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.
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.
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.
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 ?
NaPoWriMo: Day 9More respect for hungry lions, than man's greedy fingers,she really, really doesn’t want to write this poem.As she forgets how to use words (on most days,)relying on curses like casting some witch's spell-with only ten dollars to her name.The oldest daughter:she’s still somewhere in the middle,filed under miscellaneousbecause they had no other way to categorize her.Getting her first gravestone at three-she prayed not to the gods,but to the lily stargazers in her palms.One day she would become a bird, fly south & never come back.She doesn’t want her deathlaid out like a fast-foodrestaurant menu-so, how does she begin to explainthe greenhouse cultivating in her breastbone?
NaPoWriMo: Day 2sometimes,i have thissudden urge to cutmy hair.most of the time,i just wish I were anythingother than me.a rocket ship, a bird-the sweet flavored smokeI promised my girlfriendthese briar patch lungswould not in.hale.instead,i have fallen in lovewith the strangest of things-eyes that intimidategodless boys.the way my scarsplay hide and seekwith her hands. -the love lettersthat start and endwith kissespressed against limbs.i make promisesi know i can not keep.but if i were a liari would say i was tiredof writing to the stars.
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.
NaPoWriMo: Day 3Today,I wanted to pluck my ribsfrom out my chest &hang them about my houselike wind chimes-dangled brutality;a taunt for hungry wolves.I didn’t grab for sharp objects,I just wrote about it.I never knewI wanted to be a writeruntil I lost something.I still don’t know what that is-(my mind, maybe.)But words,they fill gapsthat had no storiesto keep themfrom hollowing outin the first place.
NaPoWriMo: Day 7Watch out.She’s a devil,that one.Glad for her spine,& her teeth,even God hands fear her.For she has arched her backfor a flower-womanwith sin drippingfrom her fingers-who taught herhow to laughlike the stars.
Poetry,Poetry,it’s like cultivating a greenhousewith broken fingers.-dp
9729 kilometers away, to be exact.i have these bones like flowers-fragile and finely plucked,these lily stargazersare kissing ocean beds,making love to sirenswhile yearningfor a taste of herwander(lust).i want to tape maps to my limbs-throw caution to the windas i gather upevery love letter receipt,from every false attempti ever wrote her& forget for just a momentthat even stilllight-years away,she does not love me.
NaPoWriMo- Day 5She used to try and catch butterfliesuntil she realized their beautyrubbed off on her fingers;but she will always be loving youwith those digits.20 years from nowwhen even the love on her armsis unrecognizable.
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.
to the starsI’ve got this arrowcurled around my fingerlike Apollo’s heart& your nicknamesengraved on the insideof my lungs.I don’t want to writepretty little stanzasor pick at the seamsof your poetrylike some deadbeatpsychology major -I want toscribble profanitiesall over everything;shoot down your moon& wear herlike a charmaround ink stainedwrists.I want to take you to the stars, & leave you there.
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.
-this windowpane lonelinesshas devoured too many starsmaking love to ocean beds.-dp
LiliyaBright-eyed,bird-bonedwhisper girl;dark-dressed,moon-backedmistress of light.
palm readingsi exist in the city limits because i want the wind to make me frail.fragile like a ghost,a sorry sin i promise to abstain but inevitably commit.my bus fare is a kick down memory lane.i walk instead.he told me i spun words that dissolved on the tonguebefore he even had the chance to taste them.he called me sugar like a midday ritual,dressed me in compliments more fit for kings than commoners.i turned complacent; comforted by new beginningsand frightened by sudden endings.my mother never taught me how to avoid heartache.she only told me that my heart was a gold mineand i should never let fake jewelry lay over it.once, out of spite, i showed her my palms and asked what she saw.she told me that in this world full of practice, there was no time for games.when i showed him, he said that i am overworked.neither understands.now, it is the purgatory between autumn and winter that sinks my guts.the waiting room lacks couches and candle scents.the smiles are either plastic or
mutethings have been easierwithout words &we pretend neither of us care;we stuttersplutterlaughing and chokingon puns &when you bend me over nounsi screamloudergrowlmore fluent.the words are there waiting to be spokenme . you . lovemy dear, we've been mutefor so longspeak to me.
by association.don't shoot the messengershe told herselfbut her aim was unsteadyand the wind blew her off targetthey were all rotten anyway.
SurrealismThree a.m., andGod is in my bathtubagain—sipping whiskeyhallelujahs;backlit bya freshwater moonin the mother-of-pearl sky.
A half visible mirage rots in broad daylightI think I fell down a holeThat was six feet too deepAnd I don’t knowIf I want to climb out anymoreBecause it’s so wonderful down here where the starsNo longer hold meaningAnd voices can no longer be heardOver the sound of decaying matterWaiting to be recycled
preludesi.blue rose into the city backdroplike balloons, a million for themorning sun prelude.ii.i've not slept a dreambut i have cried a salty faceand letters spilled like beansinto my moleskine,almost as virgin as i once waswith few stories between my covers.iii.the kettle's belly boilslike my head upon a pillow.iv.i am guilty for rarely finishing my teaeven when i use the small mugs;pour, rinse, repeat.v.perhaps today i will play dead.vi.perched behind my blindsit dawns on me that i am surroundedby walled neighbours, strangers,they're just preludes to loversthe way i am alwaysprelude to the one.
starsi pray that someday soon, in a lonesome winter, your bones will cease to ache.regrets will no longer break your morals like glass figurines,you will not ask God to pardon your sins.you will forgive yourself.i hope, for your sake, that your butterfly-flutter eyeswill only be dampened with tears worthy of shedding.your glory will shine out of those 2 crystal windowsand you will finally know what freedom feels like.one day, in the midst of a dreary december, i wish for your wings to open wideand carry you to heights far past any you have ever experienced.your lungs will become blooming forestswith snippets of poetry carved into the tree trunks.you will no longer be broken, but instead, crack into miniscule piecesof yourself until all of the grace & goodnessburied deep within the crevices of your fleshis soaked up by the atmosphere.i am awaiting the day that i can finally lay next to someone i call lover and point up at the stars to show himfragments of you scatte
NymphTranslucent asa dragonfly wing—her hair fansin the water, andthe sun bleeds.
Muse:She corrodes star shapes intothe hearts of sleeping poets,slowly, methodically.