.you break freefrom the grip ofthe oceanjust to die inthe arms of the shorefrom exhaustion
.dig lifejust to get buried
.and if you evermanage to get inside myhead, i'll wish you luck
.the rabbits twitchin their sleep;they dreamof red bitten neckswet with spit,the birds dream of their eggscrackedand runny -the mice dream of hearingthat tabby cat screamas the teeth of life ripitwide open
.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
.the world's a stagebut he saysplease,don't make a scene(it's growing boring)
.love like thunder;make yourself known
.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)
.death has a wayof assuring youthat he is youronly friend;he's the onlyone that willstay with youwhenever youreach the end
.i don't believethat if you can dream ityou can do it,cos i once dreamt thati killed atlas,i tore him limb from limb and theni stabbed the globe he held,watched itdeflate,and sometimes i get sadabout the children in the worldwho will choke on all the wordsthat they'll never learn to speak,and there's a baby somewhere garglingthe meaning of his life,and he's a little bit upset that youkeep wiping itaway(i have no words for you)
.we are allstrayssearching forhomes ineach other
.some people are deadlong before they die -there's just no burialor cremation,no funeralfor the spirit
.and i stopped killing spiderswhen i realized that we are both just tryingto make our way in the worldand he hasn't got a cluehow he ended up on my bathroom floorand i can turn out the lights tostop the moths from killing themselvesbut i can't turn off my brain andstop myself from doing the same
.when we talkwe use our wordslike grenades;you roll them outand they land at my feet,i either choose to throwthem back,or choose to run
.there's no pointin leaving the chrysalisif you've gotno desire to fly
.got eyes sohungry they'reswallowing youwhole,gonna spitout your heartlike a pip
.you pulledall the strings;now i connect morewith the puppet thani do the puppeteer
.and like a stone atthe bottom of the riveror the sea,i think life might just beflowing right past me
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.
-she knew he was a grave, but she buried herself in him anyway.
writers filter out their lungs with lighter fluida briny blackthorn boy, iam rotting, reinfected -a skeleton's blooming fromunderneath my skin; she'sbetween my collar bones,she's inside my jaw, she -she is vile, the way all necromancers are(but god, am i envious).
.you buried me deep and called it a triumph,but you never realized -I'm a seed.
honey, please don't pull that triggerI'm always taking bullets for you.
IntrovertEveryone's tryingto get out ofthe shadowof their parents-I'm here tryingto get out ofthe shadowof myself.
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