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?
there's something fatal about coughing up verse.i got written up for writing poetry on the desks
i don't think they liked the language i used
when i wrote how my heart was beating
like headboards against the walls of people fucking
at 3 am to the sounds of joy division
whenever you read me paintings at dawn.
they were going to send me to the counselor,
but i said my therapist probably wouldn't like that,
so they just let me go.
but this saturday, when i'm cleaning lives off of every desk in school,
i'll just be thinking how much i'd rather be sitting on your roof
and laughing when we argue about rimbaud
and sighing as we start to die.
ElenaElena followed me home
from work one night
and stayed for tea and eggs,
and all that minimum wage
and wars between the sheets
She said she was a goddess,
daughter of a carpenter
with her long red, red hair
and eyes as warm as hazel nuts
on Christmas morning.
Her hands spoke braille
across my back
and made the silence
of Sunday into a prophecy.
She left one October
just like she said she would
when the fireflies
had turned their wings to ash.
And I found revelation
in red, red wine
and cheap red, red fabric
that came off in my hands
WineHead on a patisserie table
with a wine-scented napkin
that I scrawled your name all over
in the hopes it might necromance
or just romance you
to this place, at this time,
so we could be together again
and although the guitarist knows
that I'm broken beyond blue
I keep reaching for the bottle
in the hopes it might recreate
or just replicate
the polar opposite of translucencycradled in the echo
of a cloudburst,
the earth curls invisible fingers
about my achilles' tendon
she cries that i am not
intended for the clouds,
that my mind must not wander
between their susurrous concaves
furious with her insistence,
untether myself from the soft,
diaphonous comfort of the heavens
down into the weight of gravity.
listless green blades welcome my soles,
stimulating a tickle,
a sneeze; i never have done well
she is calling for me,
soft-tongued and crisp in her
& i am sorely tempted
i am not for the soil.
she becomes my inhale;
my alveoli shudder
beneath her force--
i am not for the air, either.
i stand beneath her onslaught
until she tires,
her molten heart beating beneath my toes;
unable to woo me with her facets,
cloaking me in one last attempt,
a final shadow.
my pores bloom
& i r
I'm too poor to feel so middle class.My teeth still ache from the dentist,
but it doesn’t stop me from nibbling
the cheese danish I bought at Kroger
this morning, warmed by thirty
seconds in the microwave. My mug
of hot chocolate is too big, and I
drink it all. The washer is on its last
cycle; the cat is purring at my feet.
Netflix is background noise
to clacking keys, typing a transcript
of middle class morning that I’ll later
call a poem or a turning point,
wondering when I became such an adult.
to the ghosts with you, my deari came not to be kissed,
or to have myself cradled
in the curve of a throat,
but to be broken,
to be diminished
by your lack of affection
& over indulgence of sexualization.
uneducated in your intent,
found myself left entirely whole
& incapable of the fury
i had sought to sow between the
ridges of my aching ribs.
muddy waterthe sun rises late now. or hardly ever.
or belligerent carmine on the underbellies of plants.
a shot of sleep to the head, a boxing glove punch.
the metaphorical rooster crows with the awful clamour of its lonely breath.
the thing is, i can substitute the body.
the thing is, the slit
is a fantastic shade of orange
i saw god but he says you still need to get a fucking job
the thing is, i am bathtub water and rotten leaves.
and the taste of power on the morning wind,
a wet newspaper
with the headlines of a presidential divorce.
there is power in the young eagle
hissing at passersby from its trashcan throne.
i know one thing: