to the boy who doesn't plan on leavinghow much of me can you swallow, lovebefore you finally purge?I am a cartographer of badexperiences; I can locateprecisely where I see our divergenceextraordinaire and I can tell youbefore I have even met youthat the skin on my hands is toodry for the softness you planon caressing me with.let me tell you how this ends;I will show you all the peopleI have destroyed - floodedto the best of my ignorance,driven wild with jealousy,had whipped with lust and leftsmoking pot after fourpromises stating otherwise.let me tell you how this ends;after showing you the blessedcatastrophe it is to be human,you will destroy me. you may not mean muchbut god, my heartwill make sureyou do.I never miss people who leave.I miss the ones I walk away fromwith guilt tainting my forlornswagger sohow much of me will you swallowbefore you finally purge, love?a girl once called me her homeuntil she saw just how muchbigger I am on the insideand it took hera day and some minutesto r
this is the house that horse builtperched and misguided, I satfetally arched to the core of us,dictating for notes, strains of allthe psychedelics I knew. their O-shapedwonder and frozen-in-time gaspsstill make me feelthe smartest I have ever been,perhapsthe smartest I will ever be.my lopsided lobes cannotfathom that you are the cause of this. youare another trial lost to luck and badtiming. you are the definitionof bad timing—I had always said I knew that your mindcould outspeak your heart any daybut you choseto believe you lived in submissionto people you claimed to love (the idea of)and prostrated mockingly at your owninnocent choices.all philistines do not, in fact know,of their ignorance; you are noexception.oh, youstretch across time and spaceyet still manage to seethe world through one lesseye than you need. you arebland and small, under all elegies I believedto have written for you;they will never meet your eyes again.I wish dylan had disappointedyour aural sweet spots and
oroboros the creatorlove plucked from chest rungs and unkempt sleevesteased a moon between coke trails and braille thighsoh love, these textures are yours to drink;submissive ethers under your skin and i invite you even furtherdown the half baked concrete i wouldn’t ownsprawl ourselves out to devour the sun, the world, and each other.ourselves, we woulddesign and devour ourselves, drinkour lungs under the mesas and come up pure
just pretend i am a mantell me five thingsthat give you crows feetat the x-extends of your facialT;that would beglitches.inadvertent connections.when I feel a poem coming on.cleverness.you.me? it can’t bemy chemistry innuendosand travel-worthy shows of poeticjustice. in transit, we areshifting and stretchingour insecure bindingto hybridized vengeance(twenty of them)can’t youread with me the storiesof those at disturbancewith god? I’d have youstuck in a parking lot,enjoying an addiction, fearfulof being broadcastin theory, of course.my curls will not tireof your hinted accent. mycomplaints will not lessenin your infinite kindness;you are no more a stranger to methan my own skin. your youth is carvedin each thunderstorm i wish i had seen;all i require is wooden floorboardsand the slightest glimpseof faith.the sweetness you taste last of nightsand early morningsis a permanent bookmarkand timeis a wishful glitch.youare my steroid-strengthambrosia; a fi
bif i should have a daughter, i would,for the staggering second she feels like she is utterlyalone, let the entirety of my beingbe about her so at least that way,no matter what happens, she knows that she can alwaysfetally return to me. and i will paint the mapof the universe on the aerial view of her stomachso she’ll have a myriad of stardust and comet rainto keep her home tills she feels biggerthan her demons again.she’s going to learnthat this second, as long and draggingas it may seem, etching at her throat till it is infinite and tangible only,will end;it will not wait for her to resurface to drown heragain and there is no lesson in that. there will alwaysseem to be better ways to pave your lifeand romanticize each of your scars to say,“i could’ve made it that way -without all this -too.”"and darling," i’ll tell her,"don’t try to go looking for people to save; soonyou’ll realize there aren’t many willing t
chi-squaredyou fold pomegranate bitsand iceberg lettucein careful origami turns--bite.i have welcomed the slantof your kindness with continuityand consistency,crashing my dormant wavesagainst the cerulean coastline of my spine.you foundthe slur in my gait and the hiccupin my reasoning so off, you asked if i waslooking too deeply into questionsand highlighting wrong answersor resuscitating the comatosein her small town caffeinatedsmirk.truth is, i have only beenspeakingspeakingspeaking my stutter away,practicing conviction untilthe face-flush interrobanggives me away; therewill come a timewhen i will consensuallyembrace your indigo indifferencebut tomorrowis not that timeand today is a bulliedcasualty.if you couldfold me in unsuitedpaper ornaments, myirony may settle to existas coincidenceso that we - herand i -may remain a chance;a meeting ofnosignificantreason.
