Worn Out Siren TalesI was once the moon-rippled, crystal cleardisturbance at shoreand you found hope, restingon the borders ofsand and wave.When I moved, you breathed,It just isn't worth it,and IwishIhad listened.I was carved on ship hulls for areason,and I was summoned from sleep todrown myself in the clutchesof a sea that disowned mefor one too-and I wrote on woody parchmentsfor more attention thanstory-telling.So when you moved, I stopped,Tell me this is eternal,And Iwish-I reallywishI had not.
margo once told melately i've been counting the strings leftunbroken inside meand either they're all splitor ineverhad anyat all
time-spared drawers of dreamsi. someday the sight-starvedwill find more than just the moon -that i promise you.we've seen all of what happinesswill never be andlike liquid stars in the milky way,smiles will seep downinto the oceans of your laughter.never mind what they saidabout shady equilibrium;it's only man's insecurity.truth is, there is nokarma -no rule, no eyeswatching over you;just the forgotten remains of thegod that falls on usevery time it rains.ii. someday, my dear,those cranes won't just bean exhibition of folded paper -and those tears you cry now?[which you hate so much?]will leak into my arterial wallsand tell me they only tell stories of ecstasy;we just have yet to realize.love, it won't be longtill autumn will not be as forgottenand between thesemultiple shades of grey, will restthe emptiness within yo[us]and the broken smilesof a shattered yesterday.iii. grieve not, sweet traveler -our draining journey has just begun.and though you have been without comfort for s
you could read to me foreveryour vocal cords collapsed withthe heaviness of your words,repeating the same exorcisedtruth that you caught over thephone when you moaned to me.it took a thousand splendid sunsfor us to see eye to eye, for youto know why I weep over bookpages and not people and why i keep some stories tucked betweenmy alcoholism and faltering acidtrips. your voice and mine havethe same cadence and we're caughtin the ceasefire between our cords.i've always been too exhausted, outof my mind to tell that eachoscillation we've let our voicestake has been plucked betterthan a million dancing beams.
drinkdrinkdrunkanabolic alcoholic, summerhad dreamsof watching you soar throughhammock seams and i hadalmost found your reluctancesweetbut then liquor drippeddroppedand ran rather deep -mounds of molehillsyou drained with cokeand foundmercilessvodka leaked jaws and itold you the dreams;the heights summer hadbut youliked disappoint--ment etched in yourleft cleft jointsso swallowing, wallowingin catabolic acheliquid froze at thenape of yourneck and this white-red-pink wineyou love somehowstole summer's dreamsand winds and thaw.
i fold paper for a livingpeople think it's weird - that i fold paper for a living.i sit by a park bench, chant numbers under my breath and bend each fiber of light, fragile paper just the way i want.because it makes you feel powerful? you ask. and i sit there and smile at the words that twitch the sides of your lips.i sit here and watch that simple square turn into a crane right before my eyes - with my hands - because i can make it happen. i imagine my next move, anticipate an outlook and create beauty out of the simplicity of what the bark of the tree next to the bench twisted into from the paper in front of me. because you've been ugly your whole life? you ask. and i laugh at your naivety and inhale the scent of the rain.the musky scent seeps into the paper and carries itself into the presence of the butterfly i folded. and it sits on the mantelpiece with all the other folded paper i find beauty in. i watch them on cold November mornings, when the fireplace is lit and the clouds sig
five ways to kill a mansomewhere before stressing awaymy baby fat, i read that five waysto kill a man included leavinghim somewhere in the clutchesof the twentieth century withouta home to nursehis tachycardia backto health,but they never mentionedthat grief doesn't always catalyzeannihilation in the handsof your own desolate storms.somewhere before whispering awaymy horrible taste in music, i heardthat it's always too soon for the endto be near because hopeis a once-in-a-lifetime dreamyou have on the poker-night of a blue moon,oscillating between the acrimonyof the high tide and the bluesof the lowbut it never said anythingabout a sunrise meaning forever;it never did, it never did.somewhere before writing away the rawnessof a shallow cut in my bilayers, i memorized'if' written by the withered hands ofkipling. i memorized the four-stanza'edsentence and hoped i'd never have to whisperit to the broken ears of a departedbeloved,but that's where you lostyour headstart to the metro
