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helium balloon lungsi. You write me notes scribbled on sandpaper
and I run them across my face,
scraping away layers of saccharine skin,
ii. Your eyes, made of cookie crumbs,
I'd like to dip them in milk
and watch them melt,
smoking like dry ice,
iii. You churn my childish heart
in circles and in circles
till I slip into cardiac arrest,
iv. I just remembered that time you
wrapped your arms around me like vines
and held me until you couldn't,
v. Oh what I'd give for a pair of
fortune cookie lungs,
exhaling self-fulfilling prophecy,
vi. I've been fishing for horoscopes,
pasting them onto my bedroom walls
and on the backside of my skin,
hoping that they tell me that
today is the day you will be mine,
vii. But your soul is made up of sins
and I do believe in forgiveness,
but forgive me, for I cannot forget.
can't breathe, at least not steadily,
paint me turquoise
or be the forest to my fire,
actually I'd rather you were nothing, at least nothing to me,
now I can feel nightfall coming upon the manifestation of a July moon,
so let's let those clouds burst and rip wide open
just as though the clouds were my organs and
the rain were my blood.
blue born licorice whips,
weaving webs for blood spiders on my thighs,
thin cerulean shoelaces tying knots around my wrists,
hold fast, heartbeats pumping like gasoline,
I am living, but I am not alive.
I Need a Love that Frees MeChurning, burning, yearning,
you twist me till I bleed,
why does my heart hurt so bad whenever I think of you,
you've got me if you want me
and I can't even fight it.
I'm Not Ready to Let GoYour fingertips carve melodies into my songbird skin,
carbonizing my charcoal bones
so I can write sonnets on the sidewalk
with the ends of my chalky joints.
Oh how your grazing hands
Your propane eyes
burn me up,
your toothy smile
ties me down.
I hold my breath
because these moments are fragile
as they are finite,
and I close my eyes
because love shouldn't be this ugly
or this hard to find.
there are monsters in that world of yoursYou are a sun dried pelvis and a seedy scalp,
You are a shark bite in my neck and the stitches to sew it up,
You are the sand dollars in my pockets and the rip tides that tug at my feet,
You are the sweet sting of a jellyfish and the skeleton of the sea,
If the ocean was your body I would hold on to your surf,
I'd let your current crush my skull,
I'd sink into your salty skin and be consumed by the rush of your waves,
I'd drown in your inky reflections of the darkness and the moon,
I'd sit underneath your surface and stare at your stained glass ceilings,
I'd rot between your clay hands deep within your subconscious,
I'd think and hope you could sense that my cerulean soul was yours,
For I am pale bones seeking bleak waters,
I am the taste of mussels and the texture of coral reef,
I am Poseidon's soul mate and Neptune's lover,
I am an unanswered siren's call fated to starry nights,
I am a swim in the undertow while bleeding stingrays out your feet.
a collection of daysmarch 18: death is clinging to me so tightly, digging into my shoulders, and sinking its teeth in. it feels like a body conscious dress; hugging every curve. i know it's coming for everyone in its own way but i can feel it coming like the sun. sometimes i wonder what it is in us that gives us that will and drive to live because when we cling to life, death only pulls us harder. it grabs onto you until you sweat it out and allow the toxins to overflow your body until you escape into those loving arms death calls the ocean. then we drown into the cold, cold night and surrender our bodies to what we do not know. give up our blood, our lips, our humanity, all in hopes that there is something more. and there must be, because everything means more in the dark and i feel more when i am this empty so if this life is something then when the time comes, i'll be ready for nothing and nothing will be bliss.
april 05: i sometimes like to think about what it would be like to slowly car
And I will Always be the MoonWe have gotten so attached to these days and these months,
but a deer doesn't know a Tuesday from a Thursday
and a caribou can't comprehend that it was born on a September afternoon,
but they can understand this instant, this moment, this breath,
only now, no longer the past, and only the future when they get there,
there's a healthy lack of awareness in that,
escaping the fear of death but thriving off the instinct to live,
everything so primal and based off gut reactions,
I guess you could say ignorance is bliss,
but ignorance only actually applies when it comes to humanity,
oh I would like a life like that,
one that is organic, tangible, and ripe with bloody berries,
one where carnal creatures run rampant,
one where we rise from the dirt with muddy thighs
because we were bred into these earthly bodies
to hold seconds in our palms like newborn children,
and to throw our heads back and howl against the awareness that we are dying,
for oh this skin is only our host,
RunA broken girl
Somewhere in the dark
Heart in hand
She there alone
She cant go any further
She walks into the wilderness
Wind whistles in her ears
The cold air burns her lungs
But she runs
Tears stream down her face
Warming where they fall
So warm it almost feels like they're burning her skin
She screams at the top of her lungs
But struggles as her lungs tighten
She trips and falls face first in the dirt
The cold ground feels good on her skin
The earth makes her feel at peace.
