SplashThere's blood in the water,And sharks keep swimming circles in my head.My tongue's like a plank,And I'm just walking, walking.Talking, talking in circles.There's blood in the water...
AntimonyI heard a song. It went like thisHeartbeat set to serpent's hissStricken by a deadly kissPoison spreading burning blissAnd then a crashing comet trailOf smoke and ash strait down to hellDown in the killing kilnAtomizing, cartorizingBurning things awayAwayBurning things awaySo I found you sitting thereHumming faintly your sad airYour fists were clenched. Your feet were bare.It's rare that music get's down hereBut maybe we could forge some wingsAnd fly to where the air still singsAway from the killing kilnTakes some breaking and reshapingChanging blood and boneYou knowChanging blood and boneSo shall we face our fates togetherWe fallen ones, we birds of featherWill you stay with me a measureTill we can fly to something betterTill we can forge ourselves some wingsWings for wicked, sparkly thingsPulled from the killing kilnPurifying, redefiningTurning lead to goldTo goldTurning lead to goldSo shall we claim our wingsWe wicked, sparkly things
Van GoghI saw the eyes of a madmanIn a New York galleryThat made me think of your eyesWhen they looked at me,And I stood there and rememberedWhat it meant to beThe light that faded from themIn that dark insanity,And how I still rememberWhat it was to seeWhat the dying look likeIn that New York gallery.
In My CupsIt's amazing when you're drunk enoughHow everything seems fine,A certain sort of clarityBorn from the sodden mind,And though the page before me seemsIt really isn't there,The hands I hold before me mightBelong to someone else,How strange that I must love youSo I can give you up,A sacrifice before meThe blood within the cup.
CrushCrushing you - it all bleeds through,These vague potentialities.I find that in the drifts of timeI'm drawn to doomed realities.Crushing you - what I must do,Defining principalities.From sublimation to sublimeTo save eventualities.
GobbledygookString beansString em up from floor to ceiling.The walls are peelingLike yesterdays orangesPrepared for the squeeezeAnd the repastwe've been waiting for.
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.
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.
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.
don't write poems for fuckboys.youare not perfect.you beginmiles beneath that golden line,all sweat and sinewand broken hearts,sheets stainedwith the hungerof a hundred different girls.youare not perfect.handsomelike a fool, agraceful maelstromwhipping through thewhippoorwills andkissing birdsongdown my spine.youare not perfect.I can seethat scar on your hip,the achilles heel in yoursafeword,animalcaged and calculatingthe next best wayto rip intomy fresh meat.youare not perfect.but your skin tastes likevodka.eyes blazingobsidian, tonguemurmuring sweetnessagainst my name,you area hunterwith far too willinga prey.youare not perfect.but you carry your charismalike a thunderstorm,and you smile like you knowI am aching for the rain,and you -well, you can call me babywhenever you damn wellplease.
GrowingThe friends I had,the memories we shared,the lessons we learned,the persons who cared.Words gone unsaid,the lives drifting apart,my school life ending,my true life given start.Regret growing inside,of the words left unspoken,the lives I wished to touch,my heart torn and broken.Those friends so far away,distant and grown mature,my memories beginning to fade,the life of my childhood a blur.A familiar smile,comes in to view,my eyes begin to open,thank God, it's you.
We've neglected the lessonsour generationhas stomped on the gravesof our ancient ancestor's bodiesburied deep beneath muted earth tones,and we've dug up their bonesand thrown them against cavern walls,do you hear their beckoning calls?we told youwe told youwe told you alland our generationhas sold our soul to the devilbecause the devil wears Prada, Moschino, or Coach,the devil doesn't care about thegrumbling tummies of our skeleton childrenor their parched tongues,can you hear their bones rattling like our ancestors?do you hear their echoing calls? we told youwe told youwe told you all our generation sayswe march to the beat of our own drumbut it seems we stole this drumfrom the old man at the music shopwho couldn't make enough to pay for his own skin,to cover his crumbling bonesor maybe we've built this drum from his ashes,because of what use are old men,whose bodies could have been in an antique shopis that the beat of the drum, or a whimpering call? we told you
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
Huh?Cracked booksand open handspoint the wayto martyrdomwaiting to happen,but somethings are worse than death.Yes. Somethings are worse than death.