To those who should live when our stars collide,
Suffocating innocence is but a dying light.
Labyrinth of the Physical FormYou dare to wander throughout the catacombs
And search every scum-filled corner
In search of something you may never find.
For the blood dripping down the walls will stain your white shirt
And the grim underneath will wear your feet down.
You'll become entangled in the tendrils of my faults,
And the sins will ensnare you in a death grip.
The air is suffocating
And the walls drip with poison of the mind.
The inner passage
To my heart, somehow still beating,
Is not worthwhile,
Yet you insist on finding the me
That's still lost in a dream.
You shine so bright
In my darkness,
I don't want to put you out.
Burning IgnoranceIf you cracked my heart open like an egg,
You'd see all my love that would seep through the cracks.
You might also see the not-so-pleasant stuff
Dripping like tar onto your unblemished white skin,
Burning it raw in its midst.
I want so desperately
For you to know
That I could never hate you
Because you're that type of flawless,
That I could never be lucky enough
To have love all my not-so-pleasant stuff.
I'll keep it all inside,
Because ignorance is bliss
And you're blissful.
IntrepidI have to let go,
If I don't jump,
I may never fly.
And the fragments are carried in the embrace of the wind.
I've never felt
So safe and sound
Anywhere else but here,
A tear escapes
From the corner of someone's eye
As the ground grows closer.
I have lived a thousand lives
In this moment.
A smile is etched onto my face
And the tear hits the ground.
Water Runs in My Veins I break the surface and feel the waves embrace my into their icy, yet soothing arms. Once I am completely immersed, every inch of my skin tingles. My bones seem to melt to match the temperature of the water, and my movements become fluid. I deftly plunge deeper, feeling both the cold and the warmth rush past me with every stroke. The pulse of the ocean beats against my skin; it is alive. I open my eyes to take in the scene. I can't see clearly, the images are blurred. Still, I can make out soft hues of color. I reach out and feel the hard, smooth surface of a rock, resting amongst others. I feel a rigid plant, and my hand even grazes the backs of a couple of slimy fish. With each connection made by my senses, I feel a rush of adrenaline. I am truly unlimited when I'm under the sea; my fears have been washed away by the white waves.
Growing excited, I continue to venture deeper into the dark depths. Soon, I feel wisps of seaweed brush up against me, tickling
Depicting LunacyThe moon leaks through the blinds,
Casting a shrine on the wall.
Light blue starlight
And my hands are perspiring
As they twist in the sheets.
My eyelashes graze the pillow,
And my heart drops to my stomach.
The Fault in the Silver-liningDid you know
That when my eyes are clouded
And my mind is empty
I can hear the clock ticking,
Counting each worthless second gone by.
Do matter how hard I try,
My heart won't beat in unison
With the indefinite continuation
Did you know
That when I lay with my ear close to the ground
I can hear the pulse of the earth beneath me.
It slowly spins,
Yet filled with the dead.
Did you also know
That when the blood rushes through my body,
I can hear the wind tremble and quake
With a familiar fear.
Because it knows its fleeting existence
Will slip through the world's fingers.
Did you know
That I'm afraid of that too?
enduring biopoiesis getting over it
in quick gasps of rabbit fur
and valley tangles
we would have
had such darling
strung out on fake roses
floating on our sun-striped backs
but we're so
some world-children cutting
out, tuning in yet
And in this dark harvest of season
My life has completely lost reason,
For which or against to decide.
All lost in a savage and endless, bleak tide
In sadness and in kindness
In light and in darkness.
In a boat made of hope
I shall sail to tomorrow,
In a winding hurricane
Made of treachery and sorrow.
There's a spear, endless, and colossal spear...
Piercing, slashing though my head.
Starting somewhere in heaven,
Ending somewhere in hell.
Fighting, burning, crying, crashing.
Are the armies within.
In my head they are all thrashing.
On the heaven's and hell's whim.
To be light or to be darkness.
A perpetual array.
It's not merely my choice,
But the choice of the way.
It's an option of the voice,
It's a thin line of gray.
Is it a choice forced by fate,
Is it a pre-set time and date?
Or a choice to which I myself sway?
But here's our story anyway .
"Nothing that I do will matter.
As all things will merely shatter!"
All my hopes thus darkness scatter,
As it shoves me a decree.
As it si
san gabrielSometimes you dream about a burning grocery store and it means nothing.
This is me standing in a hallway realizing that the people who left
aren't showing up for dinner. That's why it's only a theory.