rigor samsawhen i brew silence for one, itgathers arched and unkindly,stretching like camel skin overa tambourine into the distantsciamachy of mágoa, bubblingat our transparentsurfaces.do notrecidivate with me; if youmust, cater to my finifugalgenuflection.i wait for yugen, breakingmy horizon with the vermillionof your universe wherethe cafuné we share oversleepy cups of dormiveglia,is no longer a privilege butthe resfeber that settlesand sinks till it is permanent.as i harvest silence on my own, i stillwatch brontide after brontideescape the nooks of your half-perpendicular jaw, dreadingthe war your metanoia might entailand set aflame. do notwatch my nefelibata wanderingswith scrutiny; i may succumbto drinking sleep out of syrupbottles, finding peace in obeyingall eleven books in my librarya stowed away tacenda.
seven is lucky, eight is infinitysuddenly all the pizza grease songsare about you. allof my intrinsic, righteous habitsare a closed off vesselof God’s deduction of you. seveneighths of my dayare earned and spent by thefraction, misusingmy imagination over your silence.dear stranger,you have stumbled on to a path notdestined for you to take. youare turning circular tables, neverchanging, do you notsee the irony in that?i imagine you walkingmy unfamiliar, light-devoidroad of the void in my experienceas a human being. you see, i am stillsuckling and gigglinghalf-God at the idiots in weed schooland mediocrity is my forte, i’vebeen told; i know only,how to walk the earth lightly, hownever to hint at your dismissaland existential uprooting.i am a door creak so quiet you don’t even move in your bodyhigh. her sighing wakes you up; in her armsi imagine you feelingthinner and so,so naked, just like me shell-shocking youwith my acute, unbeardedwisdom.you deserve a poem, you need
to build an unfaltering homeshe taught me how to read, so it is best heard: https://soundcloud.com/c-e-moore/to-build-an-unfaltering-home-by-your-methamphetamineonly with youcan i mockthe utter idiocy and lackof sense about howthe pacific is a warm-wateranomaly to the poetic icinessof her experiences.only with you would iwish for karmato take a luscious biteof my fictitious Adam'sapple and my unfreckled,calcium-deprivedskin; with you, i believe i couldsit for hours, watching in disgustthe utter power time can haveover the end of a cracklingfrequency, substitutingpoorlyfor touch.(yes, you would,awkwardlyat best --it is enough)we have chopped, killedand savoured all our victimsin the comfortsof our too-virgin, too-clumsy,too-everything-keeping-us-from-being-people-who-flatter-themselves-our-enemies;yes, ifancy different gigglesand killers of time but you,my home of a friend, youwish the same foundationsthat built you from scratch, (castingyour brother off a piano bench, steppin
Out of the Ashes He burned down their house by the road. He built a fire in the middle of the living room floor and sat warming himself 'til he saw the fire was out of control. Then he staggered up and walked the path to his mother's house in the middle of the night. He told her, "Our house is on fire." She didn't believe him because he was drunk and, drunk, he was a constant liar. "Just go to sleep on that couch and leave your baby and wife alone here," she said. She went back to bed and slept, but also checked on him to be sure his little family wasn't bothered by his drunken lies and abuse. She could control him as his mother. In the morning dawn, a farmer from down the road a piece knocked on her door. She hurried to answer. People were still sleeping and the knock sounded urgent. It was. "Missus, that h
A Rant“Cheer up. You have a lot of things to be thankful for that others don’t have. You’re pretty, you’re smart, and your parents are together.”If someone says those words again, I think I might snap.Just about everyone has a metaphoric anchor—typically a discomforting circumstance or memory—that brings him or her down. Mine is my familial situation.A lot of people are misled to believe that I’ve had a supportive, loving upbringing. Nothing is farther from the truth. Yes, my biological parents are married. Marriage is not synonymous to happiness though, and in this case, is quite the opposite. My mom says she would’ve left my dad a long time ago if it weren’t for this—my brother is disabled. It’s a struggle caring for him, and I can’t imagine one person doing it. Thus, I can’t really blame my mom for staying with my father. However, the situation we’re in due to the fact that we’re all still i