i only asked for the end of the world"i found shadows in the sun again,"i looked at herwith a gleam of sarcasm in my eyes,as she looked down with wind in her hair.the night looked lovely on her.the purple of post-nebula progressionit made her eyes look electric bluethough they were a soft green."i said, i found shadows on the sun again."she'd never look up unlessshe couldn't breathe and neededto pull a sigh out of her butterfly winged lungs.and that bothered me; - she'd refuse to breathe only because the air seemed un-enough. she'd give up so easily sometimes.i run out of pretty things to saybut she looks at me expectantly,hoping i'll find my musewithin the corner of he
the clockwork liari. we dusted dreams off people like the first snowflakes of the season. you'd take one and rest it on the center of your tongue because you hated the taste of ice cream and wanted to reset what cold tasted like to you.you taught me that the cold could be bitter, and so could people's dreams.you drank out of out-of-order wells because you believed they still worked and that the government was keeping it all to itself.i never realized how insane you made me before i wrote this all down.ii. i wished on the sun because i ran out of shooting stars.and just to spite me, you began wishing on raindrops because you believed that they were so many, one of them was bound to remember you.but we both ended up laughing hysterically with protruding knives on a bloodstained floor, didn't we?iii. i talked to clockwork towers and told them to lie because if they stopped for just a while, all the time in the world would seize.one human, two human
white noise.sometimes i turn off the greasy yellow lights and run the water lava hot.the quiet porcelain is an untouched coffinfamiliar as the look in your eyes.i can hear my heart beat in my earsand i stare at the ceiling until it darkens and blurs at the edges.my body is heavy as leadi cannot remember the weight of movement.sometimes the closest i can get is the suicide between each breathand the apology unspoken on the inhale.my skin is a ladder i keep climbing,i can see through the rungs to the fat cells that weigh down my bones.sometimes,my hand becomes his when it creeps uninvited over the landscape of my bodyand across the staircase of my ribs.i can't erase the feeling of his body pressed like a bookover my flower.my head is white noise that bleeds red,but i'm tired of all the blood.tired of all the memories like channelsi keep flicking past.sometimes i wonder if i cut enough slack in my skin, &
i would say my father is a wari would say my father is a war horse but that is a failed symbolbecause he has been dragged through the dirt as many times as this metaphori want to write in abstract like in a book ofcontemporary poetry i bought over the summer;it was all syllables and lines of 'talk talk talk' repeated over and overi want to write something that describes how i feel without saying a word that describes it -like:dust and ache and tired and bone and overflowing and lonely and fuck and .i want to write poems that have meaning without being cliche i want poemsthat defy grammar and space and time because when someone reads them, they become mei want someone to read this and knowit is approximately 12:04amand my ears are itchy and my eyes -my eyes -i feel a deer prancing behind my eyes, his heavy antlers pushingagainst my forehead and i should name him athena because i've got an olympic-sized headachebut instead the deer yells WANNA GO?and he says it like an angry, unde
starsi pray that someday soon, in a lonesome winter, your bones will cease to ache.regrets will no longer break your morals like glass figurines,you will not ask God to pardon your sins.you will forgive yourself.i hope, for your sake, that your butterfly-flutter eyeswill only be dampened with tears worthy of shedding.your glory will shine out of those 2 crystal windowsand you will finally know what freedom feels like.one day, in the midst of a dreary december, i wish for your wings to open wideand carry you to heights far past any you have ever experienced.your lungs will become blooming forestswith snippets of poetry carved into the tree trunks.you will no longer be broken, but instead, crack into miniscule piecesof yourself until all of the grace & goodnessburied deep within the crevices of your fleshis soaked up by the atmosphere.i am awaiting the day that i can finally lay next to someone i call lover and point up at the stars to show himfragments of you scatte
001 i am a whirlwind of bruised knees (purple) an aching heart (dark blue) twisted guts (red) & a regret that could crumble mountains. (green-green-green)
post meridiemi am no lionheart.look closely. there are small cracksalong my fragile frame. where purpleand blue blossom underneath flesh,and pink/white lines decorate hidden skin.i am far from what you see.
