No wander about it, just lust.You were a mid-morning train wreck,the embodiment of poetry.& my clavicles whispered too many nothingsabout your summer storm hands,folding like paper cranesto make wishes upon themselves.wishes are for the weak-stand up,do something about this quaking heart& freezing fingers.Anything.I think I found God then,lurking behind wanderlust eyes.
I think you left a piece of you in me.This tangled mess you call a heart,daisy veins & sin;She's bringing me down.& you were merely shiveringkite-string clavicles.Nothing,pressing winter bonesagainst my sun-stricken mouth,darkness searching for a homeburied in my lungs.You whispered breathe melovely in the inhale/exhaleof carbon dioxide suicide.She speaks only of you now,lonely & mourning beats-Crack open this damn ribcage;set me free.
fly.this is hard for the world around us to grasp:these wildfires raging in our retinas& the sins we wear like demonic simileson our tongues- they are not enough.& i am so fucking sorry of saying i'm sorry.but, tell me,what is a young poet(ess) to dowith veins made of kite strings?
I want to forget names,& faces,& people.I want to forget their veins,fingerprints forever burned into my eyelids;wrists I can't look atwithout longing to tear apart.Spine full, and spiteful:I want to cryroses in my midnight teafor these star collapsed lungs.I want to cry for her& for me.But Shame,she wont allow me the courtesy.
I am trying to be honest,but I write so fucking floweryit makes me sick,rose scented stars & love.No.Her: helpless as a lamb,I want raw, achingbone against boneexploring the exposed, nakedpoetry of her universe-( warm, celestial hands forging sandcastle ribs. )Southern earth beneath her feet,wanderlust burned like Apollo's touchinto her spinal cord, please awakenthe empty space between her skin& mine.
Scorpion"Show me your bones."the atlas of her thighs quakedas she misplaced her skinin the backseat of his car."I'm a scorpion, you know-"a messy promisefolded napkin-neat."Prove it."& she smirked,sure of her limbs,her scars, & her teeth."I dare you to stake claim to this clavicle."
August Lover,I want to wrap myself in your air,hold your secrets between myribcage-embrace & just breathe.
NaPoWriMo: Day 8I was toldto slice through the thickestof scar tissue this evening.Let all my inner demonsfall to the floor& write them outin my own black blood.It’s not red anymore,even though needles& the bruiseslaid out like war-landson my armssay otherwise.I don’t think it ever was,honestly.Therapeutic,they said.My mind is a messof free versed insecurities,cat’s eye marbles,& untamed forest fires-but,I still don’t have the nerveto slice open my skin& bleed for her.
Dear Poetry,I might be dangerously on the verge of being poetic, but-Sometimes I don't feel me in my own skin.I am too many breaks between pulses,& a heart still living in the autumn of 99.I'm telling stories about a girl.A soul made of ink & godly metaphors,too much for a non-homeostatic body.There were once fireflies in her smile,alight between the gaps in her teeth.A rebel,love letters carved into wristsshe never sent.Poetry,She is Porphyria, & you are her lover.
Collection of poetic nothings.We were opal Tuesdays,mosaic butterfliestattooed into therose garden curveof my vertebrae,gliding me through this wild youth.But, like Icarus—I was a sky conqueror& these silk wingstouched the sun.-My inhalations are heavy,like the earth he bruisesbeneath his fingertipsas I chase silence."You've got a tonguemade for words." He saysagainst the arrogant thornsof my briar spine."Learn to love yourself."-How do I say I love youwithout saying I love you?"I want to replace my heart with you."-You are spider silk woveninto my harvest moonheartstrings, spiderlimbs traveling this road mapof songbird sin.You are not just in my head now,you are dancing in the lingering starsof my night-witch frame& setting me on fire.-You're not bruised enoughthey said,to write poetry.-Allow these bones to tell your story, Love.
