decay.please (oh, please)—don’t pass this over.please, don’t fold it under your pillow or stuff it down the drain or wipe my mouth with the ragged corners as if you could clean the sin from my lips that easily. (if only, if only.) i know it isn’t much; i know the edges are torn, the ink running, the words blotted with blood and spit and tears. i know that you can run your fingers down the creases and find where the paper has been folded and crushed. i know you can close your eyes and find the weaknesses as easily as one might find my own.i know; trust me, this i know.but that does not make the plea any less important—it does not make it any less real. (are the cries of the feeble less valuable than the cries of the anguished? does volume drown out sincerity?) these words have been carved in marrow and dragged forth with the last breath of life as it rattled from my lungs. they are disjointed and bent, but the uglies—oh, the uglies—are they not wha
my wild and reckless heart.You know what I love? I love my heart—oh, how I love my wild and reckless heart.Because my heart is not a beautiful one nor a pure one nor one to inspire sonnets. But it is strong. It is scarred. My heart is ever-thirsting; it yearns for beauty and sunrises and shooting star wishes and things that it cannot comprehend. My heart has tremors that rock it like earthquakes; it twists and shakes and tightens in ways that cannot ever be understood. It is not satisfied with the now nor yesterday and, in truth, it does not even grow fat and happy on the promise of tomorrow. It is forever in a state of want.And I refuse to believe that is not okay. I love the urgent press of my pulse that nips at my heels and forces me to dance faster and wilder; I love the thump-thump-thump of that desire and the hold-me-tighter whisper that rips from between clenched teeth. I love the way my heart has flung me over cliffs and expected me to swim—and I love it still when I washed up on the beach
old and time-weathered soul.Emily liked to imagine that she was from a different time.She’d sit on her bed and smooth out the covers, fold the sheets with crisp lines and perfect, symmetrical shapes. She’d place the chipped tea cup on the bookshelf and push back the linen curtains. But she would never open her eyes. No, you see, because if she did, she would have to see the traffic that buzzed like summer bees below her and the water stain dripping down the side of her window. She’d have to admit that outside, reality was not what she wished, and, frankly, she wasn’t ready to stop pretending.So, instead, she closed her eyes and pressed her forehead against the cool glass. She imagined that beyond the four walls she called home, there were open moors and grass that swept against ankle and calf and then inner knee. She imagined that trees draped over the sides of a porch and that her Labrador was free to run amongst the unfenced wild yonder. She imagined gentle whickering coming from the n
it won't, i know that.Let me tell you a story. Let me paint you a picture.It’s dark and I’m alone and the wind is howling and once upon a time, I might have made this sound poetic. I’m crying, but it’s not pretty. I’m crying and my nose is red and my hands are shaking and the cigarette is limp between my scarred, calloused fingers. I once might have made this sound pretty. I might have made it sound desirable. Did you want a high? All you had to do was touch my skin, to feel your way down my sweat-slicked hips. Did you want to get buzzed? You just had to soak in the passion like alcohol and let your mind go wild. I used to have nothing but chaos to offer. Now I just have memories – do you want to take them?But you won’t. I know that. I paid the price and life paid me. Whatever I once had is gone and it’s been replaced with this shaking emptiness. I can no longer get drunk. I just get sad. I sit at broken pianos and think about the music they used to make, li
time withers (but i will not break)they say time withers, but that we would never bend. now, i'm not so sure. friendship once forged in fire is growing weak at the base and arthritic at the joints. love cast in steel is now rusted and stained, dissolving at the mere sight of the sun. i trusted you. i did. i wore my heart on my sleeve and bled my tongue from my mouth just to show you the truth of the matter. i swallowed the guilt until it threatened to chew away at the strings holding me up; until i woke up screaming, my lungs giving out in protest as i writhed between cotton sheets, teeth biting the pillow to suppress the next anguished cry threatening to rip from my throat. i did this, for us, for the friendship, for the future we all saw sitting on magnolia porches.i was willing to take the thorn into my sides, take the blame upon my shoulders, hold the world between hands just to let this dream come true. but no longer. i am not this savage beast that you see when you look at me; i am not this weathered and dying tr
i begin and end with you.How do you go about explaining love to someone who has never felt it? How do you put into words the sweetness of the first kiss or the bitterness of the first goodbye or the hundred pinpricks of emotion you feel each and every time lip parts lip? If I were to try, I wouldn't start with the first embrace or the first touch or the first time your tongue swept the top of your mouth and you breathed my name. I wouldn't start with the first time nail bit into hip or teeth into shoulder or the first time you cried my name and I cried yours. I wouldn't talk about the first time that we held hands under the branches of the willow, limbs interlaced as we fell asleep with Whitman on my breast. I wouldn't even talk about the time you slipped platinum around my finger and I cried on a sunny October afternoon.No.Instead, I would talk about the first time you taught me something. I would talk about how we were standing in wintery midnight air and how you put your hand on the small of my back--as i
