The Grinch of Christmas PresentGone with the deadlineMagic turned to bitten nailsHopes for bigger shoes
AhemEloquent drivel-Slug trails shimmer in moonlight,But it's still just slime.
Stick in the EyeTrouble stickslike the tar pitsof your eyes.Dig me up when I touch the bottom.Till then,I'll be amassing mastodonsFor a later date.
She Talks to FaeriesShe talks to faeries, though earth boundShe's of the moon, my lovely loon.One wing out and one wing inof where the edges fray and thin,Leading off to otherwhere.Threads of aether in her hair,Lachrymose she tarries hereHalfway lost and halfway foundT'ween the toadstools, hunkered downWond'ring why they left her hereA grounded creature of the air.Silly loon,you are a door.That is what they left you for.Halfway ours and halfway theirsSeeing clearly through your tearsA peephole to a far off placeCalled by songs of Otherspace
1000 Feet DownIt's 1000 feet down you would sayAnd I would kick and sway.Beneath me lay such wild and terrible beasts,Each coveting my tender toesWhich trembled at their teeth.And so our game would go,Me clinging there unwilling to let go,Quite sure I'd soon be food for crocodiles,Growing weaker and more frantic all the while,While you stood, arm still sure and strong,Aware 1000 feet was not so longFor a father's love to reach.And though my childish fancies made me fear,Both your arms always would be thereTo catch me falling,To hold me tight and tell me I was brave,That you were there to save me all along,But first I had to show that I was strong.
IncorruptibleThese holes with ragged edges bare a letter of your name.I work hard to keep them open,To enshrine my deep devotion,To ensure the only token that you left me with - my pain.So here I keep you cloistered in the ruin that is me,A tomb to love, a flesh reliquary,Graven image to the past, heart held clasped, hands that grasp,Unwilling to relinquish your remains,Relishing the martyrs role for the one I'd canonize,These sacred scars, my ragged holes,The sweet stigmata of my soul,Weeping that you'd make me whole and open up your eyes,Roll back the rock, releasing me from Sisyphus's stead,But devotion doesn't matter to the dead.My eidolon, my anguish, I've come to realize,For me to live you must be exorcized.I think I will draw you from my veins.I think I will cast thee out.I think I will euthanizeThis worn acolyte once so devout.This is my body. This is my blood.It's time to bury you for good.
advice.i.you can't erase melike an incorrect answer.I have started to learnthat being wrong is nectar,taste it like honeyat the back of your throat,embrace it the wayyour spine would embrace your mattress after a long, tiring day.you cannot rub it away;this is our natural tattoo.engrave it on your skin,remind yourselfthat the path you walk is forever under construction.the important thingis that we keep building.ii.we have an instinct to fight.not long agoI may have compared humansto intricate things like roses,but now I thinkwe are stronger than that.call us white blood cells.we do not rest.our battles are internal and infinite,and our conquests arealways victorious.the beast that defeats usis the final one,and we will not go downwithout leaving our opponentbruised.iii.you couldscrape your kneeswith the shards of your broken heart.at times you may feel like you want to.but hearts are not made of glass,and no poetic metaphorwill make i
Our generationcigarette smokeandalcoholthe fumesembeddingin the wallcocaine linesin bathroomstalls:our generation,we have it allmisguided teens,with dying dreams(poured down the drainby languid veins)the clinking of glassesand racing hearts,we cannot stopwhat we did startit's all an escape- a sick paradox:we're runningfrom ourselves.
Yes, I Have a PenisYes, I Have A PenisDo not assume (if I hold the door for you),that I am making a statementabout your inabilitiesto open the door for yourself.If you hold it for me,I'll say 'thankyou'.Do not assume (if I pay for the meal),that I am underestimatingyour earning capacityas a woman.If you invite me out for a meal,you're paying.Do not assume (if I defend your rights),that I am belittlingthe attempts that you have madeto defend your rights yourself.If you defend my rights,I'll consider you human.
.in keeping aliveyour yesterdays,you are killingyour tomorrows
Rhyming in PoemsWhy do you all want to rhymeall the time?You don't need to do it,that's perfectly fine.You think it's so coolAnd it leaves poems gleaming,But it desecrates flowAnd can ruin the meaning.It's so bad to rhythm,It's like a bad dayYou wonder why you're notSleeping it away.You think it's the rootOf your writing's salvation,But we all will hate you,All parts of the nation.You think it sounds niceBut you don't even knowHow ruined the sound isHow badly it 'goes'.So the irony's over,Your poems can mend,I'll stop myself here,Before you meetYour end.
You said you'd burn bridges for meI broke my bonesinto sticksand stones-let thempile fora firein the endas I burned,the only answerI yearned:was it youwho litthe match?
On self-loveMaybe whoshe really loves,is the nameof the boyshe thinks of,while she linesher chatoyant eyeswith charcoalmaybe the nameshe really needs to think of,is her own.
9:58 amI saw you smokingin front of the churchon Sunday9:58 am,and I don't knowwhether servicewas over,or yet to begina milky hazefloating into thea i r,and with eachdiaphanous puff,I saw angel wingsf l y i n gtoward the heaven aboveand I only wonderedif you hoped Godcould save you fromyour addiction,or from whateverthe reasonyou started smokingwas.
To you who write until you bleed and cry and diei. You aren't the ruins of Greece.You don't combust into fascination when the blackrose you planted years ago finally bloom and poisonyour veins and stop your heart beat in black splotchesand dirty grenade. The Earth won't mould trees orocean or clouds into your image when rust seeps intoyour wrist, turning you into a sculpture of grey handsand silver blood. You won't smile knowing a spider iscreeping up your throat, spider webbing your tongue and robbing your voice away.ii. You can't tame a wild boar with tombstone nails.You don't have to get why your wounds rot likethe speed of a full-on hail storm and why othershave bowstring smile and pretty eyes all thedamn time. You don't have to know why yourmusical box blasts in gunfires and thunderboltswhile other have rose tattoos exploding in fiercefireworks and adrenaline-rushing stage fire. Youcan't tame a wild boar with tombstone nails andscraped metallic heart. You can't love yourse
Huh?Cracked booksand open handspoint the wayto martyrdomwaiting to happen,but somethings are worse than death.Yes. Somethings are worse than death.