Flowers For a GraveFlowers for a grave,I'll lay them in a row,What could have been,What should have been,And what will never be.That promises of beautyHave such fragility.From dust to dustThe words we spoke.I'll say them in a row,I love you.I'll stay with you.You said you wouldn't go.Flowers for a grave.The dead in silence keep.Weep for all the wishesLife rarely lets us reap.I'll bury you. You'll bury me.We'll fade and crumble so,Like flowers picked before their timeThat in the graveyard go.
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.
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
This is IronyI count the passing of days in ashtray soldiers,and stillness in the words of dead poets.We write our secrets on the inside of our lungsand hide truths on the inside of our stanzas,because it’s acceptable to wear hatred on your arms,but vulnerability is a mark of weakness.I have choked down everything: pain and shame and arsenic tranquility,to spew forth such paltry words and call it poetry.A waltz away from thirty eight caliber oblivionwe press back, backbecause death isn’t as romantic as we hoped,and poison is quieter than a gunshot.
Amnesia Why labor with such diligence, in silent desperationStruggle under time's insistent paceBowed beneath the metronomic weight and pointing hands, accusing faceCatching, unsustained, at evanescent dust motes fired by winter sunLost within my tale's unlighted hollowsUnraveling behind me, skeins of memory ghost like smoke threading thin and wanAcrid in the fire's empty aftermath, bereft by dawnStir the ashes as I will, no spark now followsFingerprints and footsteps silted in, landmarks once familiar, now obscuredSo too the ridges of identity wear awaySmooth and voiceless in the echoing vaults of unrecognizant new dayWhere once resounded crashing waves of self, and continuity unyielding was assuredBut if I am denied the light of my own historyI leave behind the vigil at the grave of what I could not keepSojourner still, the unknown fairway beckons from the Lethe of sleepMy last bequest to you: a lifetime's mystery
LesbianMy thoughts wandered back into my fourth grade mind frame.She had beautiful blonde hair and blue eyes,And a perfectly white smile that reflected the sunlight like a mirror.She was a good teacher, mmmhmmm, good to look at,And I even knew it back then,Before I knew I was a lesbian.Roses are red,Violets are blue,Ranbows are red, orange, yellow, green, blue, and purple,And so am I!My thoughts wandered back into memories of Sam, my first girlfriend.She was shorter than I was, with wavy black curls,And with hazel eyes that seemed so enchanting,And she had beautiful pale white skin, mmmhmmm, lovely girl,And I knew it then,I was a pre-teen lesbian.Roses are red,Violets are blue,Rainbows are red, orange, yellow, green, blue, and purple,And so am I!My thoughts wandered back into memories of "coming out".She came out on accident, and 'she' was me,Brave enough to accept the fact that people were noticing,But smart enough not to get myself into trouble, mmmhmmm, that's me,An
maybe god is in peoplehe closes his eyes during church when they pray.it's a tiny white place of worshipbehind a gas station in the rougher part of townhe sways his hips whenever they sing(which is the majority of the time)and he gets full of this inner light thati've never experienced--though of courseif i had experienced it, i'd have no idea.his eyes flutter back and his neck bends likehe's howling at the heavenswhile his foot steadily taps awayan energetic partner to his illuminated soul.but then it stops.a shy glance towards me and a sudden cease of spirituality makes me realize thathe is uncomfortable with me there(i was sitting hunched in the pewtrying not to look anyone in the eye).i wasn't raised on faithi've never been granted withan instruction manual on how to get iti think it'd be nice, butmy curious nature that required me to question everythingcouldn't make logic out it.when i was little, all i noticed were theodd looks and heinous whispers we'd get when we'd tell
sunday morning girlI'd rather be the girlwaking you upwith coffeeon a Sunday morning,than keeping you upwith vodkaon a Saturday night
Still LifeAs a child I planted a single seed where the sidewalk ends,near the place of your remains.It grew into an oak; strong and rigid.Every autumn, I would watchthe leaves as they witheraway; as if to tell me that thedarkest times are comingAnd that I should brace myselfFor your deathAgain.Winters, I spend looking outInto dusk, and admiringthe beauty of still life.Through your slumberI patiently wait forThe ferryman to carry You home, but I've yetTo feel your warmth set free.Springs, I see the branchesRekindle their light,I see the sunshineFor the first timeIn forever ago.I feel at ease.I feel at home.
blue.her eyes are like the sky,her hair is like the clouds.no one laughs at her when she makes a joke.no one smiles when her bare feethit the blacktopand the sidewalk cracks.and all the world's her grayscale, the only colora musty shade of bluestrung in her hair. and she thinks of her first memoryas she lets go of the balloons in her handsand they rise as she falls and screams at the world that everything will become a picturein a history book one day.her lips are melting iceand her cheeks are dead and pale. her hair is wet her eyes are lost her hand, once claspedaround a wispy lifeline, is now limp.she floats like an etherealspread across a dreamthat drags her to the deepest ocean
To the boy who cried bitchi.Imitation goldThat’s what you called meThe second time we spokeYou said I glitteredBut the gold had long since thenLeft the contoursOf my jawsii.please understandthat I don’t know how tofeel consistentlythatI am a diffracted spectrumThat knows no boundsiii.you said I reminded youof your abusive uncleand you tried to seek solace and safetyin a girl who belonged to no oneI will not say sorryfor being unableto conformto your idealsiv.you called me a bitch13 timessince i've known you6 of whichheld angerbehindthemvi.I know that I am far too staticAnd obtrusiveI lack tact and oftenLeave a bitter taste in your mouthAnd in all honestyI amApathetic to your whiningI pointed it out to you when we first metsoFind another shoulderTo cry onYoumiserablefuck
Huh?Cracked booksand open handspoint the wayto martyrdomwaiting to happen,but somethings are worse than death.Yes. Somethings are worse than death.