse tohear a truth,or give oneto tell a lie,or live one
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.
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.
( 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.
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.
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.
You asked for dark poetry.i will neverbe niceto my enemies.i will devour them all.slowly.methodically.with a fork.
I'm the type...to try and smile when they're gunning me down andI won't tell you until I'm full of empty shells thatthe world wasn't built on land but onsuffering anda lack of better term for human desire for satisfaction that does not exist.To be optimistic when one's soul is a realist butit doesn't matter how many petals you count becausethe last draw will always end with a dead end thattakes you to a new beginning where at first you feel.. this is it. And I'm going to make this myhome.. If not for the eyes that prey on your identity while perched ontrees that take root on ground made of greed andsuffering.Is happiness a paradoxical conspiracy that finds salvation in the dreaming minds of those awake. Or perhaps justsomething I have only caressed but never tasted toremember.Is suffering that which is beyond the first dream that we all awaken to after sleeping that first sleep when we break free of Innocence.Or are my words not but images that you have unconsciously
War.If someone tells you, "War is hell." They lie.There are no innocents in hell.
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.
.everything i hold deari hold too tightly;i am so sorry you weremarked when i had tolet you go