make your face,
to see yourself
through the glitter.
I don't judge,
but I still hate.
Life is fucking bitter.
My dear English,Roses are red
Violets are blue
Give me a reason
Or even a few…
Why should I love you?
You don’t fight like German
You don’t make love like French
You don’t sing like Italian
Or dance on my lips like Russian
You’re blank like a leaf of paper
You sound cold and hollow
Your people, your maker
Are the one’s who made you so.
But I am THE poet…
I look for words in colors
You’re just too white, too quiet
That’s why you’re not one of my lovers.
Here is your reason, he said:
I’m a leaf of paper, right?
Blank and white?
And you are THE poet
so I am what you write.
You bastard of strokesRather like a sight
of silence that I heard
don't tell me I'm light
the black can be learned
I'll wait for another hour
til the words are back
and not so silently sour
just cut me some slack!
you bastard of strokes
stop pushing me down
and giving me mocks
the seed is already sown
I am allI thought I will color the walls
They have been black so long...
Yet I love the beauty...
how it crawls
and sings that simple song.
I said I will erase my lines
But no... I'm scared
scared of colors
that would fill my head.
I'm not purple, or red,
color I'm not, that is said
no color belongs to me,
cause I'm all, you see
The darkness inside the light
black outside of the white.
Dark glazeI run myself down.
I face the floor.
Suddenly I'm gone,
leaving the door.
I feel the grazes,
though my eyes can't tell.
Have I been hurt?
But I seem to be well.
I'm cover with dark glaze.
All over my body.
It hurts but don't faze.
Melting my eyes
the pictures of past.
So sharp yet sweet
and gone so fast.
The flattering sound
of his cold voice,
amuses my heart,
without leaving a choice.
My eyes drown,
while I watch him stay.
In this dark glaze,
as his broken way.
FrustrationWhy my cursing matters?
When it runs down my lips
just to hurt the air
& satisfy the frustration.
Why my lies hurt?
When they flow out of my mouth
just to calm the air
& satisfy your frustration.
Why my silence injures?
when I close my lips
not to change the air
& let the frustration make its damage.
Why my truth breaks?
When my tongue licks its pure heart
just to make some wind
& frustrate our satisfaction.
SurrealIt's the bright side of being mad.
Outside of my head
it seems like I'm glad.
Well sure... I's not like I'm dead!
It's not madness that takes over.
it just won't let me go lower.
I'm never grounded.
Although It doesn't mean that I'm free.
I still have my body!
These are threads we cannot see.
No matter how much we study.
A breath from my lungs is bitter and sad.
Though I'm blind and drunk
I know it's a breath of a man who is mad.
His life has sunk.
That's the bright side of being mad
outside of his surreal head
it seems like his glad.
Well sure... he's already dead.
words, silence and love99% of everything I've learned was through words
I have learned so much reading the words
of strangers (who'd died before I was even born)
like how to kiss the wrong boys
and how to curse the world
and how to dream of an infinity
that ceases to exist, like everything else.
So, excuse me if I turn you into metaphors
or look at you as if you were a poem.
Imprisoned...“Yeah… she’s fine… good care of her… don’t worry…”
My eyes snapped open to the sound of a certain voice outside the door.
Just like always, my eyes were greeted by darkness and my body was shrouded with the familiar cold I’d gotten accustomed to. Summoning the last bit of strength I had left, I pushed myself up from my fetal position on the floor. I staggered to my feet and felt around the room, keeping one hand on the wall to steady myself and the other in front of me to feel my way around the pitch black darkness.
Where’s the door?! Where is it? I silently screamed in desperation.
After several moments passed, I realized that I wasn’t getting anywhere (obviously, since I was still being kept prisoner.)
I closed my eyes.
I thought about just where I was and tried to figure out where was the location of the door, based on the last time I saw the basement with my own two eyes.
Umm, right in front of me? <
When I Shall DieWhen I shall die
I ask not for a coffin
To display my mortal body
To the Earth beneath.
I ask not for a funeral
A celebration of my life and memory
Though both would be soon forgotten
I ask not for roses nor lilies
To slowly rot away in coherence with me.
When I shall die
I merely ask for a stone
With my name etched onto its soul
And of this stone I beg,
To remember me
Remember I was here , that I existed,
For all eternity.
Needles and VeinsFeed me cocaine lies
I can’t fight you anymore
Drink your whiskey lullabies
And let the heartache pour
I know you’ll shoot up my life
Then walk right out the door
Sometimes, pleasure spreads pain
Like a needle through the vein
The addict just can't quit
It’s always one more hit
You’d think I’d show some regret
But the desperate tend to forget
All the sickness and shakes
And the toll this love takes
Sometimes, the poison will drain
Like a needle through the vein
I’ve been trying to find a new sensation
A buzz that hits hard with no hesitation
A lover who can take me on a bad trip
Then set me free
No one ever tried to stage an intervention
There are some things that you just don’t mention
I wish somebody had said a little prayer for me
Now, I can’t breathe
Swallow all of these pills
They taste of bittersweet
Just like all your cheap thrills
They leave me incomplete
She says she knows how love feels
But, yet, she never speaks
32:3I poked holes into my palms
when it came time to pray.
Hoping that maybe some of the holy liquid
into the cathedral floors
and into bones holding up sinners &
saints. I thought
God would understand my sentiment of knowing
departed people and the segments
that drove them mad.
