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Scars and Starsif the cosmos lie
in every hollow bone
in this weary body,
then i have some
apologies to make.
[i apologize to
and to every damned soul
on every meaningless planet
orbiting around my life;
because if I go to hell,
then i'm taking every last
one of you with me.
i apologize to him,
because although the stars
shine within my body,
every last one of them
is dead and burned out
and the happiness they radiate
is ephemeral and fake.
i apologize to every goddamn person
that has to watch
as my universe implodes;
because although the supernov
QuietUnspoken words hung suspended off broken tongues
like the raindrops on her eyelashes
that he desperately wished to taste.
Then, the silence was noise;
so loud that it threatened to break
not his ears, but his heart.
And as the seconds painfully ticked by,
he longed to hear the high chime of her voice,
sweetness rivaling that of a warbling songbird.
He thought that he would give anything
to hear her say something,
anything at all.
But when the searing words “I hate you”
stumbled out of her mouth and danced on her lips,
those soft lips that he dreams of feeling upon his,
his heart shattered withing his chest
and he could feel every jagged piece stab into his soul
like a broken vase that nobody cared to clean up.
And as he stood their,
fist clutched to chest
and eyes wide and disbelieving,
all was silent as she quietly walked away.
What They Don't Understand About Sadness I.
Honestly, I don't remember
the last time I said I was ok
and meant it. Because here,
depression is not a word
people want to hear. They
want to hear “happy” and
“fine” and “everything’s ok”.
They do not want to hear
about the hot tears that roll
down your cheeks on a nightly
basis; they do not want to hear
you say “I'm drowning”.
Because in this world, you need
to be born knowing how to swim.
And if you can't, you need to
fake it-- you need them to think
that there is still air in your lungs
and they need to think “happy”
is a vital part of your vocabulary.
They need to believe every fake smile.
Because depression is not a word
that the world understands. And
if you can't fake it, you are not a
person that the world wants to see.
What they don't understand are the
hopeless nights of staring off into
nothing; they don't
MidnightTouch my heart and I'll touch yours,
fingerprints leaving marks far too large
to be washed away by another.
Because I am not something
that can simply be forgotten.
I am the stars,
burning bright for hundreds of years
after I've already left.
And after you've fallen in love with the stars,
you cannot help but crave their light.
So fall in love with me
and become my moon,
and let us become the only light
in this sky of perpetual darkness.
you saw the world in me;
so disgustingly beautiful
and broken, shattered like
the sky in a thunderstorm.
really, a thunderstorm is
all i am; too loud, too bright,
too goddamn melodramatic
and every scream i utter too
i cried out for redemption
with every raindrop word
that rolled off your cumulus
lips; every syllable you spoke
was laced with deceit and
spoken with sweet nothings.
every star in my body is falling,
so close to death and hoping
to burn out brighter. And i guess
that's how this works; you steal
every ounce of hope i had left in
humanity in exchange for a
broken heart and a few hours
i wanted to be like you;
you were beautiful, you
were summer rain, you
were refreshing cold in
a world of heat. You were
graceful and longed for,
and you were everything
i wish i was but know i
but now i know that all you
ever were was a puddle;
shallow and filled with
memories of another life.
i fear t
PlummetFlying has always been a dream of mine,
and I dreamed of flying with you.
when I confessed my feelings
your cherry lips airily breathed those words;
“I love you too.”
You kissed me gently
on the lips. My face
blushed rose red;
I felt my heart begin to pound,
sprinting in our race.
Hand in hand,
we walked the world,
side by side together.
Happiest I'd ever been,
my stomach flipped and twirled.
Slowly your smile faded,
replaced with a grimace.
I began to wonder
what was happening?
Had we hit our limits?
One night you stumbled home,
smelling of beer and perfume.
I began to tear up, began to shout.
You screamed and struck me;
I felt a bruise begin to bloom.
This happened weekly now;
your terrible fits of madness.
Afterward, sweet words
“I love you baby,” (these were lies)
Your heart had faded to blackness.
