She was hisHope can be dragged through memoriesand ice skate blades; it can begracelessly covered with clothesthat mismatch the seasons, butit butterflies inside her chest with a simplebrush of chastened skin.
Forced ResponsibilityShoulders collide as wewalk a line that stretchesbeyond frost and delicateglass expectations;the discontented hum of the massesexacerbates headaches causedby the ever-rising tide ofa standard of living.Is it really too much to considerthat the things that are spinning outyour patience on a broken spoolare the very same things thatsave rubber and spokes from disaster,and your heart from rupturingunder the pressure of forced responsibility?
DefeatStars splinter the sky,glowing against cloudswith obstinate brilliance -I flame out beneaththe deflated sun.
I'm not much of a poet.I'm not much of a poet when I talk abouthow the sun rises and sets andsends tendrils of fire across the sky, orhow flower petals lift their faces toward morningwith a beauty uncapturable, unfolding eager petalsinto the waiting feet of frost-laden bees, oreven how your smile curves so carefullyacross the distance between us that it reminds mehow unfair it is to hate you for things you cannot change -I'm not much of a poet. I will never find the wordsto properly describe the feelings you bubble withinmy blood vessels, the taste of your devotion as itsweetens my tongue, the smell of your disgraceas it sours my thoughts of you.
RemorseI am riding high ona cloud of angel's dust,cajoling almost-forgottenregrets and half-heartedpromises from beneathstubborn finger joints;the light of dawn singesmy shattered wing bones.
Daybreaksunlight punctures,splits open the sky in akaleidoscope of burnt twilight
Consequences Be DamnedSheglows witha secretknowledge; and theelectricity whispers through dancingirises; I am reminded of thedevastatingpower ofrecklesshope.
shamelessyou twist the words alreadyhanging in the airto fit an agenda that youhave just learned the frequency of -i fall subject to a revengethat i did not bait; you havepasted his face to mine, and ithelps you feel justified in waste
MajestyClouds gauze the horizonin a carnival of color,leeching a festival from the sun.
.all we are is cheapmetaphorsgoldfish drowning inthe ocean, birds that forget how toflap their wings, mid-flight
1,001 NightsIn a land ofdreams and dust:the curve ofa half-hazed sun,devoured.
AsphodelA beckoning:watercolour sky shrinking,too late, teeth fall; pearlsfrom a broken string.Blink and the moon ignites—but the sheets are stillenvelope-stiff.
i don't need to sell my soul laughing against frost, kissing stylish arsonists + I still love every sky escaping from your lips
CopenhagenLet’s meet again in an alternate universewhere your eyes are brown and I dyed my hair blackbecause I hated being a natural blue.I’ll teach you to play guitarand you’ll show me how to fly,scholars caught in an intellectual love affair,a tandem bike going nowhere.I’ll know you by the gentlenessof your fingertips and you’ll needno identifier but the slant of my handwriting,because, world to world, some things don’t change.
philosophy has lost its appealYour absence isn't the elephant in the room;It’s the invisible parasites lounging in the floorboardsJust writhing for a taste of lonely flesh.My repaired left half is gone;Without you, I’m faulty once more:The half-blind broken wind-up doll is here again.There aren't words to describe the emptiness:just return soon.
shooting starThe space betweeneach star is a tragedywaiting to happen --and you fallfrom the skyall too easily.
The Way I See ItBeyond the train window,Vague impressions of buildingsFly past,But they might as well beMountains in Colorado.I can see Christmas lightsBest when they're tangled;They're like fireflies,GlitteringIn all their splendor.A silhouetteIs all I need to knowAbout a person;I see no blemishes.I've always wonderedWhy height, weight,Skin color,Or disfigurementEver mattered to anyone.We arePerfectIn our imperfections.You see,You may see the forestFor the trees,But I see itInches at a time,And though I sometimesMourn my loss of sight,I find the world isWondrousThe way I see it.
forest firesmy signature scrawled across allof your sentences like a stain of apologies:i'm sorry for anchoring you to my hiplike a one-sided promise, like a flood of insincerity.i'm sorry for collecting you like a well of wishes,for whispering you into every crack in these walls.i do not have the depth to tether our limbswith the tautness of our smiles, but i willbalance you on the edges of my knees untilyou slip away.i have been kneeling with my arms outstretchedwaiting,but the divinity of your touchnever graced my expectant stance.our bones built forest fires together,but it was always my tears putting them out.
incompletethere is a melodyinside this ribcagebut the worldhas stolen thebeat-there is a sadnessand an insanitythat is inherentin the momentswe fall apartbut a dignityand a beautyin every daythat we do not-spring has comebut i'm not sureif the flowers, yet,have bloomedor if the chillthawed-sometimes i thinkthere is a madnessin dancingto a melody alonebut i remembersometimes, that'sall there is left
ps: i love youautumn is near and youare falling, fallen you are blowing away from me like dusti have shaken myselfout of your barbed wire gripand oh,i am cut to piecesmemories sing like sirensas you pour from my pores,and i will not cry,i will not let you change mei'm ripping you from my skinlike hot wax and plastersand you do not even hurtnot anymore
.through the flume of my heartthousands & thousands of starsare flowing out into the sky
.she wants to taste the moonbetween forefinger and thumb sheplucks it from the sky, and likesome great pearly gobstopperrolls it over her tongue,licks the dust from herlips,shuts her eyesand smiles
AnaphoraI am from unanswered letters and retro postcards tucked into a hollow book. I am from clacking copy machines beaming white light and stagnant, chalky air. I am from soundproof recording rooms. I am from oven-baked toast dusted with cinnamon; from bergamot and earl grey; from German chocolate that I never eat. I am from dead leaves on campus walks and words of encouragement given on the corner of “you deserve it” and “I’m proud of you.” I am from stained dry-erase boards. I am from mountains of colors and valleys of fog. I am from strands of unworn necklaces and earrings I’m allergic to and rings too small for my fingers. I am from blue ink splotches on essays. I am from unstable brick pathways; broken elevators; distant parking lots; clouded windows. I am from frantic typing and nearly-missed deadlines.
Be gentle, love.Be gentle,please.Some daysmy body is too heavyto inhabit,hollowed out andfilled back upwith empty;empty sadness,empty anger,empty fear.Be gentle, love.Be gentle andlet me lay here,still and silent,until my emptinessempties out.
Interrupting the Fallbrittle carcassesof autumn trees,naked and bare,swaying, contorting, like my feeble frame -bending and breaking, breaking and bending,under the pressure ofthe words i speak to myself: simply cold, and harsh,like an early winter,interrupting the fall.
Regarding ProtocolThissunriseis not whatI imagined--the breathless tide of a love I can't keep.
indulgencei will peel away every individual shade of colourin this seven-thirty pm skylike stickers on empty beer bottles in the spacebetween your anklesi will drink down this crescent moon cocktailand get tipsy on night air,clinging to my skin and summerwill run through my veins(quick-stepped, hurryingbut i don't want winter to come)and sometimes i'll look down and realise that my fingers are still sticky with sunsetsbut i never want to be clean,not ever again.
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NightfallAnd the sun cracklesthe horizon into dustwhile the moon glidesslyly forward totaste the faded daylight.