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ChurchThe last time I went to church, I couldn't take communion because I couldn't have nicey nice feelings about my mother, and you are only supposed to take it if you have forgiven those who have wronged you.
I tried once again to forgive and I could not bring myself to feel love for her and I left the sanctuary and I cried and I cried until I ACHED in the bathroom;
tears and hot snot making marks on my dress, because I WANTED to have those nicey nice feelings and I had prayed for them
and I had worn spots in the shape of my knees in the carpet at every alter I had ever known.
It was a familiar pattern.
I had prayed for forgiveness for my sins and I had begged over and over for the ability to forgive others. Twenty years of inadequacy.
And again, a woman prayed with me.
She held my hands and handed me tissue, and she prayed such a nice prayer about how grateful she was that the Lord was using her to bring me healing.
She had tears shining in her eyes as she talked about how blessed she was
UntitledIf I were to kiss you; even your forehead
I would find blood on my lips
Yours, mine, or some victim's--who knows.
If I were to hold you, my arms would be empty half the time
You are not always all here
I'd apply my dripping heart to your wounds but to be honest I don't think I have that healing touch,
Nor have I magic tears
But I will still sit here, friend of my bones
Though my presence will still leave you feeling alone
We will lean back to back, and together...
Together we will burn.
Breathe DeepI am at the bottom of the sea
No, the ocean; I am down in the depths
My fingers and heels pressed into the sand
My body lifting slightly with the currents.
I am here and my eyes are open
A blue so deep it implodes
The darkness is a relief
I see nothing, finally.
Digging my fingers in, I inhale
As deep as my lungs will allow
I taste plankton on my tongue and
There is a burning in my nose but I take it all in.
Through my eyelids and my kneecaps
Though my lower back and through my teeth
And I feel my heart lifting, down here in the deep.
I am at home here, where my lungs ought to rupture
Where most fear what lurks in the murk
I am more alive under half a planet of water
Than I ever was on mere dirt.
I would never have known, if not for you
I owe you so much; you and this cinderblock you gave me
Such a thoughtful goodbye, I won't ever forget
Your loving hands, and how they saved me.
UntitledMy pen is not silent. It burns in the night, keeping me awake until it is satisfied.
I am listening, and my heart is full of fire pumping through my veins to light my eyes.
I am not gagged by contentment any longer.
I am full of light and of dark and of peace and of war and I will bleed flames out through my fingertips until the world knows me by the scorch marks I leave on the pages that their hearts are printed on.
I will write, and they will feel my fire.
I will write, and they too will burn.
Writer's CurseYou find me in the night, when sleep refuses to take me
When my eyes are heavy and my mind wanders paths it used to know
Reckless, daring the dark to reach out and grab hold
Come and get me, old friend; come and fight me, old foe.
I will meet you gladly where the streetlights no longer reach
Use my hand and write the things that I'm afraid to speak.
Happiness is lovely and I am grateful for all I hold
But I forget to appreciate the warmth, I find, when I do not feel the cold.
Show me what you've got back there in the corners of my mind
I refuse to shy away from whatever you may find
Broken memories are just fuel to add to my burning fire
Bring it on, do your worst, make me a god damned pyre
Do not let me fall complacent, my old friend, my old foe
See I don't intend this life to end in a mere faint glow
Come closer still, I welcome you, with eager, open arms
Cut deep and draw me open, bare my bones and do me harm
Remind me of exactly what I am capable of
Remind me why I fight, why I wri
Cigarette SmokeCigarette smoke reminds me of brick walls
Cool to the touch and rough on my back
It makes me think of stairwells and sidewalks
Forgotten butts and gum in the cracks.
When my nostrils burn I remember people
People I loved and people I miss
People who gave me good advice, bad advice, whatever
Life stories in 10 minute increments.
Cigarette smoke brings me back to secrets
Things only admitted outside the back door
Crazy theories, ideas and plans
Painted with lips and dirty fingers and ashes.
When I wrinkle my nose and cough a little
I remember glowing embers in the dark
I think of the bonds I have made and broken
Silently leaning shoulder to shoulder.
Cigarette smoke doesn't seem to bother me
Though I've never smoked one for myself
I sit on upturned milk crates empty handed
And yet my heart is calm and full.
The tough gets growingI'm knee-deep in mud,
grumbling and mumbling
about what I did
to deserve this mess
And my mother glares,
"When I planted you,
I put you deep in the dirt,
not to bury you alive,
but to teach you that
when the growing gets tough,
the tough gets growing."
pick up the slack and
pick up that slack-jawed shadow of yours
dragging on wet pavement under your soles
and hurry it along, we ain't got all day here
flex your white-boned fingers and
taut knuckles and pluck the soul from
its coffin in your slick throat
the sun has better places to be than in your sky.
