She dances in the meadows
Sweet, white ballet shoes
Blood TiesThere was once a little girl, the most loved little girl in all existence. One day, someone killed her. And everyone was sad. Everyone was devastated. 'But how could she die,' they all wondered. She was their heart, their soul, and without her, how could they continue?
But they did. Because they had to. And they kept on loving her. Until the day they all died.
Story Time for the Wicked ThingsYou forget that her life is lost and too much blood has fallen
Angels die but love lives on
And a fairytale always ends
Frustration in Her VoiceShe's held her tongue for so long
She's forgotten what to say
When the words seem ready
They get lost along the way
And when the letters start to make a sound
It's been long gone, the end of the day
Witch-EyesDeath follows her Witch-Eyes everywhere
Yet so does life, in her presence of serenity
Her eyes, for knowledge, leave your soul curious - yet bare
So that her voice could take away all inner acerbity
Because I love youIf you were the sun, then I'd be the sky
So that I may show just how brilliant you are
If you were the clouds, then I'd be the wind
So that I could show you off to the world
If you were the moon, then I'd be the darkness
So that you could shine beyond me
If you were the stars, then I'd be the galaxy
So that you may have a home to call your own
Kill the Puppeti wonder if she knows
if she does...
i'll bet she goes CRAZY
hopefully she'll be strong
if she snaps...
we'll have to kill her
we'll have to try to save her
to save ourselves
to save her
The Season's PriceThe winter's frost
Is the voice of the lost
And your life is the only cost
The flora of spring
As the cruel nymphs sing
Your soul is what you must bring
The summer engulfs with heat
An impossible feat
No angel a sinner will meet
The final leaf of fall
The migration is the last call
To die at the seasonal ball
What is a Name?Her name...
I've forgotten her name...
The one I treasure above my own
Like sunshine or rain...
It's there, teetering
On the tip of my tounge
The taste of it: like burnt sugar
Healed by vanilla and rose
But it's not there yet
I can't grasp it
I've forgotten her name
Even though I said I loved her
I chose to forget
Did she have more than one name?
there's something fatal about coughing up verse.i got written up for writing poetry on the desks
i don't think they liked the language i used
when i wrote how my heart was beating
like headboards against the walls of people fucking
at 3 am to the sounds of joy division
whenever 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 roof
and laughing when we argue about rimbaud
and sighing as we start to die.
ElenaElena followed me home
from work one night
and stayed for tea and eggs,
and all that minimum wage
and wars between the sheets
She said she was a goddess,
daughter of a carpenter
with her long red, red hair
and eyes as warm as hazel nuts
on Christmas morning.
Her hands spoke braille
across my back
and made the silence
of Sunday into a prophecy.
She left one October
just like she said she would
when the fireflies
had turned their wings to ash.
And I found revelation
in red, red wine
and cheap red, red fabric
that came off in my hands
WineHead on a patisserie table
with a wine-scented napkin
that I scrawled your name all over
in the hopes it might necromance
or just romance you
to this place, at this time,
so we could be together again
and although the guitarist knows
that I'm broken beyond blue
I keep reaching for the bottle
in the hopes it might recreate
or just replicate
the polar opposite of translucencycradled in the echo
of a cloudburst,
the earth curls invisible fingers
about my achilles' tendon
she cries that i am not
intended for the clouds,
that my mind must not wander
between their susurrous concaves
furious with her insistence,
untether myself from the soft,
diaphonous comfort of the heavens
down into the weight of gravity.
listless green blades welcome my soles,
stimulating a tickle,
a sneeze; i never have done well
she is calling for me,
soft-tongued and crisp in her
& i am sorely tempted
i am not for the soil.
she becomes my inhale;
my alveoli shudder
beneath her force--
i am not for the air, either.
i stand beneath her onslaught
until she tires,
her molten heart beating beneath my toes;
unable to woo me with her facets,
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 nibbling
the cheese danish I bought at Kroger
this morning, warmed by thirty
seconds in the microwave. My mug
of hot chocolate is too big, and I
drink it all. The washer is on its last
cycle; the cat is purring at my feet.
Netflix is background noise
to clacking keys, typing a transcript
of middle class morning that I’ll later
call 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 cradled
in the curve of a throat,
but to be broken,
to be diminished
by your lack of affection
& over indulgence of sexualization.
uneducated in your intent,
found myself left entirely whole
& incapable of the fury
i had sought to sow between the
ridges 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 job
the thing is, i am bathtub water and rotten leaves.
and the taste of power on the morning wind,
a wet newspaper
with the headlines of a presidential divorce.
there is power in the young eagle
hissing at passersby from its trashcan throne.
i know one thing: