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.
five things they don't teach you in highschool1.it's okay to fall in love.i mean, they tell you you're never goingto marry your high school sweetheart and i'm not goingto tell you it's a liebecause it's not. you guys will probablybreak up and is gonna hurt like hellbut you'll be okay. remember, you are not the only onewho has felt loneliness like a knife,the only one to know the pain of lungs collapsingbecause they were your air,and you will never be the only one who whispered"i love you" two lives too soon.you will not be the last one to have tuckedhair behind their ear and leaned in for a kissor the last one to wake up reaching for a hand that's no longer there.but it's okay.2.your favorite book will not always be your favorite.like you, it will change over timeto something unrecognizablethat gives you only a vague nostalgia in the tips of your fingers.flipping through the pages will neverfeel the same again.you will learn to love something new;your next favorite will teach you something about you
Insanity needs companyand now I’m stuck here,pondering,how the walls becamea veiny sight-(could the cause be me calling outyour namein the middle of the night?)and alone I stand here,wondering,how my feet gotnailed upon this floor-(do you hold my ankleslike an anchordoes the shore?)and I know it’s been thirteen yearssince you were here at all,according to the hash marksdrawn in chalkupon the wall,but I can’tlet goof our memories,that hauntme everydayso for now,I’ll let the doc declare: Insanity needs company.
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.
how to maybe fall in love1.you don't. at least,not at first, not for you; you sitin the back of the room and kindof admire the waytheir laugh shakestheir shoulders back and forth,rhythmic mimicry found unrhyming, unrehearsed. it's refreshing, you think.and slowly maybe you realize that hey, theyaren't too bad looking and hey, youkind of like the way their eyesdart away if you catch them looking at you,and hey.you feel your heartbeat for the firsttime in years.2.you think you might like them.kind of. maybe. you really don't know, but youlike to think you do(because if you wish hard enoughsome fairy godmother you knowdoesn't exist might help this existential crisis goingon that consists of holy hell how do i DO this-).but you like to think you know what you're doing.and so you go on adate, then two, then three, and you findyou really like that they hold yoursmile in their eyes and hey, maybeholding hands isn't like being trapped like you thought.you learn everything ane
Brown Eyes Compliments, and AnalogiesBecause I'm sick of people saying there aren't any.Your brown eyes are like the deep intoxication of campaign wine, bubbling with hazing richness and expensive taste.Your brown eyes are like the color of mahogany wood- comforting and home-steady toughness that lets me know you will be the beams of supporting me.Your eyes remind me of Dove chocolate, smooth, creamy, delectable, and melting.The color of brown eyes remind me of mountain terrain and nature, something subtle, but beautiful in every form and season.Brown eyes make me think of Devil's cake, taunting and tempting, curtained by black lashes, the symbol of rich seduction.When brown eyes delve in love, they become the color of a leather book, promising a story of loyalty, long-life, and devotion.Your brown eyes remind me of mysterious secrets, dark to cover the pain of ignorance, opaque to cover to want of another.Brown eyes are like the stable ground, steadier and prepared to embrace you when you fall, into a nurturing a
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.
How to love a girl who can't love herself.one. When she cries herself to sleep six out of seven nights a week you must say nothing. You must simply take her in your arms and kiss her gaunt, pale cheeks and wait for her to slumber at the sound of your heart.two. On the days where she wishes she were part of the stars, tell her no. Tell her that there are too many lights in the sky and that just one would be forgotten the moment you looked away from it. Tell her that she is perfect the way she is: completely human.three. Don't let her think about the scars that no one but her can see. If she says "I think I'm broken" smile like you know a secret and say, "No, you're mending." But do not be the one to fix her - no, she
stay behind the yellow lineHere lies my heart:prone and wilted,at the centerof a black hole;taking, taking, takingbut never satisfied.
afterburnerslisten:pick up the slack andpick up that slack-jawed shadow of yoursdragging on wet pavement under your soles and hurry it along, we ain't got all day hereflex your white-boned fingers andtaut knuckles and pluck the soul fromits coffin in your slick throat the sun has better places to be than in your sky.
Huh?Cracked booksand open handspoint the wayto martyrdomwaiting to happen,but somethings are worse than death.Yes. Somethings are worse than death.