Small RevelationsMy spreading fingers part the sky.
Returnedlost my soul.found it broken.
BlurI looked at the worldfrom a thousand angles andnow it's all a blur.
Burialif you find this pleasecremate my feelings put my thoughts in a mausoleum bury my heart in a wooden coffin dump my soul into the sea but just leave my body here.
Last Breaththey said there'd be lightliars
Tidal WaveI think it was the telephone callsthat killed her in the end.The aftershocks of action,of what she’d done and said.She hid away from souls and eyes,she turned around and fled.But ears are always listeningand words want to be said.And so the ringing filled her ears,and seeped into her dreams.They echoed round the empty house,scaring away hope of peace.It’s amazing how blissful ignorance is:how much we want to forget.But the worst thing of all isit’s our nature to regret.She ran into the forestwhere the songs could never come.Still, despite the distanceit’s deathly hard to finda place were you are shelteredfrom the voices you find inside.
False"It won't be me."It was.
RegretWho knew that pain couldripple out and sink the ship?In short, I'm sorry.
SunsetStreaking down the skywith aftershocks full of colorshattering the earth.
ink-bloodthey called him prophet,for his words seemed to comefrom the mouth of gods --forget not that his skinshone with silver like the moon,and his honey-tongue-taleswhispered tragediesinto woe.people bowed to innocence,and within silencehis power deepened into black --and when they cut him downto destroy pantheonsand mountains of atlas,ink-blood spilled acrossstones.
Dictionaryi witnessed youdrowningin words that madeno sensebut stungas you choked onyour vowelsand spat outconsonants,trying to gaspa coherent breathin a sea oflanguage
Bloodied lips, bloodless bodyCoffin lid discardedShe woke, ravenous.
Insecuritiesi could tell you a million talesof when i stared into the abyss,and drowned in the thrashing wavesof my own torturous thoughts,that the dark crevices of my mindbegan dragging me undera sea of endless insecuritiesimprinting on my bones.
Penning AutumnFolded between the pages of booksyou bound our spineswhere the dandelions grow--the anxious poetry of autumn.
Internet SisterhoodYou've quickly become so important to me.Sharing the parts of our soulsWe keep locked away, from the worldActually- the known world.Taking solace in strangersBecause then it's different.They're automatically supportive,Without needing to know details.Unless we decide to share.I think-hope.I feel a special bond with youJust sharing this one little thing,You seem to just.... relax around meNo words need spoken.But I sense your wall is down.And I'm so thankful we found each other.Thank G-d for old French hypochondriacs.
He doesn't write poetry anymore.He doesn’t write poetry anymore,even if he still collects it, reads it, saves it, treasuresfaded verses from his wife the way connoisseurssavor vinyl over metallic rainbows on disc.I don’t mind not knowing, but I can’t stand not asking.The record needle hits the groove wrong;he stumbles over words that aren’t there,rummaging for an answer he doesn’t really have.He doesn’t write poetry anymoreand his confusion is strangely endearing.But there’s a lyricism to his words that I love,poetic lines inserted between the daily grindof character names and who said what;voiceless boys in white and draymen carting the dead to saltwater lakes,elegiac undertones that haunt historians and forlorn painters.He doesn’t write poetry anymore –except when he does.
This must be how Gatsby felt.The dock slats of my Facebookchat list have a green lightat the end, flickering onand offand on again.That’s Internet in smalltown Virginia. So close.So far from your Midwesthometown, the one you leftme in, stretching my arms out.And then one fine morning –
The Elephant ManHe had elephant hands; swollen and tenderedby old age and wiping away childrens' cryingso they were leathered and carefully paintedwith a veneer of the dust made by old books,but when he read to me the pages didn't shakeand his throat didn't contract about the wordslike they were enemies to be spat out, bloodied.Lungs didn't shiver and eyes didn't milk, then.Now, I see love ephemeral. I see love half-deadand carving its riverbed path, slowly eroding;until it can rejoin oceans once known in heaven.Now, I see him ephemeral. I see him half-living.I see the fear of burdenship as the only thingthat makes his eyes flicker how Pernod used to.I see a beautiful, crumpled drawing of my heroas my grandfather slips, wearily, back to sleep.
SeclusionSeclusion Sometimes you need seclusion to reclaim your mind.Blacken your vision and close your eyes,Plug your ears from the outside,As you fall back, back inside of “I.”And not “we,” “he,” “she,” but me.Sometimes to find myself, I must lose everyone else.
