Who was lovedThere was a hopeThere was a prayerAmong those who followed the Beloved -The Mother, The Father, the child.They had a name;A name never set in stone.Death was too easyLife, too mucilaginous.Some say she forsakes the BeingsBut she loved. For thatMedusa would neverTurn her to stone.Above all elseThe FearOf BeingForgottenThere was onceA hopeA prayerThe lost.
Somewhere in here, there's a songI'm staring at the screen wondering where my words are.They're here somewhere - or at least they once were.I wonder if someone could save me from this.Or if I was doomed to fall from the beginning.
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.
What they feelLove was falling from the skylike shattered strays of glass
Story Time for the Wicked ThingsYou forget that her life is lost and too much blood has fallenAngels die but love lives onAnd a fairytale always ends
Frustration in Her VoiceShe's held her tongue for so longShe's forgotten what to sayWhen the words seem readyThey get lost along the wayAnd when the letters start to make a soundIt's been long gone, the end of the day
Witch-EyesDeath follows her Witch-Eyes everywhereYet so does life, in her presence of serenityHer eyes, for knowledge, leave your soul curious - yet bareSo 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 areIf you were the clouds, then I'd be the wind So that I could show you off to the worldIf you were the moon, then I'd be the darkness So that you could shine beyond meIf 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 knowsknows?hahahif she does...i'll bet she goes CRAZYhopefully she'll be stronghahahcrazy...if she snaps...we'll have to kill herwe'll have to try to save herto save ourselvesto save hergiggle
human time capsuleevidence suggests Ispend my energies onfriends who end up enemies andmore or less the rest of me wornthin from splitting them from me tornlimb from lingering memories bornblessed unless the less you see seemsbetter than the best of me andI forget how to forget myself sosometimes I'm someone else orelse the effort's unaffected(I'm in pieces/you're collected)calmly confessingconflicted questionsevery breath anunlearned lesson(dispersedin all directions)each truth unearneddespite intentions
to cry and be heldhe's awake and he's cold and he'scrying in my arms, whispering songssinging the sound of the rain into my eartears are falling on our cheeksour skin swallowing the waterwe are naked and calmbeneath the cinnamon treeour skin cracking as its leaves land in our hairholding dry leaves in our handsholding them to our heartshe's kissing my shoulderthe wind blowing my haironto his spinemy skin is bruised and coldbut he holds me as my eyes cryinto his heart, soaking the leavesour bodies drifting and fadinginto sleep, the leaves awakeningour skin cold and dry- the leaves aliveif the leaves were our heartsblowing in and out of the windlanding in our lover's hairsoaking up our lover's tearsfalling asleep and awakeningwith the seasons
You make me cry. : Why?You make me smile,You make me laugh,You make me cry.I make you cry?Yes, you do.Why?Because of my heart.Does it hurt?It weighs me down everyday.Then why acknowledge me?Because it's full of love for you.
he made me cry long hoursI think the man who openedthe Starbucks door for me todayknew that I was broken. I think,as he rushed to get the doorbefore I got there, he knewmy arms would snap off if I triedto open it myself. I think he sawsomething crooked behind mystraight teeth. I think cryingis my job and a day without bawlingmy eyes out is a fucking holiday.just so you know, I've learned howlove works: it's you doing nothingand that meaning everything to me;it's me doing everything and thatmeaning nothing to you. we're broken,you know. like a song on repeat, I've triedcountless times to fix us. I even volunteeredto be a janitor to sweep up all the pieces.but I can't fix something that you broke. sowill you just leave me alone already? I'm not-look closely, I have 34 syllables just for you:my lips can't speak soI settle with the open-ing of hips instead.I am begging youto please be careful when youpull off my tight pants.I have mailed the notes-to-selfto my eye sockets, the ones tha
the girl who didn't get shoti am all aches and pains and coffee stains--am i the smell before rain, the blood in your veins?my life is composed of memories and scraped-up knees,failed attempts at surgeriesof my mind and of my heart, of whatever stops mewhen i'm trying to start.i am all the shores they never graze, that hazewhen the sun burns rainwater on roads.i may feel warm but know this--i get cold,i get frozen stiff and when i'm bent i won't fold.the marrow of my bones hold blue-grey skies,murkier than the rampant clouds in your eyesbut when i'm rib-caged i still have someplace to fly.i am all the forlorn poets, for i've lungs and a tongue,i'm rung and stung and a song unsung.there are secret meadows in my mind, withlacklustre dews and tarmacadams that shine;it's where the blood of my bruises tastes like wineand the words in my throat tunefully intertwine.i am all the streetlights telling you 'no',telling you to 'slow down', and eventually, 'go' --am i second hand smoke? does sp
imperfecti.mixing analgesics with caffeine is never a good idea,but my brain has never known of continenceor compliance:if we are making a few steps to paradise,i'll leave sweat and blood stains inside each footprintand, if needed, limp with broken hipbonethat'll probably penetrate the skin-yet, when it's time to breathe properly,i'll lie curled up inside of a linen for days,seeing its lilac samples as dreamscape through late morning sunlightstill carrying the colour of those painted liliesbelow eyes.ii.when pen's blue tip is touching the paper,i always confess to that personal, white priestof sick admirationfor reflection:about the scar-kissing, greedy way of hair-combingand lip-colouringboth in black and red.when back's turned to mirror,i'm folding and admiringthe handwritten books of absorbed intellectinside the photogenic memory-that's a gift,but i'm still impudent enoughto label currently unseen reflection as intelligent-vicious circle
Craving pleasuresThe sharp edge of a knifeThe soft edge of a petalOne cold and dangerousOne warm and friendlySo different from one anotherBoth a pleasure I crave for
virginity poemtonight is another stumbleinto new areas blinded in darkness.our bodies are new,an indeterminable amount of spacebetween them and all i want is closeness-the space to foldlike a bedsheet above us,to spend all dayin a cloud of breathand a daze of you.my muted heart is burstingwith fire, the sparks lickingfirewood, the embers kissingyour skin.i have had this title sitting in my notebook,"the problems with being a virgin"for so longthat i am not a virgin anymore;i want to shout it to the gods,to the moon and sun and stars(and you)that i have made love,i have felt another life in my body,that i have felt,finally felt,what it is liketo matter.
again and again and againi had something to sayabout how i can't understandthat i could ever describe something like the sun or the seabecause the sun is just the sunand the sea is just the seaand you are just you and i am just meabout what it's liketo have not slept for thirty six hoursdrinking coffee and chain smokingbecause that's all i really have to doabout the way it feelsto explain that i just simplywant to be in love youwithout using metaphors or poetic languagebecause love is not a lunar eclipseabout how i never understoodfragmented [sentences]andwordsand unnecessary like breaksbecause thisis nopoemand i am no hemmingwayabout finding it hard to rememberhow i was ever really happy for you -and realizing when i finally think about itthat i am just a liarabout justlaying on my bedroom floorlistening to bright eyes because it's the only thing i want to do -not because it's poetic orbeautifulbecause i know that life doesn't work like thatany
White Ballet ShoesEveryone watchShe dances in the meadowsSweet, white ballet shoes