headsmeni am a satyr:martyrs, executioners,you areelectrocution &stygian smoke;oh, prophets,i am drowning in Styx &melting my mind into divinity.
this is the way that i will extract my revengei am nothing but phantom painsreborn into old bones;oh, sugar skeleton, tell me -what's it like to be a ghost?
and we'll rotoh, poet boy,you are notthumbed bruisesor honey bones& you have onlyever been a godinside of your own head
you talk like a travestyoh, mercury boy, you can'twrite your way out of thisbody or out of this mind;you can pray like it's high-fashion,insist you're only burning yourself out(but tell me - do you feel like a god yet?)if only for murky mirrors &silver cicadas caughtin your ribcage, you'vegot a knack for decaying
Vertebraewe dressed oursalt burns;purloined ribbons& bone crownsspitting static throughour buzzing t.v. teethyou're a silent migraine:blue-blooded, honey-soaked[& i want to be somethingtoo pristine totouch]
i can't keep walking on these dry-rot bonesoh, i am not a poet;like the ink scratchesof plath, i ama diamond-dreamerstraw-stitchedspecter boy: decay,dispose, & disappointbecause this is the waythat writers wane -(this hangman head is nosurvivor story, & godsdo not burn outin supernovas)
all we ever do is decayI.nobody falls in love with saturn,but everyone, her rings.II.this disjointed skull is a smirkingmirror bending back reflections.this disjointed skull is a sleep-smoker.III.you were a utopian seven lives ago,but nobody lives in this body anymore.
speak like you are a god -I.with these vorticose veinsi am withering, a nightwalkeramongst young phantomsII.the hangman in my head doesn't sleep;he doesn't bat an eye
confess, like there's blood pouring out your mouthfear is licking at thiscobwebbed mind & ifeel cinematic; like asteam-powered poet,i'll write myself into amisanthropic migraine& outline cinder bonesto match - ingenue,you are an esoteric'snightscape & i, yourmorning's fever burns.
.when her love left, it leftthe house emptyand she saysi hope one day it'llcome back to me,cos i don't keep this shotgunon my front porch for nothin'
aubreyYou are a three-day lightning stormthat leaves only plastic bags and stray dogsflitting through the river runway streets.You are dark purple and blue cacophonies,searing-white and shredded muscle tendrils,and seams bursting from blistering electricity—I am not afraid of you.My father has whirling weatherveins too,but my mother coaxed it to his irises and fingernails;typhoon boy, you too will find your stormchaser.She will have a flagpole straight spine and sunshineclenched in her fists like crumpled dollar bills, andmore importantly, she will make you feel okay.You deserve okay.
i don't need to sell my soul laughing against frost, kissing stylish arsonists + I still love every sky escaping from your lips
i'm only worth my weight in wordsyour gaunt little saturn-boy,your venus in blue: he's gothoneybees eating at his mind& cinder-ash rotting in his teeth;(oh the kid's just like a cigarette -the way he's burned himself bone-weary)
reflexive verb.a note scribbled in a torn notebook: "Quedare": tostay (oh, i wish i could).
because i'm like a relapse (of you or youth)baby blues cannot cure suicide agendas.all these poets do is wither, wither,waste - decomposing bones justenough to trade them in forwords & kill themcell bycell &conversations bloom between my tongue &teeth or two choice vertebrae; thoughtsburst like blood vessels,like self disgust(i am more catatonicthan i am catastrophic).
heretic.admired & afar,his beauty became a childlike caricatureof his defiantly devious demeanour.euphoric ecstasy found its feathers, flying him'til gravity grounded gushes of his history on my helpless hips,his insanity insistent on injecting juvenile judgments into my kingdom,killing love & leaving lust,as malleable memories manoeuvre my mindnear never-ending nausea.oh, other-worldly oppression,please place me at peace!a qualm quickens the riot rising in the rosebud refuge of my ribcage,sand spreading through the time-glass(my time-glass)underneath the vile vagrant with wicked wings,wanting water in xerarch.yes, i yowl, yeszeus.
immortal enemyi heard you whispermy name tonight; you're buriedeight miles away.