The Sundays that stood churchless
in the yard, outside by dad's
always told me stories of the whale
that swallowed the man that swallowed
his pride that ate his faith
and ended up a new whale with hands
as big as baskets.
To this day he hands out bread
in his fresh-baked book of poems
and waits for me to poke more
tiny holes into my tiny hands.
Half-praying a please.
Best Damn WomanWhen I was younger, my home life wasn't really conducive to having friends. My only friend for most of my life was my cousin. We were only a few months apart in age, but we felt like twins. Finished each others' sentences, would text the same things to each other at the same time, could sense when the other was in pain or just needed a pick me up. We invaded each others' lives and were the last person we each said "I love you" to at the end of the day.
A little over a year ago, she was killed in a car wreck along with her husband. But there are times I still get those feelings. Still want to grab my phone and send a text. Sometimes, I've actually sent the text and then I wonder who the person is on the receiving end. They've never responded. Not sure what I'd do if I did get a response.
I miss her more than I've ever missed anything. Even her faults. Like when she'd take over my house and force me to do something I didn't want to do. Joining dA was one of those take overs.&
Learning to be HumanSomething Borrowed.
It started when she noticed the laughing people, the ones who smiled. She'd never experienced anything like that before. It looked... interesting. So, after a while spent watching from the outside, she figured out how to school her facial muscles into a facsimile of a smile, and how to give an approximation of a laugh. Eventually, over time, she became better at it. But one day, her borrowed smiles and her borrowed laughs became just as accurate as the others'.
It started when she noticed the quieter people, the ones who didn't join in the jollity. The ones who walked with downcast eyes and sloping shoulders, moving around the crowd's edge. She'd never experienced anything like that before. It looked... interesting. So, after a while spent watching from the outside, she learnt to discard her easy smile and her quick laugh. She figured out how to hang her head so that she couldn't see the world pass by, and how to say "I'm fine." without
All Over AgainBreathe in
Hold back the tears
Pretend to be alright
When you're dying inside
Too many secrets
Never truly kept
Too late to turn back
Now that i'm drowning
Inside this pool of despair
I am burdened with my broken soul
All over again
At a DistanceAt a Distance
I keep myself far away
So that I may enjoy my Day
Ignoring men’s endless scars
So that I can go drink at the bars.
But why, isn’t isolation the bane
That will drive most insane?
Not for me, what do they care
If I go bald or pull out my hair?
At a distance I’ll stay so I’ll be at peace
I don’t want to mourn or be on someone’s emotional leash
Why? Simply because I’m human, why all the fuss?
You never cared about my work so I’m not going to cuss
Over you, him, her, not over any folk
So don’t lump me in the same bowl of yolk
As you people, didn’t you know?
That I’m not going to be a part of your show.
If that hurts you, then have fun with that.
Now whine and cry as I play with my cat
i can't keep walking on these dry-rot bonesoh, i am not a poet;
like the ink scratches
of plath, i am
specter boy: decay,
dispose, & disappoint
because this is the way
that writers wane -
(this hangman head is no
survivor story, & gods
do not burn out
The devil watched me dreaming,
kissed my wrists
and painted my lips with blood.
I bartered for my place in heaven,
but I was buried too deep
to be heard.
He pushed me
out to sea and I
valiantly tried to drown.
lines for rae armantroutFor instance, an old oak grove
And to you, Rae, because what appears
is always the cosmic cascading bodies,
torched and tumbling,
and someone screaming evacuate-
meaning rebuild, re-haunt.
Reading about the experiment,
it became evident-
the traffic of moans,
crowds of shadows standing
in the peripheral,
a sense of expectation and dread.
This is how death comes in poems:
The last campfire in the distance goes dark.
Blood and InkA trail of crimson drips onto a parchment so white,
intermingling with black ink on a cold autumns night.
So sweet a melancholy song, playing for all to see,
of the poor, broken, tormented soul that is me.
An artist of no consequence, my heart on my sleeve,
living with a love and a passion so few can conceive.
But with passion comes limitless sufferings and pain,
creating another line on the paper, another blood stain.
For as many scars as I have dreams I will forever live,
inspiration and courage to others is what I hope to give.
That every experience of this world has it's own worth,
to have love and sorrow before we become one with the earth.
A desire for life, a desire for death, such a bitter endless game,
but a desire for immortality burns brighter then the brightest flame.
Wishing for a part of me to not be confined to this mortal coil,
a moment etched in time, long after I am entombed in soil.
Pouring out my deepest passions and angst pent up inside,
perhaps I will live on in b
DifferenceWhat is worse
than seeing yourself
in the person
whose throat you're grasping?
When you realize
you share the same sins,
you wonder what
makes you different from them.
dear sacred, unnameable, unapproachable youeverything is interconnected.
on that rough patch of a slippery road
in the passenger seat i stared into the noise wall.
i knew then.
to carry this conviction in the purse
of my stomach like a leaden bullet.
there are ways to smuggle this
and make it out alive, i repeat.
she the catalyst,
empty bullet case
shifted gears and became a stranger.
you turn around and see
a wall of a slippery road.
one to zero,
limp neuron. and i believe
we all switch modes
but is it circular and are there ways back to foreground.
i am god i am fraud,
(as in) here is where we converge
and conversely split up.
here at self-pity our cultures briefly meet
listen i do not play chess.
i am not faking it when i say i am reaching out.
it is very clear that i am on the edge.
and nightsky synapses lock arms
the circumference of the
suspension bridge before it