falling in number but still clad in obfuscations
like a second skin,
were finally coerced to concede that even they
could not explore death
like a foreign country.
for her.it's midnight and I'm writing love lettersfor her. by this-epiphany
on my skin to the woman who raised me. it's midnight
and every limb has a story. all
my collarbone remembers is the frantic
hurry of your footsteps when it broke under the weight
of gravity and mistaken desire to fly and my
broken pink umbrella, long-gone, remembers too. my elbows
remember the firm pull of your hands in the grocery
store. my cheeks remember your makeup and
my clumsy fingers dipping in like paint pots and my neck
remembers all your strands of pearls. I remember
when you were young again and wearing
red and holding cups of tea in hands
that didn't shake yet and I remember hands that knew how
to peel apples, curling skins like red ribbons over
the edge of the blade, confident
in motion, and I remember your voice and I remember
your songs and I remember.
it's midnight and the water is cold and I
am somewhere beyond feeling. but
my love letters are only ink and they are washing
away and I watch them swirl at my feet and I
Stay With MeStay With Me by mirovia
I have died a thousand deaths since that first glimpse. A thousand times I have drowned in the want of you.
To finally have you here with me The air, thick with your scent; I think of high priestesses of old, bathed in rosemary, clove, green leaf; of consorts to kings. I wonder how many you have seduced. It doesn't matter. Just for a moment, this moment, you will be mine, as I have always been yours. For this moment, I would trade my soul. For this moment, I will give my life.
"I cannot bear the thought of you in the arms of another," I say, brushing my hand soft against your cheek. "Be mine, just for tonight."
Arms stretched out for me. Lips parting, I feel the hunger in you. Now that I have offered, can you resist? Your arms around my neck, pulling me closer. I had feared it would be cold, here in your embrace. But it is
city people, people without namesHe wanted to remember it forever.city people, people without names by consolecadet
He wanted to remember her softness and the way she held onto him when they kissed: gently, as though she was afraid he'd break, but firm enough that he felt her arms long after she'd let go. He wanted to remember the tendriled chill of the alley behind the Chinese restaurant and the streetlights shining off the rust-pocked paint of the dumpsters and the radiant warmth of her skin, the dry, gradient heat that seemed to come more from her core, magically, rather than from the processes of metabolism and homeostasis and all of those good long sciencey words that burst into and traipsed through his head (and sometimes out of his mouth) when he was too overwhelmed to think of anything else. He wanted to remember the distant pulse of club music, the sound of passing cars close by and emergency vehicles far, far away, climbing city streets to murder victims and burglaries and false alarms, the clipping of pigeons taking flight from rooftops above, the faint w
free verse poetryif you ask to see my god,free verse poetry by baharimtoto
i will show you the trees;
like ancient grandfathers ,
bark and tree trunk removed
in time over sea-spells of
rain and mist and fog;
if you ask to see my prayers,
i will show you the rivers;
drenched in cool veins of the
deer and stag antler, broken
bridges in masses over which
muddy feet run;
if you ask to hear my psalms,
i will sing to you the songs of the birds;
in a voicebox similar to the
bruja who lives in the forest -
old and sacred, screaming to
the sky for wishes and bottles
full of messages;
and if there lives children in
the river rocks, their hair combed
of algae, faces wet with paint from
dirt and fish,
they sleep in her arms like homeless drunkards, sick from daylight.
if you ask to meet my teacher,
i will ask you to speak to the earth;
and sing like the bears at night who
wear deerskin and coyote skulls, brushing
the sky of stars and
building the moon.
runoffchemicals course through myrunoff by holyolyoly
slowly, from underneath my fingernails
from my eyes
from out of my
Yesterday.You used to show me yourYesterday. by ohfever
skeleton, the secrets inside
of you, your marrow. You
run, you shut your eyes, now.
You shut your eyes at the color
of the flowers, the leaves, everything
is orange. I am gathering
acorns. I am wearing your mask.
to an ocean-eyed boy:im writing poetry in crooked black lines down your throat and along your neck because maybe they will lead you back to me.to an ocean-eyed boy: by oneofthose-rachels
i'm looking through attics and dark broken alleyways for something to believe in, but all im coming up with is dust and empty pockets of gasp-for-breath moments when im alone and the silence is crushing down on me. i cant find it, cant find the faith youve slung so easily around your neck next to your collection of paper thoughts and that piece of my heart.
(but i could never find you, either, so maybe
its just me.)
yesterday i went to the beach when it was raining. around me the sand melted into gray, but i liked it that way because blinding yellow reminds me of you and the lies we used to tell. so i drew hearts in the sand and played games with the waves, wondering what id done to deserve this lost w</i>a</i>ndering feeling.
because it didn't start like this. on the day i met you i was catching dreams
Train Under WaterBrother,Train Under Water by zmorgason
I'm writing to tell you I'm dropping out of college; I haven't told anyone. I'm twitching, Michael. The hunger came back a few weeks ago, and I'm not sure it ever left. Regardless, it's crying now, and I need to go. I need to keep moving on. I'm leaving for Chicago tomorrow. My train takes off in the afternoon, and when I get there, I'll leave again. I want to go somewhere new, Michael.
I want to go somewhere I have never seen before.