bad days.on my bad days,i open notebooks like bibles and hold pens like lifelines. i keep opening the book of my memories just to see if it still leaves a bruise.tonight,i am covered in the bruises of your hand tonight, your ghost is in my bed. i can't sleep there,so again- again i find myself miles from homewishing on stars i can't see and spitting memories into the ocean like watermelon seeds. i sit on my longboard like driftwood and send my shivers into textslike letters i never should have mailed.on my bad days,i wear cuts like ropeburn,like i just don't know when to let go. i get lost inside the sadness and hold tea thats long since gone coldas hours escape like small birds set free. i forget to open the blindsand paint my fingernails black and stare at the too-big numbers aligned on the scale i can't stop stepping on.my th
a town i don't want to call mineon the right of the turquoise green signthat welcomes you to columbia,there are two gas stations and a church.on the left side, there’s a morgue.when i was five years old, my father pulled overand stopped on the side of the road while black carafter black car passed us, going the other way.“did we know them?” i asked.“no,” he said, putting the car in drive. “but someone did.”at seven, mr. jimmy down at the ice cream shoplet me have free samples of all the new flavors he madebefore he put them out to the public.a favor, he called it, for his little henry.(years later i would realize that my motherbrought henry into the world.i would realize my mother brought most everyonein that town under the age of twentyinto the world, and she never regretted iteven if some of them became gang members, murderers, victims, andlittle henry’s leg was crippled in a four-wheeler accident)i would stand in line during church communionand a
count to infinity before you sleep.cause i knowthere are days whenit's painful to even breathe,your throat closing up on the knowledgethat you don't knowhow much longer you'll be waiting on thisband-aided, superglued planet.every cell in your body vying to be the next to die,and all you have to tell them ismaybe. maybe next time.those are the days you spendcutting rose thorns into your palmsand clenching your fists tight aroundjagged reflections and prismed rainbows.the days you realizewe're losing so much faster than we're learning.we're maturing faster than we're growing.adults stuck in the bodies of kids,moving around, making the mistakesno one ever wants to look back on.those are the days you realizeit's not worth living here anymore.you're using too many burnt-like sugar wordsto get what you want, a mistaken human in wolf's clothing.your lies are becoming louder than your screams,but if the knife fits wear it on your skin.this is the age where you feel caught betweencigarett
tear the skeleton from his comfortzonei want to build a skyscraper, seventeen stories highand fill each floor with a story from the people who never said goodbye.i.a middle child, born in 1994,she always wanted to be loved the mostuntil she learned how to give a blowjobin an alley behind Miss China’s Takeawayat knife point.ii.she lost her childhoodto an ocean who always thought it was smalland never stopped pushing its borders.iii.he’s not sure how he’s supposed to live without her.staring at the closed coffin, he loses the ability to want to.iv.it’s not fair, she thinks,that the house creaks when she’s trying to sleep,but when he leaves, it doesn’t make a sound.v.nine months and a small coffin later,she thinks she likes the name “amber”vi.“tomorrow,” he says as she passes him in the hallway—him from math, her to english. “i’ll tell her tomorrow,”a thought he had had for the
slingshot words.there are a million worlds living in your head begging to be wrapped around your tongue and released like a slingshot into the heart of some stranger you may never meet.
And should some why completely weepon nights wrought of quiet,(born to the moonlightwho slunk between far theresto nestle lines of silver,when i felt her reflectionsnear)white sheets rustlingthe only sound in my ear,even the house held its ghostsand rusting pipelines still;when the streets were statue,(and so rarely were the streetsempty)cars parked quiveringbeneath the glass that heldmy eyes in theirs: nightswhen breaths were most rancid,the floorboards creaked liketectonics were his footsteps,he the embodiment of mountainsshifting, eons spanned in frightfulseconds(when the moonlightwas shut from the bedroomand noise repossessed).
one day, i sent a letter to the mooni got sick of our tired old earthand asked if i could jointhe man in the moonon an afternoon for coffee;he preferred tea.
