Odd, he and I became we.
Lay me outLie me under the morturer,
under the mortar
and forget of me
until the periwinkle blue
reminds you of nothing more
than the slate of the sea.
What are you putting into this?
Is it heart
or is it blood?
Lay my life out singularly
upon the slab.
Lay it out;
music and bones spread out
like oils saturated into the canvas
and bleeding out,
like blackcurrants rolled
on table linen
until mothers' fingers run blue
across the collarbones
who groan of war in their sleep.
My quiet life might ricochet.
Lay it out,
and my life might stain then
it might leave echoes
and talk to itself in caves
and whisper of a madman
who collected other peoples pains -
I can't help that. (I've tried)
All I can do is hope
that when I die
you lay me under the mortar
Frustration.When I’m tired of living because all I do is fight
And cry myself to sleep in the late hours of night
When the thought of giving in is so infinitely sweeter
And pain will always have a way because pain’s a lying cheater
When my only real friend is the pillow I hold tight
And it’s drenched in so many tears I could literally drown
When the ceiling turns to shadow and devours all the light
And I try to force a smile but it comes out a crooked frown
When I gasp for every breath like it’ll make some sort of difference
And my sight is swallowed whole by the darkness in the distance
When the path I chose to walk becomes the path of most resistance
And I struggle with each step just to establish my existence
When the aching doesn’t go away, but it’s all I hold onto
And there’s an impenetrable wall that I plan on breaking through
regardless of where and which roads (write)i. so today we get together
as per your request
today you (at last) confess to me
i watch you narrate
the e.e. cummings you've
kept chained in your rhythm,
in your beats and paces and all other nooks
and hidden places
i've secretly always known existed
i want you to start writing today
ii. you tell me you believe
in your ability
to write the words i always knew you whispered;
steaming at the hearts of other girls
turning them to froth
while i watch my own heart
shrivel like dregs
in the same cup of cappuccino
i've always been drinking off drought
iii. i am screaming even in my softest tissues
blaming my body for my hearts' issues
admit to me
(your best blue jeans and bravery set forth)
read me unspoken
find it futile to resist (dear me)
by grace you do and you do
admit to me
my meth, my myth
how (i never have the courage to say)
i am your greatest muse
Poets Always Lieambrosial fabrications are
easier to swallow down when
incandescence is a blessing bestowed
only upon those with silky tongues.
deceptions are beautiful
in the right words
because they are salvation, like a
rapture, they save the sickly,
self-indulgent souls from those
tragedies they used to write on the insides
of childhood notebooks about who
they could never be [themselves]
they rescue them from tremulous
corners and closets, hideaways
where they've grown too akin to
the demons they nurse; and drag
them into a land beautiful enough
to wear light as a second skin
(where lies are never discussed
but always shared)
are so much more comforting
than the absoluteness of reality
because self-resentment is as
natural as a heartbeat to those
who were born breathing and
abhorring and denying all from one
steady gasp of what the existent world
had to offer to them
back then their eyes opened, and
their fingers fumbled, born, they realized
the world wasn't as pretty as promi
UntitledA heart is contained
In many expressions.
Where is your heart?
Is it beating like a drum?
Is it worn on your sleeve?
Is it racing faster than ever?
Is it climbing in your chest?
Is it full for once?
Is it shown proudly?
Is it any of those things?
No, it's something different.Something I didn't expect.
It's not nice,
It's not warm,
It's not loving,
It's not kind,
It's not uplifting,
It's not strong.
It's on the ground,
Oozing out a pool of blood.
There's a hole in your chest
From where it's been ripped.
It's been beaten and trampled,
Abused by those you trusted.
It's a broken heart.
One that duct tape can't fix.
Ocean-wide, Pocket-sizeShe is the perverse whispering of phobias
Shadowing each and every action I take
The capricious heat of the moment decisions
That I almost always come to regret
She is the gathering of tumultuous thunderstorms
Knowing she can bolt my world into Cimmerian
The tattooing of molten mantras on skin
That pool me from drowning in burns
She is a mouthful of psalms and lucid eulogies
Spreading her disease quicker than cancer
She is ocean-wide
She is pocket-size
I rebuke her- mountains and thread counts at a time
As I inaudibly crumbleThe first thing that I can assure you of is the fortitude of my soul: I am a pact so strong that even the hurricane which caused my house to tear apart couldn't budge me. So strong, that even the earthquake that cracked the face of my school building couldn't chip me. So strong, that no amount of tidal waves could crash and break into my walls, my being. I am a pact made of several precious trinkets, letters and colors bound fervently. My frame has become a watchtower and my spirit, its sentry; I fulfill set duty. I am a pact so strong that I crave for certain commotion over what it is that I am, I wear and bare my vanity. I am a thrill seeker, a bungee jumper. I thrive off adrenaline rushes brought about by the feeling of close calls, the always present possibility of a snapping of the cord, a real potential to, not just fall, but truly crash and burn from grace. I am of a life wanting to be fully fueled, felt and fulfilled. I am a draconian as an experienced freedom fighter.