Imaginea mind lost in the midst of the forest; dreaming of aworld of heroes.
Lingerhow can i move forward,when the fingerprints of my insecuritiesare still lingering within my chest,pressing against my ribs like piano keys?i am just waiting, for the day,when the saddest parts of meare overcome with songs of serenity.
Interrupting the Fallbrittle carcassesof autumn trees,naked and bare,swaying, contorting, like my feeble frame -bending and breaking, breaking and bending,under the pressure ofthe words i speak to myself: simply cold, and harsh,like an early winter,interrupting the fall.
Insecuritiesi could tell you a million talesof when i stared into the abyss,and drowned in the thrashing wavesof my own torturous thoughts,that the dark crevices of my mindbegan dragging me undera sea of endless insecuritiesimprinting on my bones.
Sleeplessshe spends those sleepless nightscaught in her little worlds,cursed by the moonlight, dying in the twilight –and the darken figure within her dreamsenslaves her,and the stories she spins of courageous menend only in tragedies (melodies are lost).but the little bird which rests in her handsawakens her from within,hope fills her lungs, her heart, her soul –and maybe,when the time arrives and her bird singsthe softest tune,she will become imprisonedby sleep.
Guide MeThe shadows of my past, like trembling fingers, strum the song of warfare with my heartstrings and piano-key-ribs.The ghosts of empty faces, empty shells, waltz to the tune of my miseries.The war raging inside my head, like the waves of an ocean crashing against the sides of skull, cause me to drown in insecurities so deep within my tired vessel.I am tired of this warfare.I am tired of playing the role of some valiant soldier.I am dimming under the power of the shadows, of the ghosts, of the war inside me –And my only beacon is you, dear mother.When the fire rages on, and the music is gone, I will always look to you for guidance – and you will guide me to safety, always ending the war within me.
Alivefarthest from my mindis the thought of turning backand drowning in a sea of thoughts,struggling for air -i do not want my mind possessed,with whispers of ‘never, never’rustling within me like a taffeta skirtacross the floor –instead,i want to be alive,not simply breathing –a survivor, not a victim.
Beautyhe held a mirrorup to her face, andwhispered‘you are beautiful’.‘looks don’tinterestme’ shestated;and he,removing themask of happinesshe wore,whispered inreturn:‘that’s because you’veneverbeen ugly.’
Ocean Captiveplease,awaken from thiscaptivity.you’ve become a servant to the ocean,obeying its every command –succumbing to its demanding beauty,hypnotised by the tranquillity.waves, (rising and falling.)waves, (falling and rising.)you fragile, broken thing,a beautiful golden fool –your frame filling withsalt-water;bones stiffening, skin wrinklingblood turning blue.you’re visiting the ocean’s depths,welcoming the cruel world below;but those lungs of yours are burning,and those soft eyes are questioning –so open (sapphire.)so hopeful, (yet wavering.)please,you ocean captive,open your eyesandswim to the top –and breathe the air,once again.
Our DutyWe swallowed the path homeBecause we were hungry,Though starving is an ongoingStory, an empty bagDancing in the streets,Full of an unfastened voiceWalking through the house,Wind unchained, heart admonished.Heaven fills its eyes, crawls away,That sleeping boat content to followThe vacant waves, intervalsOf dying that we dare not interrupt,And we watch the kind ear shrinkingFrom our charcoal docks; heavenWith a full stomach crawls away.This is what we were put here for.
Pocket UniverseI can smell the typewriters beneath your skinmetallic, halting, smudged vibratowavering note stretched out far beyondthe edge of the universe tucked in your front pocketbreathing out in time with your heartbeats.All along the wall I find notebook pagesold teabags hung for too long, green flakes whirlingwhile you sit in the lean of the willow treeand watch the play that is my lifechew the scenery; the stage collapses with a groan.You pull your scarf inand wrap the scars in burnt umberwhile the show goes onagain.
supernovae"Wouldn't it be great if we could watch a star explode?"It was just like her to say that. The violence of another world's ending was, to her, poetic. If our own sun exploded, I think she'd open up her arms to embrace it."I don't know that I'd want to be that close," I said."That's the cool part. You wouldn't have to be." But she still didn't think we were close enough.That was how we always ended up like this, sitting in a car, driving to nowhere, with nothing but the sound of the tires on the highway and the company of the stars above us. She couldn't sit still long enough to color in the details, so we never did. We just kept driving.She leaned back in the passenger seat and kicked her feet up, staring at the ceiling of the car as if it wasn't there."When stars exploded a long time ago, they painted pictures of them and wondered if the gods were looking down on them. What do you think we'll do when we get to see one?""Take a picture."She shot an expression at me that I
adventurousyou're walking on a tightropeas thin and as brittle asgossamer in the cool rain I dare you totake a barefoot baby stepall misty tundra and windlay in a cobweb hammock be allyour afternoon reverieall your forgotten regretsyou never thought would brighten you dreamof the chances you will takefor it is not an old end--it is a new beginning;it is not a winter melt--but a summer to be
pollenwasp-waisted beautypray into my collarbonelet your snake tongue slitherwith the syllables.i wish for soft-chested nights,and the trickle of champagne down crystal glass.poppy-lips, lull me to sleep,nurse my coiling tongue with yours;tap my scalp like a silent drum,and wind my hair in between your fingerslike broken guitar strings.(serenade me with the buzz of pollen in your kiss.)