She lays looking up at the stars
Listening to the crunch of the leaves
Breathing in the smell of wet dirt
She feels safe in the silence
Her tears stop
As a smile creeps onto her face
"This is where im ment to be"
She whispers to herself
Clearing her body of and fear and any anger
Her soul is calm
Her heart at peace
Her mind is still
Her body relaxed
She is where she belongs...
DreamsTo dream is a dangerous thing.
It puts assumptions into our heads.
They encourage us to get hurt.
They break hearts.
I've realized that people don't break hearts.
Our dreams do.
We expect things,
And they don't come true.
Who do we blame?
We blame people,
When in reality we should blame ourselves,
For expecting things that will never happen.
It's not my fault,
Or your fault,
For these dreams.
But dreaming is better than reality.
And we just want our dreams to come true.
Thank You so much. You are an extraordinary friend who does an outstanding job in healing the wounds of every broken-pieced, depression-suffering and heart-lost teenager.
Angry? I curse using you.
Happy? I get high using you.
Fatigue? I whine using you.
Sad? I cry screaming you.
You make the best of me. You describe me at my worst, at my best. You bring out the lively emotions from my dead-looking, stinking-cold heart. You are able to twist, turn and portray the most powerful messages ever. Through poems, spoken words, and literature; you scream when tears have gone dry, you rise from the dead and stand up when injustice is served and you send such strong messages that it shakes the feet of mankind off the filthy-filled ground.
You are caring, gentle, kind and loving. Thank You for always being there and helping me never give up.
either wayshe dances like a raindrop,
collapses on the ground,
and all of her bones shatter,
made from thin, liquid glass,
her voice ripples on the surface
and it screams
the soft syllables pirouetting on your eardrums
her fingertips tapping
can you hear them?
they are cotton balls
being dropped on the asphalt
can you hear them?
(it's the wind carrying her feet across the air)
and she dances like a raindrop.
you can catch her
and she can shatter in your palms.
Gentle CannibalWithout a breeze to soothe my body,
or salvage a mind
from the dripping tide of cicadas,
the midnight of summer begins to
lift its mantle from where you crouch,
and comes to honor me.
My gentle cannibal,
with eyes of hemorrhaging iris,
the jaundice of your nakedness,
translucent from the moon rings
your lips pulled as if in pain.
The fever of your touch traces
every rung of dappled trellis
from the faux shadings of a lunar day.
Give me my sweet plunder of ripe figs
as you bend me like a bow that will snap,
or have you already bitten me to the bone.
FringeConfused in the wind of a thousand days
that carries the muezzin's prayer
tremulous from atop a minaret standing
against the blue of nothingness,
ending with the tracer lights of ascending dusk
in the triple digits of heat
and the smell of blood and eucalyptus,
taking in the last of my breath with the
first of your kiss, you slide into me
and the white blossoms of birds rise with its scent
from off the slow current of the Euphrates-
the adrenaline rush finds a bullet puncture
meant for a nesting crane, and dissipates,
escaping into night that never goes completely
black from the brilliance of desert fringe,
while behind closed eyes comes the intense burst
of the color tangerine, and the drone of
dragonfly wings among the date palms, and an
otherworldly hush from the spillage of cascading sand.
the space between cold and ice,
sweat is raining down your telephone pole neck,
now it's even hotter, pushing 90,
the air is thick and begins to clog your lungs,
dragging September's fog through your trachea,
smoldering your larynx and taking control of your entire body,
burning down bones like candle wicks,
now you're a waxen pool on the bedroom floor,
but wait, tender hands start to take a hold of you,
molding you a new spine made of incense,
hips out of honey,
and a heart out of the horizon,
beating, burning slow,
you release a floral smoke,
drawn in, between the candlemaker's cigarette licked lips.
A Bloody, Stupid Miracle The day we’d cured the human condition was the day I put a bullet through my head and didn’t die. It was also the day I realized how scared I actually was of death, and after hours of muscle ache from holding that gauze against my open skull, after the wound closed and everything went back to normal, I had myself a good old-fashioned brainstorm. How ironic.
But when summer came, everything had fallen to shit. The air scorched my skin and parched my tongue every time I took a breath. The sun glared down on a rapidly-collapsing world, full of the undying bastard children of cruelty and misfortune. What was one to do when their cells regenerated faster than they decomposed?
My feet hit the pavement, now littered with jagged bits of glass to snap at my toes, thoroughly baked by the blazing ball of bitter disdain high overhead. Today was worse than yesterday. Though I’d often wondered the purpose of it anymore, I
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