Words fall apart

crumble into floating rubble

ready to be restrung across my vocal chords.

Played out like tumbling wisemen and I don’t listen,

even to them, as I push my creations out

into existence

with a wet tongue and dry lips.

They, the words, are laid bare,

joints splayed like gyrating hips making

love to a man just because of the size 

of his dick—they pulsate and

breathe only to please and be pleased.

Must they have no meaning?

When fingers cross roads of flesh or blank paper

insanity takes over and I write love sonnets to lies,

words I don’t mean. It’s easier than admitting the truth—

I break promises, crush hearts

with steel tips, play with my mates

before I devour them.

In this way I take after my father.

See spewing words out at will caresses the concave hearts of others.

I can rearrange their order to fit

lest I break the fragility of human spirit

with what my words really say—

I am dangerous and unsure. I cannot keep

honesty in my syllables. I fear I know too little

about how the world works.

(Do not take me at my word.)

12:03 pm  •  27 June 2012  •  1 note

New poems coming soon. Sorry for the hiatus—major lack of inspiration.

9:33 pm  •  26 June 2012  •  1 note

I am so sick of not being able to get my poems formatted properly on tumblr. 

2:08 pm  •  29 May 2012

“The words in his book wormed off the pages.
Everything glittered like blank paper.”

— Sylvia Plath, “Suicide off Egg Rock”

4:40 pm  •  28 May 2012

Drunk men dance in rain, fall apart in drizzles,

words cast away by time and windows of

missed opportunities, but your mouth

blows out cigarette smoke and promises 

so much more than weakness.

Quick tongued, toothy grinned,

you castigate the silence around our weary limbs,

make love to the soft sides of my neck with the softest lips.

I choose to believe

the twinkle of your eyes creates warmth,

that you will never lose the spark of persuasion,

nor the smile that so causes tumult in my gut.

We watch the consistent others fall apart in night light.

We needn’t pray for our own sakes,

we’ve got syllables and brains

and each other. 

12:53 pm  •  28 May 2012  •  3 notes

It pelts the ground, the grass and pavement outside of the house. Thick strokes of water falling from heavy clouds hugging the very air above the trees. A landscape above us, waiting to be acknowledged. It only is when it rains. 

It would be easy to croak out a rendition of “Only Happy When it Rains,” but that would never capture the truth of seeing and feeling heavy droplets fall from the sky above. It is warmth and coolness. It is memory and future. Even simple words cannot accurately portray the lurching joy of my heart when drizzles turn to downpours. When the darkened sky flashes alive and the booming of thunder ricochets inside my eardrums, there is a tugging at my navel. It’s eerily similar to how a body reacts to the proximity of a body to which we are drawn. It feels similar to love. The aches are painful but pleasant.

If I could, I would rush out and upward and embrace the rain. I would let it know how much I adore it, how much I need it for relief. Like all relationships, ours is so very unbalanced. I take and take with no way of giving back. I love the darkened clouds at 2 in the afternoon. I love the sound of downpour just outside my door. I cannot ever give anything back but the love and appreciation. Is it enough?

1:51 pm  •  24 May 2012  •  2 notes

My skin is rust, beneath

lies a new beauty encased in signs of age-

scrap away my wrappings,

give me breath again,

polish me lovingly and keep me safe from acrid oxygen.

I am here.

I wait for you to make me over again,

to bring me forth from beneath

the time of life pressed against my metal flesh.

My love will shine for you in the sunlight,

make your eyes squeeze tight against my brilliance,

and you will be entangled in desire 

to look away, to stare endlessly.

I am here

underneath this grime.

Release me. 

My figure wants for fresh air. 

8:27 pm  •  5 May 2012  •  3 notes

You

turn my insides into twisted rope

wrapped around my lungs,

crushing my anxiety into thick balls hidden in my pelvis.

You

make my heart hurt, throb

with the power of a deep, fresh wound,

twisting and turning around my entire body,

creating knots of my flesh between fingertips.

I cling to the idea of 

You. 

8:50 pm  •  4 May 2012  •  2 notes

The smattering of wet raindrops against the sides of your face

bring back the same rushed feeling of tumult in my stomach,

beneath my lungs, inside my heart—

I cannot stand the anxiety you cause in my skin 

when it senses your fingertips are near,

with your lips steering toward my own—

I could crumble into rubble, all my strength

useless with my shaky knees, and your smile

has power I’ve never known.

You could keep me locked away for decades,

I would persist in craving your kiss,

even that of your eyes locking with mine—

you do me in so easily.

I’ve never been so flustered.

Even if this isn’t real I could do with

the daydream, or pretend—

let’s make cement promises with our skin-

so that this time might last even after it’s ceased to be new-

encased in man-made stone, something we are

capable of creating together,

saying yes, this once was brand new and 

wasn’t it wonderful to be in this feeling with you.

8:22 pm  •  22 April 2012  •  2 notes

Forgive me—

please I beg of you—

I know exactly what I do and I can’t

change the past nor the future plans—

I only want to feel your last whispers, 

angry or not, our time together

cannot be over without an apology,

a forgiveness.

Whatever happens—

I can’t even speculate, only regurgitate hopefullness

and even that feels like acid in my throat because

all good things end, and we’ve had a run—but

this could be the end?

And I love you, I do, believe me.

Forgive me—

trust and love again. 

12:32 am  •  22 April 2012  •  1 note