How I Found Love Through SonichuAuthor's Note: Incredible though it may sound, the following is a true story. I've wanted to tell this for quite a while now, and since it's a rather special day for a rather special someone, it seemed like just the right moment. I hope you enjoy this account of true love and horrible webcomics, and please feel free to wish :icontatsunokoori: a very happy birthday!-How I Found Love Through Sonichuby Manajerkop"Keep going! This is looking to be one hell of a story!" - TatsuNoKoori, May 5, 2012That comment was the first one I'd received since starting my deviantART account and posting the first tentative chapter of the story that would soon become CWCollateral: A Tale of the Resistance. I'd been intrigued by the infamous webcomic Sonichu and its creator, one Christian Weston Chandler, for about a month at that point. Somewhere along the line, I decided to try my hand at re-imagining the story from a different perspective...that o
Note to My Past SelfThis is an important message from the future.You’re still broken, and I know it hurts, but it’s time to move on. Just forgive yourself. It’s over now. That was all a year ago.When you wrote that poem, you had no idea that your friend was going to snatch it from you and give it to him. (Don’t worry, I won’t mention his name.) Everyone saw that you had done it, and they respected you for your bravery.But you saw it differently. You didn’t hear respect. You thought you heard laughing, and it killed you. You were so embarrassed. You ended up going to bed every night wishing you could just disappear or make him disappear.After that, you decided that you were no longer going to make the first move. You gave up pushing to get your way and went to the back of the line voluntarily. You became someone different.And you made it worse by trying to text him and apologize for everything that had happened. He may not have responded, but you dwelt on that mista
Eleven and unaffectedI've been this tall since I was eleven.Sure I've filled out a bit since then. A teenage pregnancy rewarded me with these hips and tits and a waist line that likes to fluctuate.I don’t remember mum being self conscious in my younger years. No, that came much later, during my formative years. Her crash dieting, and liver cleansing detox’s didn't occur until my mid teens. Many may remark that it was pretty shitty timing; however, it didn't seem to affect me. I was fairly grounded. I can’t say that I loved my body; I didn't hate it either. I guess to me it was just the thing that carried me around and I never really took much notice of it. Sure I explored it, in parts, though I never really stood back and took it in as a whole.At 5’10” I was very tall and considered to be quite slender, sometimes even referred to as being lanky. As long as I could remember I was size 12 (because of my height my mother would say) and every time I stood on the scales it was a
A ConfessionWhen I was a little kid in Sunday school, I heard the song "Jesus Love the Little Children." I got the general idea, but the line, "Red and yellow, black and white, they are precious in His sight" always confused me. I understood black and white, by that age I'd picked up on the fact that I was white and that some of my friends were black, it was the red and yellow that had me stuck. I'd always thought that by red, they meant it like "holding your breath for as long as you can", and it wasn't until I was about 12 that I learned they meant Native Americans. Whoops. Figuring out yellow took me even longer. I'd always thought that being yellow was like being green, it was only a few months ago that I learned that the song was referring to south eastern Asians. That one still doesn't make since to me.Now don't get me wrong, I live in a place with a bunch of people from different nationalities, but I've always seen it as "a person, is a person,