05. the piano caught your insomnia05. the piano caught your insomnia by your-methamphetamine
she doesn’t expect it to
but music cripples her - not in the way
sentences do, prison-traumatized
wound around a lifetime - but like pianist
fingers would. she will struggle to hammer
her last finger for a full note
and she'll miss,
just like the last time.
she doesn't want it to
but living with one heart hurts.
the pair in her chest parted;
one finally gave in, not before
slaving to keep lethargy at bay. after all,
twelve hundred years is bound
to taint her pulse
she doesn't believe it to
but her words are the last,
rugged breaths of coal. the truth
is a scythe but her lips warp
around each word with conviction,
like she couldn't let them go
if she tried;
she has really,
she doesn't believe it
but she stands at the end
of all inhibition; settling, to her
tastes too much like happiness
so she'd rather
is her dream, the will
in her fingers never rests.
with the lights out
in the sky
04. overthinking tells me i'm depressed04. overthinking tells me i'm depressed by your-methamphetamine
my bedroom has become a cluttered
mind. messes stay, pay rent
with light hearts and start fires
to kill hours by the minute
I was in this for the long haul
instead it's become a fight to stall
and soon no fight at all
I was supposed
to be happy, wording every
epiphany to imperfect
harmony. I feel harmed
to function, my fingers crave
monochromatic keys not to arrange
melodies but to have something to crave--
to feel full of glossy photographs
to never lose
my mind has become a cluttered
bedroom. even messes escape before
they are asked to pay, my heart
will heave to pass time
and not feel
03. breathing underwater03. breathing underwater by your-methamphetamine
listen to this here: http://sta.sh/028mklnxqor0
i learned to hold my breath when i was three
but under pressure.
my mother told me that my mind was so sweet
ants crawled in through my ears at night to taste it
and if i didn't let her clean them,
i was going to lose it. i did let her rid me
of any chance at making compromises
or tiny friends
but she taught my lungs to be alert,
to keep oxygen from reaching my nerve endings long enough
so there is
there was far more to fear
than the bobby pin that taught me resilience.
i made this body unlearn its only need
i made it learn to stay
i taught my heart to speak in whispers
instead of talking over my lungs
to communicate its perish.
it learned to beat in haikus, accomplish rhythm
at the height of fear. my heart has learned to live
without the last wheezing dance of revival--
lungs unkempt from breaths, sweeping
dust with nothing but their own expanding;
they sign DNRs
for a reason.
02. lights, camera, break02. lights, camera, break by your-methamphetamine
listen to this here: http://sta.sh/01mne8ocuq4q
this time, broken homes don't make the cut.
they dragged their way in through singer's quivers
and guitar shreds, cleansed of nothing but want;
look at their detest at normalcy, how they asked
to be undone, sewn apart from each seam
each intended thread drawn close.
they reek of reality clenching its fist around
a child's throat; if only it broke,
so their fingers finally met.
not all broken homes are loud. they must be flipped over
and felt up when your wives no longer sleep with you,
they must be told of times before,
how your glass-cuts are not holy
how your wrists are the canvas of a doomed marriage
how your hurt is secondary
how your moving on is gotten over.
broken homes still have their stairs, no matter how many
hip dislocations take for you to reach the night.
the sky is never far;
its shade matches your draped body.
not all broken homes are found. sometimes,
they are only housed in the attic inside your ribcage
because your hear
with so much love.
10011 | poet | infj | med student | wanderlust-bitten | yugen-driven | eternally unrested | music-ventilated | forgetful | human.|
(still learning to be softer.)
I fancy myself a youth slam poet, guilty of falling in love with the unfamiliar. I have been published over at The Missing Slate, Pankhearst, Up The Staircase Quarterly and cahoodaloodaling, which I now read for. my first spoken word album, the articulation of my vertebrae is now available for download on my bandcamp! go get your copy!