Final ReviewFrom the perspective of your deathbedwould you want a heart that was whole?Or a heart that had bled?Torn by lovingbruised with caringthin form beating long after youwere sure it should notScared with healing and breakingand healing againUgly with stretchmarksof growth and expansionpurple with lack of oxygenall love flowing out againas soon as it flowed inFrom the perspective of your deathbedwould you want a heart that was whole?
TNTI, I was a powder-keg of emotion.Rich, uncut, pure massed emotionjust waiting for a sparkYou, you were the flameon a very short fuseFirst we sparkedshimmered for a heartbeatand when we exploded when I explodedthere was a mass casualtyof one
UntitledThere was a sadness in her eyesIt seeped into her fingertipsand with the lightest of toucheslodged itself in my soul
Ritual of FireLust's fingers unfurledat the sight of herlike young flames dancingwith warmth and the promiseof heat to followjust enough to engulf heraliveyet still she watchedas hips swayedunblinking, as eyes metallowed for the slight smileunder the gaze of tempest seaand welcomed the vanquishingof her sanity
FailingsLove failed herthe very first time she thought:She had found herself in the reflection of another's eyes.Had found home under the warmth of another's skin.Had found meaning in words dropped carelessly from (love) drunk lips.Has found safety in the presence of another.
Shards of BeingIt was a husk of a heartset on hatred that met younot to hate you per seBut all that you might offeror beSeeOr discoverIt was a husk of a hearthell bent on not loving youand even in thiseven thisWas broken
By DesignA heart can never be lessthan what is isA heart can nevernot loveSomethingSomeoneSomewhere
The CardsThe thing about life isthat thing about love If you are willing to play the game If you are willing to take that betInvest your heartYourself, your beingYou better get real comfortableReal quick with losing
AssessorI am not the guttered shell fit for abandonment you believe you seeI am built in the land slide of the crumbling facade of your delusionI am the foundations that have rotted in the land fill of your wasted timeI am the cracked windows that reflect the broken light of your jaded sunsetI am the dust coated chandelier of your yearning, curling wires and missing crystalsI am the broken hinges on the door of your peeling trustI am the sharp edges of the rusting sink in you derelict kitchen soulI am the empty shell of the collapsing bed that once knew lovers sighsI am the lifting floor boards of the illusion in the passages of your mindI am not built in the broken pieces of me you believe you seeI am the burnt ash in the grating of your heart, crumbling, cold and blackened with useI am the long grass of your derelict garden of faith, abandoned and littered with filthI am the dripping faucet, the perished washers on the inflow of your loveI am the damp ceiling-boards beneath the
ElenaElena followed me homefrom work one nightand stayed for tea and eggs,and all that minimum wageand wars between the sheetscould bring.She said she was a goddess,daughter of a carpenterwith her long red, red hairand eyes as warm as hazel nutson Christmas morning.Her hands spoke brailleacross my backand made the silenceof Sunday into a prophecy.She left one Octoberjust like she said she wouldwhen the fireflieshad turned their wings to ash.And I found revelationin red, red wineand cheap red, red fabricthat came off in my handslike summer.
WineHead on a patisserie tablewith a wine-scented napkinthat I scrawled your name all overin the hopes it might necromanceor just romance youto this place, at this time,so we could be together againand although the guitarist knowsthat I'm broken beyond blueI keep reaching for the bottlein the hopes it might recreateor just replicateyou.