.they say that you are thework of the devil; you'll haveblack orbs for eyes and a tongueas sharp as your fathersand i hope you will not feel a thingwhen they pull back your blanketsand carry you out, when they leaveme with nothing but creases
Endless TalesII am the haiku of my smiles,The limerick of my frowns,The sonnet of my love stories,And the couplet of my thoughts.III am a ticking time bomb;And poems are the fragments of my blood,Mixed with the immortality of my soul,Carved into every echoes in the universe.IIII am never a story,Never a lesson to be learnt,Never a tale for you to boast;I am the scorching flames burning in the cold winter,I am a raging tsunami,And I could engulf the hell out of you.IVI am the everlasting scorching supernova,I am a whole book of undecided thoughts,I am your troubled curiosity,And every improbability in this universe.I am the paradox of my own time line,The undefined term in your mere dictionary, And the infinite definitions of my own thoughts.(G.L)-Endless Tales
six steps to fixing youstep onecry. scream. bang your fists against the wallsthat keep you locked inside.kick your feet in the air. tell your sister she's stupidand wrong and that you've never loved her.cry. scream. apologize via him to you.let your tears catch on your lashesuntil you can no longer see anything but your owndemise. taste the bitterness left inyour mouth from your own bitching and rot in it.step twobreak a mug. break two. kickthe pieces around the kitchen floor and cry some more.break a plate. break a cup. break a bowl.break a finger because nothing can take away thissort of pain. you are empty and yetyou are filled with so much anger.break a razor and paint pictures across your skin.step threeyou are okay, you tell them.you break three days later and you liein bed, unable to move.step fourstart picking up the pieces. clean up the messyou've made and he's left.use windex to polish off the dirt and
The Way We Are NowPlants grew out ofthe dirt in our bruised lungs andup through our fractured rib cages -their unfurling leavespeered out into the sunlightAnd those thick roots sucked up allthe nutrients that were left,leaving only sootthat ran through our fingersat the first sign ofdanger(That's why we've becomethe way we are now,I guess)But sometimes Ilike to think thatour rib cages are made of weeds-dandelions entangled together, ortendrils wrapped around bonesand resilient when crushed,they'll scream, "Don't youdare give up now.Don't youdare.We will protectthis heart,we swear."
you should be home by nowlast tuesday the house took my hand & said,it's more of a hurricane than a firesince he broke in & burnedmy curtainsmy floorsmy bridgesmy selfbut sometimes I see her with a lighter& she finishes what he didn't do(I think she's afraidof settling in,being quiet)but last tuesday I realized that she kept the lights onto frighten away the bridges & the peopleso no one will come inside& smash the teacups, steal the pipesbecause since he burnt her beds outno one lives there anymore
.the reaper playssolitaire when he's gotsome time to killbut when your time'sup it's back to work, coshe's gotta make a livinglike the rest of us
the suicidal king of heartsthe truth is i haven’t gone to churchin years and the town i was born in is onehalf train tracks, one half hotels and one halffast food restaurants.i guess i was always going to be good at running away.it’s in my blood.i’m getting too old to still want to turninto a mermaid on my sixteenth birthdayso i do not have to worry about taxesand income and the difference between molsand moles and the difference betweenwearing your heart on your sleeveand giving it to someone you trust.it would be nice to not have to worry.but if this poem is about honesty,i have to tell you i still dream about thatsometimes.the thing i’ve noticed about growing up,is that you’ll think you’re old and you’ll think you’re oldbut you’re never really grown up untilyou walk past dandelions without picking themor step on one two three cracks in the sidewalk,without remembering there is something you should beregretting.some days, i’ll
Star-BoundYou said the drops of JupiterHidden in my eyesMade me beautiful.Liar.I was never beautiful.You said I lit up the night likeA galactic revolution andMade the moon seem dullLiar.Wall flowers don’t shine.You said I was Orion’s Belt,Enveloping the vastExpanses of your mindLiar.I can barely hold myself together.You said I was too good for this world,And promised there wasMore to it all.Liar.We both know this isAll I’ll ever be.Funny how someone you callStar-bound canFeel so lostAmong the stars.
we're alone.i want to drive pulsesinto your fractured ribcage,make my words resonatein your hollow vessels;heavy enough to sink eventhe sturdiest of ships.(and we both know you can't float.)but inject me into yourchoking streams, and i'll gladly showyou the meaning of 'alone'.
you've been dead for a year, my deari met you on december 21st,the longest night of the year.you had solstice eyes: cold, dark, alluring.i knew you were not meant to last,powerful as a gale but fragile asthe tulip stems you snapped,a sickening cycle of you,an overwhelming tidal wave.they say two wrongs will never make a right,but i made so many bad choices thati wound up back where I began.it was too easy to love you,but getting you to love me back was impossible.i clawed at your chest until I struck blood,until my nails split into shards.you were born a phantom,and i, your corpse.holding onto you felt like drowning in quicksand;i fought but always sank into your arms.i breathed in dirt, breathed in dust, andfound my organs choked with you,smothered by your existence.you sucked out my breathevery time i kissed you.i died every day with your handknotted in my hair.You left on june 21st,the longest day of the year.i bit down sorrow and deconstructedthe labyrinth within me,the one you hadn't th
you're not silver-tongued, specter boyyou told mewe walked among dead -that we're all(nec)romanticists;now, dearest, i knowwhy skeletonsalways look likethey're smiling.