Look at these streetlights, look at you wearing that wreckage on your face,
soaked in radio. I'm never here anymore, you say, What kind of epilogue is this.
To white windmills flickering across the coast, to your dogs
barking like shootouts behind the gate. A forest flashes against a bridge
and headlights bleach our hills. I used to be jolted
by the finality of these things, but now I'd say that our people's poetry
is best understood as a consequence; not the revolver but a stained carpet,
a note on the kitchen counter. How absurd, that the species blooms in catastrophe,
how improbable to survive the lottery of having never blinked toward the shipwreck,
to find an abandoned planet and fill it with chairs. Here in a parking lot in California,
the hospital glowing around us, we roll a blunt
Cheshire Cat-Pandora Hearts
Eyes the color of crimson
Clothes black like nightingales
Chalky white skin
With disinterested gaze
Hair dark blood and disarray
Claws covered with malice
The kitty smells evil bringers
To hurt its lost master
The calm but volatile cat
Protects its masters harsh memories
From the master herself
But you job is done
Go to sleep
And perish within your maze
Made by the Abyss
david and goliath.He passes under
the dying streetlamps'
darkening splashes on his face,
against the rooftops.
The tarmac, painted with his footsteps,
white lines of vertebrae
tickle along its back.
Lovely glass, shattered fragments
ruffle the curb of the pavement,
strands of rainwater
whisper along the gutter
in hymnal honesty; and sunlight seems swallowed
by the swollen beast of night.
prickle at the back of his memory,
a nervous pattern of speech,
syllables of iambic chattering
teeth against the cold:
the hotel window, shining with
the gaze of a thousand tourists' wonderment,
is where his own eyes rest,
as if the world is born anew
and love-songs spike the evening air
his life-tousled hair. He
walks on, passes on,
a stranger in a foreign land;
the moonlight seems
to turn about him, embrace his form,
a lonely touch, not quite animate in its caress,
but his love was the colour
of seawater on gravel,
and he would not take the taste of her brea
Not My Kind of Fairy TaleDon't give me the Knight
Whose armor shines so bright.
Give me the Knight,
Whose armor is dull and broken.
Whose horse is weary,
Whose heart is heavy.
Give me the Knight who looks at the dragon with pity,
For that dragon has done nothing,
And is just as imprisoned as the princess he guards.
Don't give me a princess who only wishes to be saved,
By that Knight whose armor shines so bright.
Give me the princess who wishes to escape yes,
But wants to free the dragon,
Who does not wish to marry her savior--
Nay, give me the princess who wants to explore,
Who wants to live and to learn.
For the years of imprisonment only made her yearn,
Not for the Knight whose armor shines bright,
But to see the world and live in the light.
Do not give me the evil dragon,
Whose soul purpose is to give that bright Knight something to fight.
No, give me the dragon who is weary,
Who longs for the freedom of the sky,
Whose leg is burdened with chains,
And whose heart aches for the princess he must guard,
UnawareWhen you are two and five and ten
you are unaware ––
of the cactus in the windowsill,
how, fragile, each quill bends
and breaks and falls apart.––
Twelve years later, on a Tuesday,
you dream about a boy
who bumps his head
on an iron slate and you wake
in a cold sweat.
You are twelve when you are
always bumping shoulders.
Twenty-two years of Thursday.
There is nothing at all.
And you wonder (and
you wonder why)
each time you wake.
The cactus in the window bleeds
with you when you bump it.
No one ever mentioned
frightened things bite.
So you have always been unaware.
I think of youAs suns set afar and mountains flame
And eagles, turning, turn to fire
Ash cold, alone I lie
And think of you.
you can't have it allBut you can have eating wild grapes and their skin like beetle wings
cocooned in bruises. You can have swings that go so high you kick
a hole in the clouds. You can have chickens following you through the front door
and the cat’s gift to say, Look, I am taking care of you.
You can have happiness, but tempered as
your first taste of wine when you hid your puckering face
because you were eight years old and dangerous.
You can have a touch you blush for, ferret hands dancing,
small and terrifying and knowledgable.
You can have an aspiration of “us” held on one stool leg, darting breaths but
never admitting to dreams, to a stew of practicality.
You can talk to her, sometimes,
and even mean something.
You can have the book you stole after she stumbled,
and “that” word sank into your hands. You can’t cure cancer,
but you can have two sets of spoons in the same sink
although she’s only touched the one you lent her,
the one you didn’t expe