.i hearthe sun hisswhen it catchessight of the moon,i see you too, so pleasedo not come any closer -i crack wordswide open to see justwhat they're reallymade of, and i longto do the sameto you, i thinka crowbar is the only thingthat would give youa more open mind, iswing then prise -you laughand saya moth in searchof the lightis boundto get burned(what are you in for?)
.i keep wearingmy skinlike an old wornjacket and jeans,stitchedover andover again
.sooner or laterwe'll fall throughthe trapdoor of death
.i wantto know about god,which namehe would prefer to go byi want to knowabout the stairwayup to heaven,and why sliding downthe bannister into hellis much more fun(think i tried to climb a step that wasn't there, think i might have died more than once)
.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
.she saysdarling,you weren't madefor anything else(cutting this cord day by day)
.got eyes sohungry they'reswallowing youwhole,gonna spitout your heartlike a pip
.dig lifejust to get buried
.the world's a stagebut he saysplease,don't make a scene(it's growing boring)
.you break freefrom the grip ofthe oceanjust to die inthe arms of the shorefrom exhaustion
.i feel in a languagei don't understand,and the wings of the bird in my kitchen, theywon't get to feel the sky anymore -and sometimes doesn't it feel good?to put two fingers round the neckof a flower andsnap,hear the petals scream fortheir withering limbs,then start choking(instinct)
.i dug up thepast again, thosememories viciousand snarlingi set them looseinside the houseand now we haveto leave
.i wakequiet andblindblindblind,the darknessglowingoutside andin(he said dead was the best way that thing could ever have been anyway)
.you pulledall the strings;now i connect morewith the puppet thani do the puppeteer
.death has a wayof assuring youthat he is youronly friend;he's the onlyone that willstay with youwhenever youreach the end
.half my life sitsin this waiting room,dust on the spikeplant so thick that itfeels like grey velvet,i prod my fingersonto the sharp tips,as i sitwith a two week cleanjunkie who saysthis is terrible(i sign in, but i never sign out)
.and if you evermanage to get inside myhead, i'll wish you luck
.tonightthe moon is rotting,my hands are not my ownmy blood is howling(treetops glow silver)
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.
Behind the WordsWe spill our pain across the pages.But we must smile when it is read.For we cannot show our true emotions.Not of suffering, anxiety, or dread.For we are the bringers of dreams to the world.Our words are tales of healing light.So hide your tears behind a mask,And save them for a quiet night.
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.
roadkillYou told meI was November’s ambrosiasweet on your tongue.But now all I feelis discord, siegingand overthrowingthe 3,000 year old treeinside of me.-Centuries to grow so talland strong-9 mere minutes tofall.You no longer smile anymore.And I am here,silent as stone-the carcass of a dead...wild thinghoping you don't leave meon the side of the road.
VeinsI wishmy veinsof ocean blueflowed not justto my heart,but toyours too.
StoryI know you have a story hiddenIn your chest but you’reAfraid to wear it on your sleevesFor everyone to see. No needTo worry – I’ve seen scarred arms,I’ve known people who let theirDemons take over their hearts.Your story is just as valid asMine; even if it’s just a fairytale.
IntrovertEveryone's tryingto get out ofthe shadowof their parents-I'm here tryingto get out ofthe shadowof myself.
-she knew he was a grave, but she buried herself in him anyway.
you have seven days to live.1.the news doesn't hurt:it's his eyes that hurt you,the glimmer of his pastcreeping in just likehis father used to creep inat three a.m.with a sin on his mindand rage on his hands.he waits for you to react,but you don'tbecause he's suddenly seven again,hiding bruiseswhile mommy criesin a ball on the couch.2.you think timeis a funny thing.people talk about itlike it is an object:"I need more time," they say,like they will go to the store laterand buy more.but you know that timeis more like an ocean wave,with an endlesspounding that continueslong after we greet the dirt,and we want more time,but time doesn't want us.3.he tries to force youinto his wrists,his ankles, his collarbone.he thinks that if heloves you enough,he can save you.you know that he can't,so you cut through himnight after night,searching for an exit.4.sometimes death scares you.you remind yourself thateverything ends,no matter how much you wantan infin
.can you hearmy mouth -my cerberusguardingthe hellinside me