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.
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.
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?
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: 1I’ve got 30 daysto defy Icarus:teach this rose thorn hearthow to fly.[ All I want to be is the space between the stars. ]But, I’m here,ripping holes in blank pageswhile nursing nebulae knuckleswith white plastered walls.
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.
NecromancyShe thinks there are nebulaein the rough of my gutter bones,some stargazing sanctuaryfor lonely outcasts to lay their heads.I am but a car crash,spellboundinside eyelids,& red inked correctionson crosshatched skin.Made up of moans,the clutching of bedsheets;I am contemplatingripping my ribs apart& provingI never had a heart at all.But my moon shy love;she is determinedto try & wake the dead.
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.
RelapseIt’s like countingSaturn’s rings,hash marksalong your limbs -remembering a timewhen‘just one more’made you feel better.- & you’re sitting therewondering whyDraco, stuck in limboalways looks like he’sfalling.-dp
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.
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.
Poetry,Poetry,it’s like cultivating a greenhousewith broken fingers.-dp
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.
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.
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.
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.
LiliyaBright-eyed,bird-bonedwhisper girl;dark-dressed,moon-backedmistress of light.
The DescriptionHe drinks coffeelikeits the art of seduction,and quite honestlywhen he does itit might as well be.You'll catch himfrowning into itas he hastily scribblesin a notebookwindswept words,his attemptsto make the worldbetter.El cambia a españolen la mitad del fraseand I don't thinkhe even realises.He loves the worldso wildlythat to be a part of itleaves you feelingstarstruckand astonished.He makes the world seembiggerto contain his loveand when he smiles,I smile,because he reminds methat there is hopeto be had.For the world,for myself.For people like us.He is soil,(not pebble).Salt of the earth,the rootsof everything goodthat will grow fromknowing him.He is a ramshackledunintentional artist;waking up tothe realisation thathe is an innovator;and that his passionfor peoplecould change the world.
Losing my BreathIt's 2amand the calling birds are hatching in my heart, I feel it crack and they emerge. Feel them drilling on my ribs, the steady anxious thrum of a flight risk waiting to happen.It's 3am and I can't breathe, memories of you are nesting in my throat and now I can't work around them. It's cutting off the circulation, and my frantic heart tries to keep on.It's 5am and tears scratch their directions into my cheeks, they flounder and meanderand they erode. My skin and soul is scraped down layer by layer to nought.It's 8am and another day is heralded by the angry flutterings in my chest. I try to swallow my pride, dam the tears and crawl through the dark again.Coughing up bloodand inhaling iron filings(The remainder of what used to be my life).
GrowthI remember the day I caught him 'gardening'. His cheeks stained cherry with the brisk wind that trotted beside him up and down the smothered garden path. He dropped a seed as his feet brushed past each other. Up and down he walked, a solemn lieutenant. I asked him what he was doing and those wide sky eyes reflected the ice as he told me he was trying to grow flowers for his mother. I looked at the seeds spilt on the snow and told him that they could never grow in these circumstances. I will never forget the clench in my heart when he responded, with a child's tongue; "I know".
WallpaperShe leaves the window to let the rain in. She watches the lazy river form and fall, seeping into the designer wallpaper and staining it. She watched the rain tug at the seams of the walls and imagined the room coming undone around her. She imagined the ceiling caving in and crushing her. She lay still and watched the rain fall. She lay still and tried not to breathe, to burn, to break.
bad days.on my bad days,i open notebooks like bibles and hold pens like lifelines. i keep opening the book of my memories just to see if it still leaves a bruise.tonight,i am covered in the bruises of your hand tonight, your ghost is in my bed. i can't sleep there,so again- again i find myself miles from homewishing on stars i can't see and spitting memories into the ocean like watermelon seeds. i sit on my longboard like driftwood and send my shivers into textslike letters i never should have mailed.on my bad days,i wear cuts like ropeburn,like i just don't know when to let go. i get lost inside the sadness and hold tea thats long since gone coldas hours escape like small birds set free. i forget to open the blindsand paint my fingernails black and stare at the too-big numbers aligned on the scale i can't stop stepping on.my th
A Game We Hate to Play:A Game We Hate to Play:I stand amongst a screaming crowd,And you'll hear them shout it out."All this shit just isn't fair,Life's a game but we don't care!"-Hear me, do you think I'm lazy?When I talk I'm crazy,Sorry I'm just hazy, but I-Still think that I'm like Jay-ZRappin' here with Stacy;The boys they call her baby; Haha...And we're playin' this song for the killers,The ones with no hope workin' shop at the tillers.And if you think that we're just the fillers,You wouldn't be wrong; we're just grain at millers - haha!-All this shit just isn't fair,Life's a game but we don't care!We're gonna change the game tonight,C'mon let's turn out the light!All this shit just isn't fair,Life's a game but we don't care!We're gonna change the rules tonight,C'mon let's turn out the light.-Lights off, everybody nights off,Walking through these streets of -People drinkin' Smirnoff;Everybody's sorrows,Prayers for tomorrows,Whisper as they borrow
lessons in surrenderi.She wished to be dressed in poetrybut she didn’t understand thatimagery fades and that metaphorsare too easily forgotten.ii.She asked why I didn’t utilize myalliteration eyes—why I hid the tag‘ hello my name is: writer ’beneath San Francisco baysand rotting ink grenades,still in dead crusade.iii.I broke pencil shavings inskybound veins, just to tastethe wordsand I bled like a sinnerfor mere dreams of some redemption.“I’m only a poet of capitulation”
Broken Sleep, Red LipstickI am only an insomniac when it rains. The pitter patter of the raindrops reminds me of the pitter patter of cat paws.(He liked to sleep at my feet when I could barely think, just to make me feel better. I think you used to tell him to.)I wish I could wrap your memories around my spine and wear them as a backbone, because they are stronger than the arch my broken spined back seems to have developed of late.(Spines are oddly brittle, and a lot like wrists. Easy to break and forever to heal.)But I cannot depend of any of that anymore. So I wear red lipstick and high heels and go to parties and tell strangers how amazing they are to be wearing red lipstick and high heels and how different they must be to come to this party instead of the other one.(All because you would hate parties and think nightlife is so stupid.)It is what I do with my insomnia. Because my spineless back, the memories of you incessantly looped in my sleeplessly addled brain and the raindrops
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.
NaPoWriMo: Day 6It’s hard enough to love her skin on good days,feeding encouragement to wide eyed strangersas if to fill the emptiness in her own gut;she lives on a diet of sad stories &starving lips.[Sometimes,you must shed your own skinto save it.]