with a desperately quick--"wait"--! in the golden brown bricked coffee house with her hair curling over her eyes and her palms warmed to perfect cosmopolitan happiness by hands cupping coffee & hands cupping at fragile hopes which already written themselves into great chronicles in her soul: she can already see them: friends, first, then maybe… Continue reading poem: the second boy
poem: on letters
there is ecstasy and there is ecstasy. if it was not 2018 i could easily say, 'he wrote me back' and you would understand. i am not sorry that it is not a text. the envelope, the paper, his handwriting (i'm blushing) are coming apart like a delirium in my soul. all the cliches, made… Continue reading poem: on letters
poem: i fell into myself
i fell into myself as if on happenstance there is so much there to pluck apart. Drown me for hours, i will arise, refreshed, the fatherhood scrapled off; myself, too much in the mind for all but virginity; Myself, arising like the tide.
update: things are not so terrible
So as you might have noticed, I am posting less now. We'll call this a good thing because I started this blog because I felt like my poetry skills were dying. Thankfully, they have been restored to me (#depression-is-useful), and I'm back to scribbling down poetry in all my notebooks like I was in highschool.… Continue reading update: things are not so terrible
writing: in her head
In her head, there were wild bright things. She sat in her van with her hand dangling over the wheel and her pale blue eyes raw from crying. She sat there for a long time, Mr. Brightside flickering against the radio static. It was indie alt-rock station; listening to music that wasn't strictly mainstream made… Continue reading writing: in her head
quote: i want to taste and glory in each day
"I want to taste and glory in each day, and never be afraid to experience pain." — Sylvia Plath [x]
poem: i like abandoned spaces
i like abandoned spaces where people once were and now are not were mist comes in violence over the frolicking dead. but they are inverted space, blanks, where i can breathe; their dead ancient souls are closer to mine then the souls of the living this hot, heavy population that fills up my chest like… Continue reading poem: i like abandoned spaces
poem: when i say, mother
when i say mother, the depression is back she does not see how i can be stripped as a person and made whole as a writer both of it, all at once, like some black eulogy cut along my wrists and my fingernails the pen lines in my skin so pretty in print
poem: introspection
can we consider the importance of introspection, carefully, our minds lavvied in milk sunlight and the webs and weeds lolled about our fingers; the rats and things now in our pupils, now in our dusty, heavy eyelids caught down by the bedsheets, the watery linen sheets, the edges still stained with the heat of our… Continue reading poem: introspection
quote: no he is not tactful
“No, he is not tactful, yet have you ever noticed that there are people who do things which are most indelicate, and yet, at the same time, beautiful?” ― E.M. Forster, A Room with a View [x]
the last pavilion 