Hear me howl.Tell me again, Father,I’m the perfect daughter-when all I want to beis the crescent moonsresting like strong soldiersin the grooves of my palms.I am but(outgrown)lonely bones,quaking with frostbite,numbed with rage.A wolf's jaw:locked, teeth tearinginto the chilled fleshof your neck.
A lion among sheep.There are ghosts in my bloodstreamkissing concrete cells &the bedroom eyes of nerve endings.( foreign wordsengraved into my marrow, birds in my chest& wars not yet fought between my hips. )I've taken myself apart every nightsince I learned how to swallow a penwithout gagging;limb by steady limb.Passed around by grabby hands,a sold, & borrowed daughter;I am a lion among sheep,drunk on life & ink.
GravityGravity,Autumn wanted to learnhow tofall.So, the galaxy of dead treescoiling in your lungsdevoured her spine.Your gifts,a lifeline wrapped aroundher neck like a noose;an orange and redassisted suicide.& you said "God bless yourheart." like some divinehigher power could forgiveher for loving you.-dp
Her eyes scream fill in the _____.They saidshe has starvinglittle poet fingers,& lungs-filled withthe heroic heartsof nameless protagonists.But, she criestears of Saturnon too-little-sleep nights,& coffee ringed mornings.They call her vanilla.Innocence,much too ripe to fallwith freckles on herwander(lust)shoulder-bladessinging connect-the-dotblues.
ConstellationShe is dream dust,too bitter or wisefor her own good.A timeless dragon's soulsomewhere inside ascaled shell, burningthe silence in her bonesalive, honeysuckle sweet.She collects fireflies only toset them free at 3am,crying to an uncaring moon.& she's begging for the starsto take her away,make this house a homerigged in the sky.To me,She is already naked feverswimming through the cosmos& I orbit her.
NaPoWriMo: Day 10 Have you ever been so cold, Sweetheart, your knees q u a k e d like that Jenga piece that buckled just before your whole foundation t o p p l e d over? I have. & no matter how many times I've restarted your heart, one would think I'd grow tired, eventually; I'm still writing you in poetry (in the most inappropriate of places.) You forced yourself beneath my blades & my fingertips, Licking unstable knees, you were death on my tongue: angry apricot eyes, unforgivable sin scaring my limbs & haunting my dreams.Cardiac arrest & I'd still try to save your fucking life.
Lonely Gods"I wish my body to be a staircaseto heaven." She said, "A conduitof lonely Gods."Swayingpendulum hips, she, shewas made of stardust.- Scars sleepingabove a city of sweet bones, stirringlike sun-stricken scorpions duringhollow painkiller nights,mistaking her redred burnsfor Apollos kisses."Sadly, this body has whispered awaythe last of my secrets."
Shy moon,i've got love carved into honeysuckle wrists,a murder of crows in my throat,& a pack of wolves at my back.i want to know truths behind these myth eyes, &the distant galaxies under your fingertips.but, love me. love me, Love.show me what's beyond Grimm fairy tales& scars.spare me your ribs;this skyscraper heartneeds a place to go.
MutantHear me read itI am a mutant. | My skin does not sallow in the sun and I do not blush jaundice through my cheeks. | I do not have extra fingers, or toes - although my spine; it boasts an ironic vertebrae, it is a long tally of the hearts I have broken and when I straighten my spine the bones Pop out of place. I am out of place. | I do not have a super power, I lack exceptionality in all but my ordinariness. | there is a vengeful bacteria feasting - on my shoulder places; betwee
R.I.P WordsDo you know what it feels like?To feel something, but...be unable to express what it is;to be silent;to fight it alone.I know how much it hurts,but I don't know how to show it.Poetry used to be my refuge,a place where I could be alone -express all my emotions,without being judged.I'm losing it.I can't connect to poetry.Everything sounds so stupid...Everything I write sounds stupid.I have to erase all my feelings,because they don't sound right.The words aren't real.They don't show what I feelAnd maybe this will be the last.Maybe I'm gone:lost of all emotions.I'm truly alone...I used to have poetry.Now I have nothing.