to the gunman of a school shooting in newtown, CTthe black man on the television screen spits reform,but parents of dead children plea gun control in thewake of the destruction of 20 children, 26 lives total.adam, don't you realize it's christmas time & theseparents will be burying bones instead of caroling songs?the black man on the television screen admits:our heart is broken.but there is no beauty in the unity that follows robbingof innocence. adam,you sprayed the school with bullets bursting into shrapneloff the shattering skulls of children.20 little bodies hauled off in white sanitation bags,stained red with crusty blood and shouting mothers screamingto the heavens.there is nothing clean about the way 26 connecticut familieswill be washing the salt water off their chapped cheeks eternally.you drained them internally. in america,to know change you must create it, but we havea cabinet full of ornate teacups not willing toblow the dust off their porcelain edges.you'd think we'd learn from our mistakes, but adam
truthsi.there are 2 things that not even the mostforceful of rains can cleanse me of:-memories-mistakesii.sometimes, i feel like a caged lion.only with a lot more impatienceand a lot less resilience.iii.i have yet to discover what it means to be content.i am either too stagnant or too fluid.no middle ground.iv.i have mastered the art of leaving.it's the idea of moving on that still haunts me.v.i fear that the light in my eyes is so dim that it will burn outbefore even i have a chance to see the world with it.vi.i am not as clever as i pretend to be.vii.someone needs to teach me thati don't need reassurance; i need self-assurance.that someone should be me.viii.my greatest fears are loneliness and cancer.the second because all my beauty is in my hair.the first doesn't need an explanation.ix.i am still discovering what it means to be a woman.everything is confusing me.x.i am secretly afraid of massages.feels like i'm being stabbed.we all know how that is.xi.
2nd priority maili remembered you lion-hearted,but just insecure enough to letme wrap my good intentions aroundyour neck to warm you with theheat of all their purity.people aren't games,but we played each other as ifour backbones were life savingsbegging to be gambled away.you melted inside me until i couldno longer tell the difference betweeneach of my individual bones.you started screaming the promisesthat were whispering through my blood streamstraight into the gaps between my eyelashes,telling me that i should've looked for youat that goddamn bus stop under the rain that night.you cracked into shrapnel,told me you were stuck in the armsof someone you didn't deserve to call lover -said you felt like shit wasting her.at that bus stop, there was rain.there was rain, and at the bus stopyou told me you were safe in my arms.that nothing bad ever happens to those who wait.i collected you like a pile of postcardsmailed from woman to woman, each kissingyour frayed edges wi
a guide to her sadness.her wrists are wishbones she breaks for luck,not knowing there is no luck in the break.her veins are unanswered prayersher lungs an apology sent as letters to heaven,hoping God will forgive her for being a continual disappointment.her head is a phonebooth for all the thoughts nobody's picking up on.see,the the sadness is sinking her again.so when she leaves at midnight to longboard to the ocean,go with her.when she tries to climb bridges,don't let her.when she's drinking cold tea and playing daughter,it means she's trying to pull her head together.when she's in the bathroom praying to the toilet,decide to knock.when she avoids you,hide her blades.because lately,she doesn't have the will to fight anymore.so on the bad days, fight for her.
she was my tabby catlurking recollections of tossled moonbeamswere the patterns that radiated from her crescent skin.she arched her back,(like a yawning cat on a milky sunday morning)and felt the rhythmic croonof her spine as it sighed (exhausted).
the rainfall kidshe always loved the sting of grapefruitand the way the winter air kissed her skin,leaving it pink and raw and sensitive to the touchlike the heart she tried so hard to hide.but she never grew up, not really.she always belonged to the rainand never stayed in one place for too long.she was afraid her stupid heart might dig in,leave its roots in the people and thenit would rip and tear when she up and left.and she never accepted the fact thatshe did indeed have a heart.she tried so hard to be hollow andlet the winter rain chill her skin andsoak into her bones so that she, too,might be just as cold.so she stopped believing in sunshine.she accepted the title of rainfall kid,and lived with thunder in her chest.