Now, I know you have to be worried, but don't, Brother. Don't you be afraid. I'll write to you wherever I go. I won't leave a return address, please don't try to follow me. You can't, Michael, you're too smart. Your place is here among these people; and mine is out there. You're meant for your books; I'm meant for my trees. I want to roar from the woods with a pen mightier than He
DelilahWhat everyone knows about Delilah is that she's gorgeous. She's tiny and permanently pre-teen in appearance, with cartoon-big eyes and perfect skin. Her body is immaculate; she runs around the lake every morning, ear buds jammed in, tiny feet pounding furiously as she runs almost impossibly fast. Everyone knows she knots feathers in her hair, ties them to her clothing, hangs them from her rearview mirror. She's childlike, with her tiny wrists and her wide sad eyes, and so everyone touches her head or pulls her to their body or picks her up and dumps her over their shoulder, which makes her shriek and giggle but I know it also makes her a little sad being that helpless.Delilah by SourPopsi
She loves fantasy novels, loves every facet of them, and if you ever met her you'd know this by the end of your first conversation, guaranteed. She is known for her silliness, which is, to be very honest, really the only thing that let any of us love her at first. She's just so damn gorgeous, it is impossible not to be j
long nightcome, come what may; the nightlong night by RestlessSands
is lean and our fingers are fat, candle
clay stubs wrapped round
wine bottle necks,
swapping lipstick with that cold wine
cold sweat -
tang of metal clanging round our
cistern of words that turn to lime
as soon as they are bleached out
come, come what will,
tumble up the yard
and into the morning
a barbeque growls into life
in the shadows, little ghouls
with the plum-meat of their eyes drawn down
and voices like wet cement being scritched,
scratch their feet
click, clicki will make my unapologies--click, click by disrhythmic
mark my skin in the patterns on prey animals.
i will hide but i will not stand transfixed,
and neither run:
lemmings are an urban myth,
letter to a little me1. these are the anniversaries that will stay with you,letter to a little me by disrhythmic
for better or worse:
things go up in december, as if the coming of a new year
gives the old one a kick in the pants.
look forward to decembers.
time likes to tie weights to your collarbones with silk ribbons.
right now i am two years into a subdued grief,
five years into a wild regret. but don't be scared;
just as many feathers balance out the iron.
i am three years into something truly
2. you will get better. the words on the page will eventually
come a bit closer to the pictures in your head.
by the way, you think in pictures--you don't see that now,
but look for it. use it to your advantage.
stop with the heavy moralizing. you try too hard.
you will abandon false modesty and snobbishness,
as you will find out that they are not attractive qualities.
you will, however, trade them in for navelgazing
and perhaps a bit of haughtiness and pre
4 Traits of a Damn Good Boyi. drive4 Traits of a Damn Good Boy by disrhythmic
buddy, you were a throwback. you had a lot of wolf in you,
a feral soul.
i hope heaven has eased the stiffness in your joints
and brushed the gray from your fur
and left you sleek and gorgeous,
a solid pack of muscle with the kind of determination
that can never be taught.
i hope there are lizards for you to chase,
doves for you to launch yourself after
and catch out of the air with a finesse that would make professionals weep.
buddy, i hope someone's up there throwing a stick for you every now and then.
i hope you give 'em hell when they want it back.
buddy, it seemed like the world was a very scary place for you.
i'm not sure why,
and maybe i laughed at you a little--
at the neurotic puppy inhabiting the commanding form
of a hunter--
and sometimes i got angry at you
and your insistence that the world was out to get you
and i'm sorry for that.
it took me years to realize that something must have happened
to plant a deep and unshakeable fear
I am continually surprised, humbled, and honored that people enjoy my writing. <3
The WeekendI show up unannounced, like clockwork, and when you let me in, the act of opening the door flows smoothly into the act of pulling me against you. This is our weekend. We won't leave this room for another forty-eight hours.
The FountainThere were sixteen tall windows. She'd counted them over and over when she was small, her chubby finger outstretched as she spun in tiny circles. Eight walls, sixteen windows, thirty-two black curtainsthe arithmetic of her childhood.
SolsticeOnce upon a time, when you were still sunlighthouses and shimmering existence wherever you were needed most, you found him. He was November, shaky on his first last legs, and you saw through the mind-twistings he feigned to the mind-twistings that were really there, knotted up in his dreams.
PilkunnussijaHere's what I think:
the beauty's in the leavingRead aloud here.
StringsNatalia was, blatantly, a pianist. It was impossible for her to have been anything else. She had this liquid grace about her that whispered sonatas and nocturnes and moody Beethoven. She'd sit at the piano in the college music room, rocking slowly back and forth and making a waltz rumble deep within its wooden body. Her fingers were long but her nails were always cut short so they wouldn't click against the keys, and her hair, long and smooth, was always pulled back into a big, soft braid.
SyracuseAnd the sea rolls on and on and on and I can hear your song calling to me across the waves and waves and waves. This boat is my coffin, the tides my pallbearers, the seagulls my mourners, and your song my requiemand there are better, faster, simpler ways to die. I could be swallowed up, and down and down and down, with the merciless weight of the sea on my breastbone and the current throbbing in my ears and sinking and sinking and sinking with your song following me all
Moon Eye Fire Eye Sit
ConversationAnd I've been telling you, you know, how heavy the sun feels and how it makes my muscles jump like a bird's wings as it flutters gently down on a windowsill. I still have those glass bottles on my mantle where the morning light hits themstill there, full of colored water and seashells. And maybe I'll tell you how they light up the ceiling in blue and green and pale yellow just like they always have, like nothing ever changed.
A Love Story in Four Actsi.
summergirlNow read aloud over here. Do give it a listen, won't you?
the beauty's in the leavingRead aloud here.
you need to have a plan...so here's to
three dogs in the churchyardThe chain link around the graveyard runs straight through an oak tree. The bark looks crippled where it passed through the wire--mutilated in a faint diamond pattern--but you can see around the edges where it's fusing together smooth again.
waking upand imagine my surprise