The Clockwork Heart - Part OneHe was a normal, average boy(except for all the gears)A clockwork heart with silver bloodand oil in his tearsHe liked to play with rocks and mudand liked his bread-ends burntA normal boy, straight through and through(except for the parts that weren't)His heart was brass and steel and steamand built just like a clockAnd all day it would tick and tickBut it would never tock.He spoke and sang and joked and laughedand cried when he was sadHe ran and jumped and kicked and punchedand screamed when he was madhe smiled and jeered and hugged when huggedand fought when he was shovedyet made his way through every dayNot ever having loved.He knew that love was very realKnew it in every jointIt wasn't that he couldn't loveHe just didn't see the point.He didn't see what it could bethey said that he was missingWith all the bother, fuss, and suchof flower-shops and kissing."Why love" he thought, "when all it doesis make you feel hollow?""If I want pain without compareI'l
-I want to be the cigarette coerced against your lipsInhale me deeply so I can return to the cavern of your chestTainting your heart and making it love me againI depart blissfully through your lips as I kiss them with my toxicitySpelling your name in wisps of smokeLet her taste me on your tongue and your clothes and let her coldly resent you for itYou cannot quit meI rest in your veinsWhere I belong
Soul of InkA soul made of inkThat once golden thread tied togetherIt bleeds through this paper thin bodyThat won’t last forever.A sharp word tears through youLike a target hit with a knife.How much longer, you wonder,Do I have to live this life?Words go unheard, screams unanswered,Trapped inside the cage you made.All the happy lives walk on byAs you just watch and fade.Standing up with new found determinationA blank page you put on your faceYou let the world color it as it sees fitAnd leave the “you” without a trace.
our walls are too thinsitting togetheryou can hear my heart hittingagainst my chest like a broom to the ceiling& the neighbor upstairsbegins to screamthe wind breaks a hole in my skull you can hear my thoughts:words whispered in paper rooms& you have a cup to my eari am 16 nowbut sometimes we forget thatwe are not teapots or socks in the wastebasket& the holes in our heads are not signs of well-worn affection
hadesit's funny that my mother always saiddon’t slouch, your spine will stickbecause i am so twisted by theburden of these wordsthat i may never standagain.oh, atlas was a lucky fellow…to only hold the weight of worldswould be a godsend,but here in tartaruspalms cupped with sacrificial firerecede as quickly as the waters.and there was ichorin my veins, i swear,but the venom in this writhingmass of snakes and syllablesupon my back has curdled itbeyond compare.they say to cast this hindrance off,and i could try.but the mountaintop still shudders with my nameand i have earned too many stepsto crumble to the bottom.
snowflake kisses"Hey, if raindrops are tears, what are snowflakes?""Kisses.""Kisses?""Yeah. You know, softly falling, gently melting under warmth.""You have a point. But what about blizzards then? I wouldn't call that falling softly.""Blizzards would be the sort of kiss that blocks out the world, to the point where there's nothing but the kiss."Laughter. "You're a romantic, you know that?""I prefer to call myself a realist with romantic thoughts. Like, raindrops are the tears of Sky when it misses Earth. And snowflakes are its reminder to Earth that they are still in love.""So, the earth and sky are in love, are they?""Well, yeah. Don't laugh; it's a sad relationship. They can't ever touch.""But between them is everything living; doesn't that make up for it? And what about lightning?""What about lightning?""Well, lightning is when electricity from the ground is drawn up into the sky, right? So for some infinitesimal second, they're connected directly. There's also birds, you know, making a
the presences we carryI.I think that there are more ghosts in this housethan there are people.I am a ghost and my illness is a ghost,my brother is a ghostand my mother has a ghostly aspect about hersometimes.she has ghosts who hang about herin the dead of night, and so do I.she can’t see them, but she can feel themon the back of her necklike a sudden chill.I can see them, and I don’t know what to tell herwhen she asks.II.among those of us who see our ghosts,it’s become a daily pleasantry—“how are your ghosts today,” we ask,and we wince and nod at each otherin tacit understanding.these corpses rattling about behind ushave become a matter of course to us, I suppose,though if anyone else could see theirstark figures and dead eyes,they’d likely be frightened halfto death.III.maybe we never really lose our ghosts—maybe they fade over time,their steps behind us less heavy,their bodies less and less substantialuntil they trail about fro
Drag'Forever' turned out really bloody boring.
Ghost in the RadioI'm becoming static while death sings.