Finding HappinessShe's burning up like a suicide noteAnd upon it's legacy linesScribed in crimson inkIs all her little curios of happiness.Before misery waddled up,Knocked over her correction fluid;Erasing all her joy in a blink.There's a tape recorder by her sideSkipping a death tone melody;The silence she hides inside.Should she stop.And rewind?Wipe her days of self-pity and hateUntil she can record a new songUpbeat to a happy tune of fate.By her crumpled flat dress,Glares wild, her knife and her pills,Though the sight macabreOnly sets her heart ablaze to chills.Serrated metal to barcode inA reminder of all her undying painAnd the dark she kisses within.Numb, she knocks back medicine,Her bus stop on the highway of life.Faltering she drops lipstick blade andTo an honest mirror she turns...What ever happened toThe smiling girl?What ever happened toHer innocent future?Tears fade to a calm stareWhich unravels a soulful grin;A u-shape of acceptanceTo new challenges she mus
I'm too poor to feel so middle class.My teeth still ache from the dentist,but it doesn’t stop me from nibblingthe cheese danish I bought at Krogerthis morning, warmed by thirtyseconds in the microwave. My mugof hot chocolate is too big, and Idrink it all. The washer is on its lastcycle; the cat is purring at my feet.Netflix is background noiseto clacking keys, typing a transcriptof middle class morning that I’ll latercall a poem or a turning point,wondering when I became such an adult.
the polar opposite of translucencycradled in the echoof a cloudburst,the earth curls invisible fingersabout my achilles' tendon& pulls;she cries that i am notintended for the clouds,that my mind must not wanderbetween their susurrous concavesso i,furious with her insistence,her petulance,untether myself from the soft,diaphonous comfort of the heavens& sink,down into the weight of gravity.listless green blades welcome my soles,stimulating a tickle,an itch,a sneeze; i never have done wellwith nature,but oh,she is calling for me,soft-tongued and crisp in herown shadow,& i am sorely temptedbut no,no--i am not for the soil.lungs listless,she becomes my inhale;lightheaded& translucent,my alveoli shudderbeneath her force--i am not for the air, either.mellow-skinned,i stand beneath her onslaughtuntil she tires,her molten heart beating beneath my toes;unable to woo me with her facets,she pirouettes,cloaking me in one last attempt,a final shadow.my pores bloom& i r
to the ghosts with you, my deari came not to be kissed,or to have myself cradledin the curve of a throat,but to be broken,to be diminishedby your lack of affection& over indulgence of sexualization.but i,uneducated in your intent,found myself left entirely whole& incapable of the furyi had sought to sow between theridges of my aching ribs.
Thy Fallen AdamO father, thou hast forsaken me.Thou hast breathed essenceInto these corpse lungs, and yetThou had cast me outInto this cold black with no regret.Why dost thou shudder so father?Thine eyes were the first IBore witness to in mine blossom.'Ere did that grace of life ebb within;Yet thou did but blench and lookNo more upon thy creation no farther.Dost thou have stomach to embrace?O father, I ought to have been an angel,But alas thou hast sewn a villain's faceTo hide mine internal beauty.O father, why thou elude me of love?Thou elude my diabolic presenceWith thy Prometheus hands, and stillThy plague am I to thouIn pestilence dire I maketh thou ill.Where dost thou go to weep father?Look! Even stars insult my frameNe'er did the celestial offer me comfort,Yet thou would dare mock too.Only shallow rain cries tears ever blue.Dost thou have conscience to behold?O father, did thou not dream me as mortal,But I am a patchwork of nightmares oldAs a mirror of thy own cruelt
she suffers melancholy like the plagueshe cannot raise her voice to reachthe notes that she adoreswithout the ocean escaping from her eyes,and she cannot kneel in prayerto the god that she tries to lovewithout copper staining the pavement,but she can scream into a room and not be heard,and she can deprive her stomach and not be seen--but oh,these are not the type of talents to be appreciated,to be loved without condition,and so nobody does.
i. one way to wake to dawnhalf the time i neverwake - i lie half-sleeping understars made of the flash of headlights on oil spillsand smell the gasoline-stench ofdreams as they try to breach the breakwaterof my eyes.insomniac, they say, and i justlisten, half-alive -scientists wonder why we need sleep and i can only say,we don't. sleeping leads to dreamingand not a single soul needs thatkind of disappointment, anymore.but sometimes i find myselfjust shudderinginto sleep, disjointed, falling through the rabbitholes found in zeroes of one o'clock, two -and as i wake toshimmering sunlight shining through theblinds, across the walls, i find it's worth it (justthis once) to watch and learnhow something rises.
With YouI'm less alone,but more lonely.