ButcherMeat before your knifeSkinned and waiting to be slicedLeft danglingHoping you will cut me down instead of up.With strokes both careless and preciseThe blood - the blood that stains your knife
I would have given you my life,But you have taken more.
Rosemary For RemembranceHer hands in the waterShe re members the freck le s o n hisAs th e wo r d s d ra g h e rD ow n D O w nDOW nGet t he e to a n u n n er y
G E T T H E E T O A N U N N E R Y
BelovedI should be stronger for you Dear,Not dieing in the darkness here,Rotting from the inside outDevoured by my fear.I'de be a shining star for you,A broken satelliteBurning off her energyTo guide you through the night,But all I do is gaurd the gateAnd keep its doors thrown wideIn hopes you will return to meWhile darkness slips inside.And how it storms the parapetsAnd shakes my every stoneand echoes through my hallways,Child, you are so alone.You are waiting for a ghostthat will not come again.Nothing is outside your walls,And Nothings coming in.Are you a prisoner or a foolWho stays yet trembles so,Cloistered in these crubling wallsUnable to let go?For cowardice we mock you.Upon your strength we feed,And if you hear his cries outsideYou should not pay them heed,For they are nothing but the windThat whistles in the still,And if your house is empty,Then we are here to fill.And if your heart is heavy,Then we can take that too.There's lots of things
HindsiteDear- in the headlightsWe stood in the road unflinching.It's too late to pass the buck.
P.S.Swan feathers brushingPink lemonade stratosphere,Pallid moon mirroringA smeared staring sun,As Fenrir snarls and stretches,Slinking silently skyward.
CampsiteI do not mind the feeling of icy waterIn the morning on dry, chapped hands,The scrubbing of bowls and pots with sandIn the pale autumn light.These are the clean discomforts of life lived,And sun warmed stones and star soaked nights can make amends Say amen to the prayers that such days could last forever.But I am answered never never again.And there the knife sinks deepAs the past is waked from sleep,Defiant and pounding its fists in anger But the leaves of today leave concern from their color,As bright with me as without they do not dignify my dolorWith pity for the memoryOf what makes one day full and one day empty."Fool," they say "All things must die in time,"And so I stand stripped bare beneath the sky,Inhaling wood smoke wafting in the wind,And feel all Nature's life come to an end.
Differences1.Someone once told meThat my mind was poisonedBy the white man.That I was already deadTo my people.2.I don't believe a human beingIs inherently evilOr wishes harm on someone.3.The beauty of being a puzzle pieceIs that we're equally importantBut remain different.
there's something fatal about coughing up verse.i got written up for writing poetry on the desksat school.i don't think they liked the language i usedwhen i wrote how my heart was beatinglike headboards against the walls of people fuckingat 3 am to the sounds of joy divisionwhenever you read me paintings at dawn.they were going to send me to the counselor,but i said my therapist probably wouldn't like that,so they just let me go.but this saturday, when i'm cleaning lives off of every desk in school,i'll just be thinking how much i'd rather be sitting on your roofand laughing when we argue about rimbaudand sighing as we start to die.
The Owl's RiddleYou come and ask me,but you don't always understand my answers.You meet me in the night,but I'm not a bird of darkness.
renovationsmy mind looks at my bodyand says, "i don't like whatyou've done with the place."
Venom QuillVenom Quill 9/26/14I'll tattoo you with a poison quillall the venom I will spillSo all the misery you imbuedwill permanently stick to you.I cannot find any timewhen you did not feed me lines.So I will etch on you all thepain inside my skinuntil the message sinks right in.
WineHead on a patisserie tablewith a wine-scented napkinthat I scrawled your name all overin the hopes it might necromanceor just romance youto this place, at this time,so we could be together againand although the guitarist knowsthat I'm broken beyond blueI keep reaching for the bottlein the hopes it might recreateor just replicateyou.
to the ghosts with you, my deari came not to be kissed,or to have myself cradledin the curve of a throat,but to be broken,to be diminishedby your lack of affection& over indulgence of sexualization.but i,uneducated in your intent,found myself left entirely whole& incapable of the furyi had sought to sow between theridges of my aching ribs.
short history of the universe(what it's like is anne sexton quoting van gogh about sometimes having a terrible need for religion)Genesis:A lake slams into a bus and a city is unborn.Enter an ocean of fog and then desert after desert stacked above the hills.Then you get drunk as fuck near the tumbling skyline,and this god damned room burns like prayer in your chest.Then many missing scientists reappear in your brittle beach,and your satellites in relapse all bending,and what it's like is some kind of disaster, honestly;the arms and the aerosol and the linen and the light.And the rumble forwarding the sovereign wreck sayingsurvive yourself like you've survived me;saying the game-changing theory was that everything is always moving,always,and same for the carousal shadow bleeding through the mountain in your dream,same for your silence and the sudden red rain of witnesses.And then what unconquerable continents,what strange forecast occupied via gate via wind and wave-multitudes of sick yellow branch
muddy waterthe sun rises late now. or hardly ever. or belligerent carmine on the underbellies of plants.a shot of sleep to the head, a boxing glove punch.the metaphorical rooster crows with the awful clamour of its lonely breath. the thing is, i can substitute the body.the thing is, the slit is a fantastic shade of orange i saw god but he says you still need to get a fucking jobthe thing is, i am bathtub water and rotten leaves.and the taste of power on the morning wind, a wet newspaperwith the headlines of a presidential divorce.there is power in the young eagle hissing at passersby from its trashcan throne.i know one thing:
Drink'n it DownGlub Glub.Drink it down.Half Full.Half Empty.Gone.VodkaWhiskeyGin and RumTequilaBeer and wineLoss comes in many flavors.We come in many flavors.Life - It drinks us down.And we'reHalf fullHalf emptyGone