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12oh my icy-hearted sparrow-sister,
no i won't give you a crescent-moon grin,
i won't show you my ebbing joy.
you think you're so special,
but death gets us all someday,
puts a knife in our heart & a coin in our teeth,
& i swear by the styx that he'll get you too.
november girls will always fall in love with june.i
darling, i've been drowning since i was born,
but you are like the air to me:
you remind me of the night sky,
unattainable & free.
& why does talking to you
feel like looking in a mirror?
guess i'm writing this like another dead-end-poet
(we're a dime a dozen you know,
like plastic daisies at the dollar store
-artificial & already dead-)
i've always loved to watch the world die in autumn
-guess i was hoping you were the Spring to my Winter-
but i'm a good little fuck-up:
doing, dying, done.
I'll never tell.I never had a chance
I shoulda seen it from the start
You were always meant
To be the one who stole my heart.
I learn you like a favorite song;
you learn to put your trust in me
Two souls connected we collided
And I wish that you could see
I would never hurt you
Never let you take another wound
I know that pain too well
You know that hell
But still you leave too soon.
I won't ask you to be mine
But I need you like a breath of air
And even when we're torn apart
I know that you will still be there.
I write these words in hope that you
Will someday feel this way as well,
And even if you don't
I won't regret these that now things that now I tell.
I'll hold it back, I'll try to deal
But what I feel for you is real,
We may be always leaving, always torn apart
But you will always be the one who went and stole my heart.
11she's all sky blue tears & raindrop voices,
she can hear the ocean crying to the sea.
she doesn't know tomorrow from yesterday
but she knows that (dead) girls shouldn't wish for life.
10oh brother, i am no minerva.
my temples are burned;
all is in ashes.
but then again,
i've only ever been the patron saint
of the forgotten, the liars, the thieves.
after all, i am all three.
9& why do i have to explain my mocking-bird notions to you?
is it not enough to know i think in color,
or do i have to make you see stars?
here, i will show you how the ocean sings,
if you will tell me how you never heard her.
8charon won't ferry her across the river;
says she has a couple more days stashed in her skull.
who knows, when she cries like the styx,
trying to find something she doesn't believe in.
7& you would think humanity would learn,
but time drags on:
hades is too full,
& elysium is all too empty.
A message to the brokenYou drown yourself
in liquid sorrows,
letting the salty mess
burn your wounds,
and the sadness
to drip in your mouth,
consuming your words
and you say
you deserve the pain,
but I want to dry your face,
and whisper in your ear
how the clouds cry too,
while they hold such beauty,
and so do you.
Pretty metaphors are for pretty girlsI told you to stop
spewing pretty metaphors at me,
for with each elaborate comparison,
I feel a bit more
detached from this world
And maybe I don’t feel so strong at the moment,
but would you be
if you felt like the entire universe
was resting upon your shoulders,
and someone was just there saying:
But you’re stronger than the powerful beats
of a butterfly’s wings
And maybe I do need more confidence,
but would you exuberate it
when the part you hated most about yourself
were the freckles that have speckled your face for years,
and someone was just there muttering:
They’re not flaws,
but rather stars that form constellations
Yes, I can’t help but hate
all those unrealistic metaphors
you choose to pelt at me when I’m low,
yet the irony is,
I know that those beautiful words
are realistic in your eyes,
So I can’t hate you.
dark circlesi haven't slept well in 14 days
my eyes droop pretty colors
'50 shades of purple and grey,
they're bags and they're designer'
making jokes is how i cope
with chapped lips and constant chap-stick
it tastes like honey and mint
i laugh and say i'm addicted.
hooded lids and sleepy smiles
during lunch at subway
my friends ask if I'm okay
I say that I'm just tired.
but really when I see him with her
my heart sinks to the tiles
she's pretty and witty and sure as hell she can sing
and i'm just a loud bone-collector.
when I see her with him,
dancing and laughing and grinning,
the ring on her finger
laughs at my singularity.
for as much as i lie and as much as i try
my loneliness still creeps in,
because no matter how much they protest,
i'm still the lowly fifth-wheel.
walking behind them on sidewalks
that are wide, but built for four
smiles and laughs when they look back
but the frown creeps evermore.
pelvis peaks through paper-thin skin
and knuckles white and pale
my ribs are empty, my bo
Clear WristA clear wrist, barren of scars,
as opposed to skin sauntered in marks,
tells a trickier story than it's soiled and raw,
uncaring, unkempt counter part.
Bravery, I think it holds,
the strength to bare unimaginable loads
of pain and suffering through endless times,
and withstanding the agony of sleepless nights.
Some think it is fear, the reluctance to cut,
but I believe it opposite, it show courage and guts.
To bear your pain without a nick on your wrist,
is like a solider braving his terrain while being torn limb from limb.
Agonizing as it is, to hide your pain,
you do it so well, and no attention you'll gain.
At the end of the day, it's not cry for attention,
rather a cry for the victory that's silently mentioned.
Your scars are those not self inflicted,
and despite the gnawing intention,
to harm yourself and ease your pain,
the scars you earn are rightfully gained.
In a room of those who have jumped the gun,
and left traces of blood deep in their arms,
do not be tempted to do the sam
specter boys have always looked best sinkinghe says,
i want to count all 206 &
feel the notches of your ribs -
i want you, weary boy, to
phase yourself down while
you are burning inside out.
i will seethe inside your skull
like thoughts, like cigarette filters;
you will thank me as i molder in your marrow.
Moira (Excelsior)Moira (Excelsior)
hands clap over my eyes
like a chain clasp
linking lace around my neck.
and our clutch.
splitting into a wide upward curve,
canines and incisors cut through screens.
time rotates in a downward degree
360 degrees infinitely,
but the days are confined to finite.
and if i could, i'd connect the 12 lines
and walk along them endlessly.
i'd lose the ability to dream
and i'd never have to mingle
with the cousin of death.
living forever as a verb,
until time laps around the track
about 10 million times before
it has lost its legs.
i don't wanna sleep,
i want to dream
in an empirical reality.
hold the old time in my hand
and let the prospect bleed
into the prophecy.
These Faded KeysOf all the keys I click
As we speak each day,
It's the back arrow
That's faded most
These white letters
Would surely tell you,
I reply to everything -
But the key reading "enter"
Will be the one to explain
Why it still looks new
I want you to know
Just how much I care,
But I don't want to be close
Out of the fear of losing you
But please remember:
I dedicate these words to you,
Sharing them to the world
Rather than clicking away
At the faded key ~
Tonight, I finished a roll of toilet paper
that I had started
a month, 8 days,
two hours, and 21 minutes ago.
Its genesis, June 11th,
one of the worst nights of my life,
I took a roll from my small bathroom,
and silently tucked it under my arm.
I couldn't let my girls know.
They couldn't know
I was going to use this as my broom.
They couldn't know
that I swept my shattered heart
under my bed.
And I wept.
My pillow taking my abuse,
my suffocation and my attacks.
My fingers squeezing it for dear life
and my knuckles as I punched it,
imagining it was her.
Then hugging it.
I only cried that hard
when I was about 6.
She was gone.
And so was I.
I cried every night
which would've marked
our 7-month anniversary.
And in the late days of that month,
I lied to myself.
And for that,
I regret every moment.
I wasn't ready.
At least I stopped it,
before we drowned each other
like the last woman.
Two weeks lat
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