What Poetry is to MeWhat poetry is to me, Is an escape into a mindless sea, A place where I can write endlessly, About the wonders and ruins of this world I see.What poetry is to me, Is this I write accordingly, The words that are crafted so beautifully, By those who let go willingly.What poetry is to me, Is not the same for everybody, That different style, whatever it may be, Keep it going and you'll succeed.
pretty little poet fingersfabricated gods rest between thelanguid crevices ofher fingertips, scribbling profanitiesall over her skin.she's just mismatched bones& blue bruises, telling of forbiddenlove through archaic letters.a tongue made forwanderlust, & eyes madefor the stars,even the devil fears her.
You call it Judgement, We call it SinEmily needs the words to understand that she isn't being unreasonable. She just wants them to mean something and not be a string of words which flows into itself over and over again.She doesn't like her name either. Not because Emily isn't a pretty name but because she would rather be called something she feels like. (She has never quite forgiven her parents for choosing her name for her.) If she could, she would call herself Glass, because that is what she wakes up feeling like every morning. As if crystallised pieces of glass are edible and her insides tingle as she swallows them whole.Emily lets the words call her names sometimes. She writes them on her knees so that she can remember them. Sometimes the words call her a whore, and sometimes stupid, and sometimes a loser and sometimes a tramp (She has never learnt that loving too much is a crime and boys with pretty eyes sometimes lie.). She sits in the bathroom with a pen the colour of blood and writes them carefully
AwayI want to fly away,up, in the sky.down, back to earth.I wantI want to go.Away, anywhere, nowhere, somewhere.Just go,Leave, let go, live.I want to fly away,somewhere I can stay.
You'll Never DieHear me read it!They say that if a writer falls in love with you then you never really die.Instead your body is laid out in its funerial shrouds and moulds are made. Soft impressions of you to be pressed onto the blank faces of future loves.Every time I write of taking comfort in a safe place in a storm, it will be your forearm. Every half-made smile will be on your lips, and every touch will be constructed from the residue beneath your fingernails.When I metaphise of trees' blood, the leaves that give the energy so that a willow can provide shade for those in need, it will be your blood, it will be your light drenched kisses.Every tear on every face will taste of the sweat that you put into keeping me happy. Every soaring song of love will be played through your windpipe, your trachea my instrument of choice.For every time that a hero has the strength to walk on, I will use your feet. I will weld them to my own and walk a mile. Wal
the beauty's in the leavingRead aloud here.sweetheart, let's head out. let'sdrink up the desert asphalt and that last bottleof johnny walker blue--one last toast to the copper sunsets,to the good earth. a pair oftailgate stargazers, you and i:roaming curves across the glove compartment map, untilevery foldline is worn flannel-softand it'd rather stay openthan closed.let's forget route sixty-six. let's forget the numbersand pick up terra cotta dust--breathe in the mojave. let's pretendthat the world's already endedand it's just us.let's leave the door unlockedand gowest.
while reading poetryyou read this poem upside downon your bed, blankets curledon the floor like a sad dog.you hope the new perspectivewill provide new understanding.stop that.stop trying to understand.you are reading this poem by the edgeof the ocean and the birds circle overyour head like a feathery halo.your heart pumps to the beatof the waves which no longer crashbut whisper.you try to catch what they are saying,only catch sea foam in your hair,and sand between your teeth.stop that.stop thinking that everything in this worldis here to teach you something.sometimes things exist just to be.try it sometime,maybe after you put down this poem.inhale,exhale,feel your feet connect to the carpet,lichen roots spreading out.feel your blood flow. know that you are just flashesof electric. remember to come back to realityor don't.but first,you read this poem in a chair in a cafeand you are close enough to touch the personat the next tablebut you don't.skin to skin contact makes yo
Heart:a rebelliontucked awayin her chest.they sayshe's got skinunworthy to writepoetry on,butshe tapes thoseloveliesto her limbsanyway.-dp