what we call war_cI have devil's water running through my coal-veins. Every morning, I get up and touch the mirror just so that I can fall into the reflection. Every change branded into the underside of my skin so that I can see their bitter stones sinking slowly through the uncharted rivers of my body. I am a façade. I am a lie. I have swallowed hearts and slung love at walls of destruction just to watch the plumes of smoke rise up the city atmosphere. I have watched my crumbling capillaries tie together into hangman's knots, my lips dyed red with lover and enemy alike. I worry with every bloodied swallow, with every collapsing groan - oh lover, I worry you are next.If I were anything but ash and molten hopes I would worry too. But I have lost myself in the cracks between desperation and shame, and now I find myself drowning, pouring out your devil's cup into my wanting throat. Scalding my teeth, numbing my tongue, twisting my spine until the heat of it breaks me down, and knocks me out. I
writing about you.Today, I am not going to write about you.Instead, I am going to write about the saltwater licking up on the beaches outside my grandfather's house. I am going to write about the way that the waves look at dawn: mercurial and vivid in the early morning rays. I am going to write about the time I ran into them fully clothed in the dead of winter, how the cold stole my breath, froze my skin, numbed my limbs. I will write about the only memory I have being tossed from wave to wave, like a child flipping hot bread from one palm to the other. My legs bent, my spine curled, my hair knotted in front of my eyes excruciating, frightening, but invigorating. I will write about how the pain brought life into greater clarity, the cliff edge shoving me into consciousness like the moment I thought I might lose you, curled on the carpet in that old room with my nails buried in my thighs No, today, I cannot write about you.Instead, I will close my eyes and write about hospital-grie
then i changed.Home used to be a place.It used to mean quiet mornings with loud sibling voices, sunlight streaming through the dust speckled windows to paint the room with summer. I remember being seven and waking up to my parent's laughter, stumbling into the kitchen of oak to watch them leaning into one another over the coffee table. The tile on the floor was cold, but I remember thinking that the house was warm.Home was a place of safety during the storms, where rain could batter but could never get in. It was the cream colored carpet and the fire blazing during the winter months. It was where I chased the small lop-eared puppy up the stairs and where exhaustion trailed after me on the way down every morning. It was comforting and familiar. It was where the smells were always sweet no matter whether it was half-baked cookies or lemon wood cleaner. It was mine.Then things changed. I changed.The walls dissolved and the people dispersed. Home became a word I didn't have a definition for. I
-In the endless tranquil forest,Hidden by the shadows beneath the leaves,I smile; at peace with the world,As your corpse smiles back at me...
A Chance?A Chance?If noone gives you a chance for a long time,then when you are finally given one,most of the times, you gonna fail.And you'll ask for a second one,but you don't deserve it,because out there there are many like youstill awaiting the first one.Do You?Don't Ask For A Chance, Demand What You Need.
The End of the WorldI didn't prepare for the end of the world.I somehow thought that we, reclusive in a hardened bubble-shell, would survive it.I didn't brace for impact, I didn't even consider it happening to us. Why would I?I didn't prepare rations, bedding or bunkers.It didn't occur to me to imagine a post-apocalyptic world in which our love wasn't enough.I didn't see it coming. It destroyed me nonetheless.The end of the world doesn't care for your readiness.
Finding HappinessShe's burning up like a suicide noteAnd upon it's legacy linesScribed in crimson inkIs all her little curios of happiness.Before misery waddled up,Knocked over her correction fluid;Erasing all her joy in a blink.There's a tape recorder by her sideSkipping a death tone melody;The silence she hides inside.Should she stop.And rewind?Wipe her days of self-pity and hateUntil she can record a new songUpbeat to a happy tune of fate.By her crumpled flat dress,Glares wild, her knife and her pills,Though the sight macabreOnly sets her heart ablaze to chills.Serrated metal to barcode inA reminder of all her undying painAnd the dark she kisses within.Numb, she knocks back medicine,Her bus stop on the highway of life.Faltering she drops lipstick blade andTo an honest mirror she turns...What ever happened toThe smiling girl?What ever happened toHer innocent future?Tears fade to a calm stareWhich unravels a soulful grin;A u-shape of acceptanceTo new challenges she mus
lines for rae armantroutFor instance, an old oak grovedisassembled.And to you, Rae, because what appearslike campfiresis always the cosmic cascading bodies,torched and tumbling,and someone screaming evacuate-meaning rebuild, re-haunt.***Reading about the experiment,it became evident-the traffic of moans,crowds of shadows standingin the peripheral,a sense of expectation and dread.This is how death comes in poems:The last campfire in the distance goes dark.
AnimusIf I couldI would vomit my soulAnd let it chain itselfTo my speech Like a parasite.I would let it Become my puppet master,And let it sway my armsIn directionsI never thoughtI would.Instead, I've kept my soulTrapped in a cageAnd watched itTry to biteIt's way to freedom.
Mia Efkeria?Μια Ευκαιρία;Αν κανείς δε σου δίνει μια ευκαιρία για πολύ καιρό,τότε όταν τελικά κάποιος σου δώσει μία,το πιο πιθανό είναι να αποτύχεις.Και θα ζητήσεις μια δεύτερη ευκαιρία,αλλά δεν την αξίζεις,
ForeverYou asked mehow far I would gofor you but you never tookinto considerationthat the earth is round soI’ll end uprepeating myself.
-the stars shineso brightlyin those brown eyes(they're terribly empty, aren't they?)and i knowthat every dayis a struggle(i'm sorry i can't help you)because youhave been sob r o k e n(and no matter what i do, nothing can fix you)but the emptinessin those eyesseems to fade(and life flickers in those brown hues)so i'll climbevery mountain topfor you(just so you can see all the stars in the universe)
i wish i could.i wish i was a clicheso my paper heart wouldn'tbleed anything but ink