wednesday's childit is the third of octoberand i am building a castle for usout of feathers, bird bones, ocean waves and library book pages. anything to keep our feet fromtouching the ground.you are sin, he whispersand his fingers trail cold fire down my side, scorching fleshand freezing bone;brittle pieces of me shatteras they hit the stained linoleum floor.don't wake me from this nightmare.i whisper a nursery rhyme as i walk down ourautumn path.kamikaze leaves fall, trailingfire as they throw themselves fromthe branches, down, down,to cold pavement below.your words echo in my minda constant reminderthat i am sinbut you,you werenevergod
leap through eternityi will sink my teeth into a supernovato let the stardust andcosmosslide down my parched throat andwash over my intestines,like a pebbledrowning in the sound--
the arrangement of astral cordsThis is how I'm built up, you see;stars trapped in the linings of mystomach andthe regurgitation of meteorsthunderingthe chambers of a heart--deconstructs of kaleidoscope-stainedglass.This is the reason why my throatbubbles like witch's brew--the insides of my body form monsoons thatscratch my lungs anddisintegrate my windpipe,an off-pitched dissonancelike wind chimeswhenever I try to shout or speak oreven whisper. (and they tell me that you could sing the moon to sleep when you cast your faithful nothings on a star)[and, no, I'm not some kind of genietrapped in an expanse of dustrather than a lamp]Darling, I was never caught betweena collision of star-crossed galaxies,nor an accident between the big bangand a black hole.I was born a star-child.and, no, they could never be beautiful.Yet, I could never be as graceful.I could never carve my face the way gods do, and
BreakfastYou told me she had died in a hospital bedWith her glasses onSo that she could see Death properlyAnd I picked away at my breakfast,Which was pancakes and strawberries,Trying to imagineHer squinting ahead at HimWith her dying eyesightThe pancakes were dry and store-boughtAnd my plate was a pool of cold syrupAnd flavorless,Half-eaten strawberriesWhen I had finished,And my hands were stained with the sweet bloodAnd you took my place,Picking away at soggy crumbs.
a hospital bird with soot in her lungsshe slept through a car crashthat almost killed her.through whitewhite walls,and dreamswhere her lover dies.nobody thought she'd make it,but she woke up a few months laterwith flowers in her hairand ash in her airway;trying to remember how to start all over,but forgetting to remember how to live.fall slipped from her open eyesand winter crawled in for a long hibernationof not-quite-cold-enough-for-snow.to her the clouds looked sickand pale like they mightlet everything inside them out,but she opened up wide instead,spilling blood where there was none to be spilled.her heart slipped down the streetand with unsteady handsshe stitched in a bird and cut off its wings.
i don't think im alive enough to die yet.we used to play russian roulette on dingy street corners,cigarettes hanging from soot-blackened lipsand morphine running rampant through our drugged up systems.i remember how i was always shot.you ran away when i didn't dieand left me to bleed outonto the cold concrete.but you don't understand-dolls and wallflowers are empty inside,and hearts constructed hastily with broken matchsticksdon't beat true. it's just dull thumpingin a hollow chest cavity.(and even the best dentists can't fill this one up.)
rising from the riverit's one of the drowned days; those that draglike hooks through a river,turning dead thingsbelly-up on your shores. listen.i am listening. to name it lover,this ripening ache stretchedbetween us; to knowwhat it is you carry. youare a deep silence gardenedby ghosts; hangingfrom the hinges of a sprawledelsewhere. (they are herestill, pacing the long brimof your memory aroundto the long brim of mine.)i too have been drowning.if not by one stone,then another. the autumn quietof the bodyin bed. this language named skin,beast, temple, home. underwater,you open your mouth; amnioticvoid of unspeaking, horizontaltrespass from dark to dark.lover, i would kissyour ghosts. the spinning prayerof my mouth taking their poisoninto mine. secretsblooming there, blooming darklike strangers. we sleep now. dreamourselves against them, dancing. promisethe space of your breath worth morethan its abandoning, the static stainthat crawls you out to sea.low, circl
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.
.i dream of drowning inlakes, belly up, a petalshaped bruise of your thumbon either wristi dream that what laysin my bed is so muchmore terrifying than whatlurks underneath it
t.they say that opposites attract, but that's not really true;we both hate our misery and i'm learning to love you.but you know what they sayabout writers;they'll suck you dryand only use youto write about. carve your nameinto poems (not intoskin-- that's not "in" right now,i guess), butmaybe i'm all out of wordsand youare all i want to read about.
Crown of ThornsShe wakes up with red staining her pillowand the taste of blood like iron in her mouthIt stains her teeth and leaks from her lips, and as sherinses her mouth out, she can’t help thinking thatit’s better than dirt and ashesit feels like she’s wearing a nooseof broken promises and shattered glassthat tightens around her throat with every day that passesShe nails a smile to her faceand doesn't let herself think the word dying
ocean lungsyou weigh something like gravityin my tired expanse. you aresand;(my once splendid mountain)my love is the oceanthat has worn you down.with my monstrous tongue,i pulled you in.as you fall,sweeping peacefully into the depthsand filling each crevice,i am learning to inhale shores.some would say i'm suffocatingand bring me buckets of air (only to have itescape my slippery grip).no, the tides need something heavyto make of hera home.
steps.humans were made to run barefoot.we were made to climb mountains, fighting gravityand to fly across stony deserts and dangerous forests.we were not made for these,these bastardizations of heels and soles and skin.humans were made to run barefoot,becausewe were always meant to leave traces of ourselveson everything we touched, every inchof the world that we would walk.we were always meant to take with usthe scars left by the walls we would climb,the bruises left by the falls we would take,the hard skin and the instant familiarity left by the paths we would forge alone.so worry not.you were never meant to feel the skin of this earththrough designer heels and combat boots.you were only ever meant to feel the weight of yourself,a breathing, bleeding, humancharged with electric emotions and spinningout of control upon the ground,meant to break yourself on the roads you pavedand the dreams you wrought in sto
Soldiercigarette between his lips,tar-induced lungs struggling to inflate –a soldier (a man)struggling to make senseof a warwhere men are only equalwhen they're dead.