I finally realized
that I had been flying,
before I was with you;
you had filled me with concrete love,
and now my body was plummeting
(oh so close to dying.)
how to cure depression1.
go into the shower.
put the heat as high
as it will go and watch
your skin turn scarlet.
savor the pain.
[it's the only way you know
that you're not dead.]
lather your loofah
with too much soap.
scrub your body
as hard as you can.
pretend depression is filth,
and you're simply washing it off.
don't stop until your skin is raw
and red and the tears are warm
and flow without restraint.
[letting the tears out
is the only way to keep from drowning.]
sit in the bottom of the shower
and cry as loud as needed.
use the noise to muffle your tears.
try not to feel the sobs
as they rack your body too hard.
[everything is too goddamn hard.]
pretend you're ok.
when people ask,
lie and say your fine.
[know you're not fine.]
when your body is drowning,
try and learn to swim.
know it won't work
Concrete WingsEyes gazing across wide expanses
of turquoise skies and cotton-ball clouds,
my heart longs for nothing more
than to fly among the birds.
But you are my anchor to the ground;
the syringe from when you injected me
with your concrete love and false promises
is still needled into my heart.
I want nothing more
than to pull you out of my life,
but you're less like a thorn in my side
and more like a serrated knife;
whenever I try and tug you out,
pieces of me come out along with you.
Resting upon the dirt
is as close as I'll get to the stars;
I'll just have to settle
for the faint breeze down here
instead of the crashing euphoria
of everlasting freedom and solitude.
You are my anchor the the ground;
even my heart no longer
flutters in the clouds.
Falling in Slow Motion I.
Sometimes I wonder
when the star-speckled nebulae
that explode within your iris
shine as their own galaxies,
does the world fade
into a blur of lights and colors
where you don't see things
as they truly are?
And that's what really gets to me sometimes;
we're all living solitary lives,
simply trapped in a sea of bodies,
and no matter how hard we try
we only ever get to see things
from one perspective.
Sometimes I wish
to rest upon the clouds
that swim on your lips;
but now I know
that as hard as I may try,
those clouds are just water and
I'll always just fall straight through
and leave myself stranded in the sky
without a parachute to catch my fall.
And it's moments like that
when I realize--
the ground is far softer
than the calloused bones
of the people that
grip my arms
and bruise my heart.
And when trying
really isn't worth the pain,
it's easier to just collapse
into the oce
My chest bumps like a drier with shoes in itlately i've come to feel
like a leap of days that didn't happen
nor had the right to exist,
in the first place.
i can’t help the diffraction of my
veins straining against
the sticky membrane of my skin;
as though they are trying
to reach the sky,
they splinter and groan
under the graceless movements
of my limbs.
i search for cracks beneath
prodding and poking
trying to dissect myself with the
precision of shaky hands numbed
by alcohol and one too many painkillers;
i am the surgeon of my own disaster
attempting to reassemble
those caved in xylems.
i tried desperately to
resurrect those broken stems
i gave them a transfusion with my
and offered up my own
trachea to try and let them breathe;
but i suppose some things,
much like people,
refuse to be
perhaps the dead should
in Appleton, Wisconsin, there is a boy named Cael
who dreams of Copenhagen and draws demonic flamingo.
his spine is curled the wrong way from countless years of binding.
his parents do not approve of his gender. he loves them anyway.
in Bay Village, Ohio, there is a girl named Roxy
who sleeps with her eyes open. her dreams climb
up her purple bedroom walls and sprinkle into her hair
as she watches, wide-eyed. she smiles like sunshine.
in Salem, Oregon, there is a boy named Andrew
who writes poetry about the laws of physics.
he is going to college to learn how to be a professional.
he has ramen-noodle hair and soup in his veins.
he told me once that sometimes, love can swallow you.
in Farmington Hills, Michigan, there is a boy named Jordan
with big hands and a smile that makes him look 6 years old.
his favorite word is cumbersome because he likes the way it rolls.
he kisses like a firework and hugs like a fireman.
i look for him in everyone.
in Pawtucket, Rho
.i want to scrape
the shell off the earth,
try and give birth to
mould it and feed it and let it
set out on its own to be
and now, bear cub
don't be so
they'll make good
money from mum's
claws and coat,
mount her head on the
wall by your
(always dreaming of a blind alley, and this is not a poem, just another ball of paper, throw me into the sun i want the last of the heat to be mine)
16 knocks on wood1.
the moon disappears every 28 days.
it wanes & waxes in fractions; it's smart
enough to not try everything at once.
i have been taught that every 7 years,
the cells in my body will die & be born again.
this means the moon will vanish & reappear 91 times
before i will have skin free of your fingerprints.
