and so she broke his heart afterhe stopped buildingglass houses of trust for her to s h a t t e r
half-empty.she-devils lend me their smiles;all the other ones i haveare tearing at the seamsall that's left of me isblack ink & blacker bloodmixed with the bittersmell of rubbing alcohol but she still snakes her arms around the nebulae collapsing in my freckled lungs bec
i am worth it.and if this feelingonly lasts for tonight,i'll swallow the night;rearrange the starsto map theletters of my namebecause i am worthevery second it takesto let the world know i'm alive
it isn't the cigarettes.maybe my lungs are black becausei've only everinhaled the second-hand smokeof your lies
make forevers in memories.we are not foreversdancing on the borderlinesof infinty we are temporary but our memoriesare everlasting so do not hesitate to create them
i don't call my scars black holes. even though my scars are swallowingme down their spiny throats i continue to call them stars because you cannotsee black holes( & these wounds are far from invisible )
three stages before an eclipse.i.my tears are scalding, bringing back old wounds from the dead& letting them paradedown my wrists[ and my thighsand my stomach ]like my pain is somefestival the demonsin my mind canall enjoyii.my muse is sick& i'm beginning to seestars for what they really are: burningballs of gas that i will never reachiii.never before have bridgesscreamed at me so loud"you should really try to fly"& if i stand close enoughi can almost hearthe countdown burningthough my ears 321
judging books by (shitty) covers.my cover has beentorn,ripped, & replacedso that i could fool you into thinkingthat there are onlyhealthy thoughtsinside thesecrisp pagesbut even thoughi did a shit job& you can still seethe frayed edges ofbad nights and bad daysand bad weeks peekingthrough my translucent skin,you glance at meand think "yeah, she's okay"
don't rein us in.jarring feelings with tight lids will not make them any sweeter.we are not fruit jam waiting for the winter season.we are messy hurricanes, & bottling us up will only make thedamage more severe
Poetry AnalysisI was given poetry Told to pinher arms and legsdown on my paper; college ruledDissect HerIt's procedure Take my pen & tear her openExpose her limbsAnd rearrange her vertebrae to fit my selfish needs But what the teacher doesn't knowis I already let mine escapeClutching to the secrets that still remain inside her Where they belong
post-conflagrationoh, darling, look at us;a crooked collection ofashen-faced chaotic nobodies,struggling to stand straight.we used to burn so bright,but we're just now learningwhy no-one loves fireworksafter they've gone out.
sycamore rotting.his daughter felllike dynasties prominent.to indulgence sheathingitself over what was left--she didn’t seem too younguntil she was far too old.and he only livedfor the namelessness,twisting notions into his embryo,vile and volatile.vulnerable riddled her smileand venerable, she was never.she wasn’t ever, nor was iin this noir motion pictureflickering sense(lessness) of reality.the loud lights of this filmcovering my eyes burninto the quiet;hushed because they’re staticbut the looks are thunderous.the tempest tempts usand we take the baitfaster than the firstlightning strikehit you in the chest.i was no criminalbut i have committedmany injusticesand lost timewasn’t the only thingi kidnapped.but you were a fugitivei could not catch.
post mortem.Some days,we grow old:our memoriesfolded,packed away;little love letters,dated and sealed,a correspondenceof youth,dumpedon the roadside,incongruouswith the fag-endsand drifting crisp-packetsof the fast lane.
.the sun did notkiss my skinyesterday, he sleptlateshowed hisface around noonand then went backto bed; theearth exhaled
.horrors prey ondreams, and sleep cando nothing about ita lamb straysfrom the flock;a wolf grins
Languidly Losing LifeLanguidly Losing Lifeconstant consciousnesscreates compositions.blended by burning bacterium;deteriorating domiciliation.downgrading dewdropsof once owned objects, thought totell talesabout all actual activity.
these confessionsweren't meantto be hers(these whispers should have listened should have stopped mid-sentence)but the paper cranesfrom yesterdayhad been flownthrough her windowby handsthat weren'ther own(her shadow should have listened should have flittered away in the sun)and she wishesthey won't evercome home
...the contrast only makes me love you moreI trace constellationsacross your arms, andin the wake of my fingertipsrainbows blossom.Among the spread of colorI can't find a single shadethat makes us clash.
