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.
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 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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Sun Child,I am freezing& I am hungryfor fever’s lips-her inky fingerspurginga dry stomach.My body is an ocean,my limbs, but oars.My tongue & teeth,a life raftkeeping this madnessfrom sinking into blue.Offering up 102 degreesof skin;You would thinkI had something to say.
I'm talking myself in circles,I screamed,"There is nothingwrong with me, not a damnthing.”I wanted to believethe big dipper on my armmeant something morethan sun marks & kisses.But, how can I trust wordsthat slip through my teethas easy as breathingwhen this starhas only ever learnedhow to f a l l ?
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.
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."
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.
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.
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."
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.
respiration.i am shipwrecked fever;kerosene sleep,& she is denied oxygen.i taste sirens on the shoreof her collarbones,& salt-licked sea limbs.but, it's the natural disasterwrapped around her coral spinethat really has my lungs s p i n n i n g.
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
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.
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.
shhhwe are lurking too close to jesus,on the empty edge of a lightless stage,curved nails digging into the skin of our pale palms.he asks as an afterthoughtdo you believe in something holy? and i think yes,i think this is what i believe in.
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
skinwalkershe was a vicious prion,anomalous & infectious—my fractured mind was theperfectly unsuspecting host.i was so ashamed of life& you had all the answers."don't let me go,"she hissed each night,coating my flesh in adespondent cancer.(it was just too damn easy to grasp your viral hands.)i know my ribcage is almost on empty& my heart is converting to toxic waste,but i still have a feverish serum in my veins& a voice not yet conquered by broken bones.your plague of malevolenceshall never govern me again.
here is my heart, and here is my home.i am done writing aboutblood. you can find mein the "new beginnings" isle, splashed with scar tissue and pale skin--i amwhole. dear child, open youreyes: there are stars, a galaxy, andthere is breath in your lungs. the past is neverforgotten, but you have lived through it,swam through it andmaybe died a little through it, but youcame out on top. when this winter ends, itwill end harshly;but spring comes every year,and i hope that youremember that;i hope you open your eyesto rain and i hopethat you fall in love with it, and i hopethat you let life movelike i had to.
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.
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.
Heart:a rebelliontucked awayin her chest.they sayshe's got skinunworthy to writepoetry on,butshe tapes thoseloveliesto her limbsanyway.-dp