why won't people look me in the eyes what is so wrong with me that only ghosts ask 'are you okay.' and even they are grimacing at me, thinking oh this one is certainly sub-human certainly not worth what we give out as cash-currency because she [and this is where even i cannot insert the… Continue reading poem: why won’t people look me in the eyes
Tag: orginal poetry
poem: the first boy
his eyes are sparkling liquid chocolate brown. a cliché description but when he looks over at her and whispers something anti-institutional her fingers want all of the excited energy clenched into his profile and the softness that comes when he speaks to her alone, purely as academics, of course, and as fellow students in a… Continue reading poem: the first boy
poem: the second boy
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.
poem: the best thing i can be is lonely
the best thing i can be is lonely the boy next to me has scars on his lips where something was forcibly ripped out i think it was maybe my mental edge i think we're maybe soulmates, that his black finger nails are meant to prick at my skin but then he stands up and… Continue reading poem: the best thing i can be is lonely
poem: fifteen feathered souls
fifteen feathered souls like pebbles in my hand and i lick them slowly: bloody little gravestones carved into red pebbles carved into my hands: when i tip my palms the blood comes drooling out
poem: i held a peach carcass in my hand
i held a peach carcass in my hand: the wet, warm body above the streets where rain-soaked cars flung themselves like missionaries across the rain-soaked plastic globe, the one that once lived in my mother's attic, before i destroyed her. i put my bloody fingers in my mouth and watch the flesh drip like rain… Continue reading poem: i held a peach carcass in my hand
poem: what is this last breathe
What is this last breathe, like the song that was the first song she heard, when, crouched in the bushes she undid herself for the book in her hands, and the boy in her soul, who is now many miles away, who is now, slipping himself into pages, into the fainter spots between bleeding ink,… Continue reading poem: what is this last breathe
poem: heathcliff
come out of hatred like a bloom and a dark peat bone rattling over grays and graves and the gravity of it because the lily is dead your soul is dead, flown away before ever cleansed I can kiss the heather over you but I find a caste where all the marble has drained… Continue reading poem: heathcliff
the last pavilion 