now i see the stars.there was a time when icouldn't catch my breath whenever ithought about you , (crippled lungs and-boy, you hit me like an asteroid,there's a crater on my chest now that I can't ever seem to fill,even withoceans of my tears cried onnights when you couldn't be there to sing me to sleep.thirty two poemless days after you joined the constellations,i walked out into the yard and howled to the empty sky,andfor a moment i was Gaea, rivers running down my cheeks,weighted to the ground andburied in myself, butwhere there is no light there are no shadows, andsometimes, i wonder if i miss me.yes, yes i do.i may not see the moon, but
dead from the neck upto the thousands of souls who havedied beneath my skin, picked pink,and those i would not be able tosleep without, for they are the staticvoices in my seashell ears - i amsorry, but not sorry enough to stop.should i scrape my illness frombeneath my nails, there would be noone to wrap my feeble body in theflesh of freckled stars and barkwarnings so softly. this is all i have.there are people who haven't seenthe war here at home, the bloodlapping the shores of our pride.and their eyes don't shine like mine,but their hands leave bruises againstmy temples, peeling the skin from myback like poorly held wallpaper.hope has fled and left me with anempty nest. god trembles when iwake to see another day. no onehopes that sometime i'll be able tolaugh with my heart on my tongue,and they sure as hell don't wipe thesadness that drips down my chinand hallowed neck.for now, my ribs are shut tight likevenetian blinds, my mind is heldtogether with safety pins, and mystomach
My Door Is OpenThey say our eyesAre the windows to our souls.I wouldn't know about that,But I do thinkOur voices are the doors.
david and goliath.He passes underthe dying streetlamps'orange halos,darkening splashes on his face,cloud-lungs heavingagainst the rooftops.The tarmac, painted with his footsteps,whispers, purrs,white lines of vertebraetickle along its back.Lovely glass, shattered fragmentsruffle the curb of the pavement,strands of rainwaterwhisper along the gutterin hymnal honesty; and sunlight seems swallowedby the swollen beast of night.The starsprickle at the back of his memory,a nervous pattern of speech,syllables of iambic chatteringteeth against the cold:the hotel window, shining withthe gaze of a thousand tourists' wonderment,is where his own eyes rest,as if the world is born anewand love-songs spike the evening airhis life-tousled hair. Hewalks on, passes on,a stranger in a foreign land;the moonlight seemsto turn about him, embrace his form,a lonely touch, not quite animate in its caress,but his love was the colourof seawater on gravel,and he would not take the taste of her brea
because i'm like a relapse (of you or youth)baby blues cannot cure suicide agendas.all these poets do is wither, wither,waste - decomposing bones justenough to trade them in forwords & kill themcell bycell &conversations bloom between my tongue &teeth or two choice vertebrae; thoughtsburst like blood vessels,like self disgust(i am more catatonicthan i am catastrophic).
and we'll rotoh, poet boy,you are notthumbed bruisesor honey bones& you have onlyever been a godinside of your own head
TempestTempestgrey matter like that of a thunderstorm,thoughts and clouds close together--lightning and words plunge from the downpour.to these confines we do not conform,words and letters an unrivaled vortexgrey matter like that of a thunderstorm,raining down from the welkin core,conceptions scatter across creation,lightning and words plunge from the downpour. turbulence in the lives of those who transformsalvation is hard to graspgrey matter like that of a thunderstorm,hard to understand, but as water hits your pores,oracle reigns and the tempest rains upon you.lightning and words plunge from the downpour. a heart does not deformwithout the traumatic blowgrey matter like that of a thunderstorm,lightning and words plunge from the downpour.
Summer Hazewe met and fellinto a summer hazewith hearts racingand fingertipsblazing,lipsheld secretsonly touchcould untangle,dayswere spendwith only wordsslippingacross curvesand skin,whilethe augustheatswelteredand burnedmemoriesof foreverupon oureager souls.
mescalinewe raise bygone czarsto walk amongst the livinglike travelers in blue skulls,& i am a preachermade of offhand remarks &long-healed headaches -oh, the whole world is catatonic.
Typewriter of my Heartthere isa type-writerever presentdeep withinmy heartdictatingwords ofpoetrythroughmy fingertipsthat evenmy mindcan notalwayscomprehend.
heartbreaker.and so she broke his heart afterhe stopped buildingglass houses of trust for her to s h a t t e r