Falling Back into Placei wait for wisdom
the sludge tells me
to come in
awaits, just beneath the tack
of its sticky skin
and i know
that what waits there
is more patient
eternal and hungry
but the peace
is only a skin
grow upyou say
i am weak
i have never
worked for anything
i am not sorry
i should take
the pills the doctor
i will never
know what it is to
hurt the way that you hurt,
plant me in the ground
listen to the way my nature sounds
when i turn from something black
to something luminous, proud
you turned me into a shadow, you prick
remember that? remember this?
yeah, the condom broke, you
piece of shit, at least i tried
to be careful, at least when
you cried, i kissed your
say what you want
about my judgment.
my immaturity, my general
lack of readiness for
anything. but i was good
to you, and i tried,
and i am sorry that
you hurt so much
that you can't
do it as elegantly
as i can.
you have never
learned to love
the grit: the place
where my spirit sags,
where my love
as if biology could have been any clearer,
cleaning your spit from my bedroom mirror-
i can smell your genes and
they smell fucking good to me,
but i keep telling myself,
a girl at the airportwhen she eats cake
she presses a napkin
to her lips with each bite--
frosting smears are impolite
murderers of good,
faraway first impressions.
when she sees someone
beautiful, she hides her face
behind a book, book shelf, closed door
like a pious man hides his eyes
when she has something
important to say among a crowd
she utters it like the bah
of a vulnerable lamb--
a fragile thing, a hesitant mantra
to be drowned and consumed
without thought or care by the sound
of louder others.
when she falls in love
she looks around
to make sure no one saw
and when someone sees
she refuses to believe
their eyes tried to catch
Our destiny is determined
Reliving the past
Enduring the suffering
Visions of the future
Endeavours to come
Representing life as a whole
9 Countenances for the Curious1.
My limbs have become instruments,
but, unlike the piano of your memories,
I am still not anyone's to play.
I think I am finite,
that the limits of me are dictated
by flesh and numbers
on an inverted scale
but the dog on my lap
doesn't care what I weigh;
she wants only
to love me and be loved.
the pain that anchors you
strains your back,
the ship of your life
is hamstrung upon a reef
and you think you are watching
a dolphin at play
but siren songs deceive you.
my ship sank beneath the waters
years ago, this bubble of life
sustains me even as i drown:
there are storms in the depths
of me, and you see only
the ocean's calm.
At 7, I swallowed stories
like candy; didn't understand
that too much leaves you bloated.
At 17, I breakfasted on books
like pancakes; too caught up
to tell (some things should be special).
At 27, I feasted on fiction
like home-cooked meals; didn't know
some of it could poison you.
At 37, I hope I will be picking
at poetry; letting the flavours
of the words
The Washed MindI have let the difficulties flood my body
From head, the worries slip to my heart
like children falling through the cracks
of some broken floor
under which is nothing besides me
My mind is melting from the inside
Swarmed by maggots and the meaningless questions:
Would my mind work better
without all these walls
stopping it from evolving?
Where did these obscene problems come from?
Surely my mind was born free
Surely my opinions exist somewhere...
Or is freedom nothing but a joke
to the true me?
So, I ate nails and needles to clear my mind
The bleeding and the pain
were both evil and refreshing
I have learned the lesson
fairy tales are the shadows on my eyes
Now my mind is clear as melting glass
running down my cold spine
washing away the sins,
violent thoughts and sorrowful memories
from the edge of my past
CoffeeI love you like I love coffee
A comforting aroma, bringing discomforting memories
See, I can't take you straight
I sugarcoat you and whitewash you until you suit my tastes
You are fantastic over ice and with so much caramel and whipped cream
that I can no longer taste your bitterness
Or when you are full of Bailey's
When you are mocha
I love you like I love coffee, darling--
That is to say,
AndromedaAmongst the darkened skies
Brightened by only starlight
Field & Sea.
Gravity is only an afterthought
Hilltops become ladders into the sky while
Inferior planets stare down upon the Earth
Jealous of such simplicity yet contemplating grandeur.
Keppler only thought of science
Linear, elliptical, movement…
Mythology had no such thoughts
Neptune & Nebulas both inhabit space
Orbiting across the lonely darkness
Probably never worried about mundane things
Questioning their existence
Right now or for all eternity such as us.
Shooting stars make us joyful while
Terminator is an otherworldly spectacle
Unknown to all those hidden in their houses
Various stars await us outside
Waiting to play like we did before
Xenagogue & inviting
Youthful but ancient curiosities.
Zenith induced euphoria continues until daylight…
dead dog julyI.
the summer heat lays limp in the city’s lap,
breathing long oppressive breaths.
it does not even lift its lolling head
to bark out hoarse indignancy
when a strange man brings the mail.
there might be heavy rain today,
brought by some swollen, murmuring cloud.
the world will whirl and howl,
then settle down,
to die a little more.
o, quickly, love,
press your back against the wall in fear
as the universe spreads her arms and
shuts her eyes
and starts to summon the end of all things.
come with me
to the place of windows full of speechless afternoon
hot windy whispers of half-formed solutions and resolutions,
sweltering sunlit meadows we’ll wander and then forget.
o quickly, love,
let’s to the season of forgetting
and unwind all of our harshest memories
and fill the universe’s mouth
with mute cotton.
i’ll whisper these words to you some evening
with all my exigency in the hand i rest on your arm—
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