Proud Lake is located in Commerce, Michigan. at the crack of dawn,
you can find a boy with a gravel & honey voice casting fishing
lines into the abyss. you will wonder if he'll catch a good one.
time knows no boundaries;
just benevolence that doesn't always work out.
once, when i was 2 years old, i choked on the leaf of a mulberry tree.
not every seed bears good fruit.
sometimes, something is so beautiful that you can't breathe.
sometimes, you won't even try.
my palm is roughly the size of a nectarine.
in Chinese culture, nectarines symbolize mutation
and mutation is a change in structure.
i still don't know what my hands are trying to tell me.
a boy named Joshua tol
shattered glass and a million other things i amyou should be home by now.
echoes of the sea,
pocket full of sky
another ode to silence
these are the empty desires of hollow girls.
her name was death, she rode a pale horse
under the moon, and so
i'd like to thank you for ritual suicide because
am not a winter flower,
i can't keep walking on these dry rot bones.
a note from an angry feminist:
somewhere in a dream, nowhere in reality,
there is a goddess in the rain
breathing flames with icicle lungs
(a little water with her wine.)
lies are beautiful, the truth is not.
Geek writes poetry.I'm not a poet of the greater sort,
I'd put Skyrim before Shakespeare's sonnets,
I don't study Poe (though I'm told I ought),
I can't see a scene and make art of it,
I am but a humble geek in hovel,
with nutella crumpets and a laptop,
I don't read great plays or classic novels,
won't have the rhythmical acclaim Slash got,
but my love, you know I love to dabble,
like a Satanist friend of mine might do,
I'm floating in a boat without paddle,
I might die or get inspired anew,
so darling please put up with what I write,
I swear eventually I'll get it right.
fluorescent pain strong jaws
Empty Pages.You are the perfect story,
A plot unfurling from your touch,
And poetry in your eyes.
You speak with golden glory,
Into sentences of hate,
And promises of lies.
You are the book
I never had the words to write.
.some need to know life
like the beasts do, the heron
the stray dog the cobra the salmon
dead in it's stream,
but i want to shed out of my skin,
don't want to be no white ghost no more
and i met a magician, got rid of
the dirt in my mind,
pulled my memories out
of my temple like napkins,
made a mess i couldn't clean up
on the pavement outside, no tip for him,
you're gonna have to excuse
the mess in my soul, i wasn't
been pleading with words for an
explanation, came home late last night
smelling of someone else's ink,
i think i saw the light then but
i heard the darkness too, i kicked them
out, now it's just me and my
crazy i keep in a tank,
watch him grow limbs and climb out
over the side, and now sometimes
he sits on my lap and i stroke him,
but he's getting too heavy to hold and
he's starting to speak for himself,
says don't drink that be good
i need you and you need me and you
know it, i don't think you can ever
truly know someone until you can admit
to yourself t
and i am caught in your teethoutside, you are roses.
you are spring day,
a summer morning,
a flower in dewdrops
learning to blossom.
but you have hands made of thorns,
and you are grasping my heart with a clenched fist.
i am a half-alive bird caught
in the talons of a hawk,
feathers tearing from my bleeding skin
and splashing in the mud.
i keep scissors in my nightstand,
but you are a weed
that one must rip out at the root.
my hands are ghosts
that were never too good
at grasping things in the first place.
[transmissions of a dead girl]i am the
moon: i am
the silver pill
to weigh down
into leaden eyes--
i am the
of the dark.
the stars are
all dead in their
you'll be safe, dear,
as i am the moon,
with all of your
(i am good bye and yet,
you think only of romantic
i am the moon.
i am the crescent
and dead altogether,
i still die.
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