21Spiraling to bonesthis carnival ridealways brings meback to this place.Look at the invisibleup there riding starsthe smoke carried you away.The body doesn't knowthe mind has put stonesin pockets and walked to water.Here is a shellgood for nothing.Put it on a bookcaseor throw it away.
20All the voices; the people,the sea, that's what they are.Buzzing, churning.A vein opening, they seep and slither.This static cold after the wash of warmth.Quickly forgotten, days of nothing.Glass eyes and skin of wax,sickly sweet the rotted flowers.Lips sewn shut; no one listened anyway.
19Darkness bids them sleepleaving the roads for myselfto move in quiet.The light brings them forthI wrap myself in shadowhiding what I am.I wait with patiencefor a time when the darknesswill never retreat.
18Here is the truth written plain:While you are asleep I lay awake beside you.I listen to your breathing to know that you are alive. Let me go first.Here is the truth written plain:I don't believe in the supernatural but I have made you my god.You are the reason I stay when I could easily go. This world is not for me.Here is the truth written plain:I'm not much at all and I know it full wellBut I feel the arms of Death and I haven't felt Life in years. You can do no wrong.
I've lost time.I've lost time. I have no idea where I misplaced it. Maybe there was a hole in one of my pockets that day and it fell out while I was busy dreaming of the future or dwelling in the past.I didn't even notice I had lost it until one day I looked for it and found a calendar of nothing. I even walked all the way through the forest of memory to the station at the very end and I asked the old man with the pocket-watch if he could look through the lost and found. He told me it was gone forever but he gave me a ticket to board the steam engine so I wouldn't have to walk back in the rain.On the way back I watched the shadows of my life through the foggy window. I should have just walked in the damn rain.
17It's because,His name was her nameAnd her name was his name.It's because,Two rivers emptied into the same basinAnd can you tell the waters apart?It's because,You can't take one, leaving the otherAnd expect the other not to follow the one.That's why,She carried the embers into the houseAnd didn't wake up again.
16The moon renders a highwayAs the trees paint the spectre,You sit with a stillness — unnatural;You listen for the twigs to snap.My pulse is a bird strainingAgainst a cage of flesh.
Watch Me Persevere [contest submission]When an ocean of sadness threatened to drown herAnd she really thought it would have been easierTo just sink into the deep, she gave herself theChance to swim. Even though she was tired, sheHeaded towards the shore.Making footprints in the sand, she wondered if this was far enough.Even though she was still tired, she decided to go on.Pacing herself, she moved through the years,Eventually learning that each step was a triumph. She found that herReservoir of strength was much deeper than the ocean -Stretched further than the shore.Every step brought her closer to herself, to theVery essence of her humanity.Even though her journey is not complete, sheRests now, knowing that she isEverything she needs.
15Roads everywhere, serpents sprawling,Endlessly beckoning. We must not beStagnant; ripple, flow, move.Take up the luggage orLeave it to rot.Echo theSettingSun.TravelOnwardTowards theHouse of sediment -Endless blankets of restEmbrace you then. There isNo need to fear a wrong turn, theDestination is the same, no matter the road.
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.
there's something fatal about coughing up verse.i got written up for writing poetry on the desksat school.i don't think they liked the language i usedwhen i wrote how my heart was beatinglike headboards against the walls of people fuckingat 3 am to the sounds of joy divisionwhenever you read me paintings at dawn.they were going to send me to the counselor,but i said my therapist probably wouldn't like that,so they just let me go.but this saturday, when i'm cleaning lives off of every desk in school,i'll just be thinking how much i'd rather be sitting on your roofand laughing when we argue about rimbaudand sighing as we start to die.
renovationsmy mind looks at my bodyand says, "i don't like whatyou've done with the place."
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.
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
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.
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.
muddy waterthe sun rises late now. or hardly ever. or belligerent carmine on the underbellies of plants.a shot of sleep to the head, a boxing glove punch.the metaphorical rooster crows with the awful clamour of its lonely breath. the thing is, i can substitute the body.the thing is, the slit is a fantastic shade of orange i saw god but he says you still need to get a fucking jobthe thing is, i am bathtub water and rotten leaves.and the taste of power on the morning wind, a wet newspaperwith the headlines of a presidential divorce.there is power in the young eagle hissing at passersby from its trashcan throne.i know one thing:
AgainAnother dayA new beginningAnother nightThe same nightmare
9Ashes raining downlabor pains of earthbirthing only bonesee the seed of hate.Watch her as she heaveslisten to her screamdo not turn awaysee what we have made.