AstrologicalI have lost myself toVenus & Mars,tangled in their mismatched limbs.Just dream dust & shattered prayersbegging for a new set of skin(she can't remember where she orbits).Pluck these fractured wings;the Sun & Moon no longer acheto see me fly in their luster.
AbsenceShe used to lie awake all nightconsuming letters with voracity;it was the utopian lair she createdto slip away from the turbulent world.Only too soon she learnedthat you can't always hidewithin parchment crevices.(reality always finds you)Even now, when she yearns to fall between printed canyons,she can't help but curse those passive and lethargic days;"It's too damn easy to fall in love with words on a page."
lowercasei carve insignificant poetry into my tongueand hope the world will pardon the lack ofbated silence, for i write in nothing butdespondent screams and uppercase;i've forgotten how to let everything goand i'm tired of my incessant howling,because it seems to me that the quietwords are the ones that are the mostheard.
curiouser and curiouserseventeen years &still chasing white rabbits,it's no wonder i've neverbeen in love.we're all mad here;no one can find the road toyesterday.(i don't knowwhere to go)let's fall down a hole.(i'm just a chrysaliswith no butterfly wings)off with my head when itcan only imagine nonsense& clockwork hearts.give me a cheshire's smile-i want to knowwhat it feels liketo be in wonderland.
Unheard of and undefinedSometimes,I have this sudden impulse tobite off my tongue.It wasn't made forpretty words and kept promisesin the first place.Back to back andstraight on til daybreak,our soliloquy seems never ending.You laugh,I wince;I whisper,you interrogate.When was the last timeyou remembered to cry for all the broken heartsthat were not your own?
pretty little poet fingersfabricated gods rest between thelanguid crevices ofher fingertips, scribbling profanitiesall over her skin.she's just mismatched bones& blue bruises, telling of forbiddenlove through archaic letters.a tongue made forwanderlust, & eyes madefor the stars,even the devil fears her.
IcarusSun girl,the whispering stars& feathered clouds dancefor you tonight.Do not let anyoneclip your wings;you were made for the skies.
Perennial BloomsI want orchid fingers,gossamer & shy.But my reflection,she charms viperswith bloody thorns.Too many corroded anemoneshave taken root in my soul.My rose-tipped lipswill shatter the mirror,& her poisonous seeds willincinerate inside my nowphosphorescent heart.
Howling For TreacheryI wish I could liveon nothing but air;killing the hungerto consume everyimprovised lie. (Maybe all along, I've been the wolf in sheep's clothing.)Why is it that whenI exercise my ownfeeble infallibility,these fangs justcontinue to honeon fraudulence? (It's too painful to continue howling at this contorted reflection.)Yet every timeI take an ax toexterminate thecounterfeit beast,its claws just leaveanother patch ofscars on the insideof my skin to remindme just what I am. (The girl who cried wolf will never be able to butcher her own heart.)
NaPoWriMo- Day 5She used to try and catch butterfliesuntil she realized their beautyrubbed off on her fingers;but she will always be loving youwith those digits.20 years from nowwhen even the love on her armsis unrecognizable.
confessions of a misguided poetcertain things in my mindwould be better left unsaid,such as:i. how I stared at a bottle of pillsfor an hour as if they would slide downmy throat on their own.ii. when I stepped out of the showerwith bloody knees and didn't botherto put a band aid over them. iii. why I can't keep a smile longenough for someone to takemy picture.iv. who I wanted to be when I wasa little girl and who I amright here and now. v. where I tried to jump off abridge and landed in waterdeep enough for me to swim in.vi. what I wanted to scream atyou that day but I just stayedsilent and hoped you would forget.no more pretty words andludicrous metaphorstoday; just life,the truth, and everythingthat I never want to tellanyone else.
scraps and sacramentsyou,beautiful siren girl with melodiesentangled in her hair: you areshell-shocked and sea-struckeven though you cannot standthe sensation of sand beneathyour toes.you have fingers for prying, picking,pulling at your skin and nestingin that hollow space betweenyour bones. and if anyone asks,you will swear there are monsterssleeping in the concaves of your ribs;there are ghosts beneath your tongue,embittered, and you are not the wordsyou speak.they say there is an answer, little girl(sometimes you begin to believe you area scarecrow on the border of realitybegging people to turn the other way;and the mirror will agree)how far have you gone? a feather inthe breeze who won’t promise to returnagain; there is a wandering warmth inthe hesitation of your harbored fear.where will you be in six months whenthe future has become itself and youare still astray? little one, no one is like youin the way you sway to the cadence of adissonant night. no one knows your
AimlessSpring forgot how to begin anew, so Winter stole her amnesic heart and tossed it to the wolves."Devour me," the stars seemed to beg; so Gravity plunged them into the ocean's nebulous depths.These lips no longer offer hymns up to fallen gods— so Fate sacrificed herself for the chance to be reborn.
intricately ordinaryI am the wayward child,subliminal and defeathered—almost perfect.What's that in your heart?Myths and the things that really matterlike wallflower clippings,unfiltered and restless.Don't forget to let me go;the keepers of my heartare undedicated,sleeping behind the wheel.
lies, she wrotei. just a mimicry, really;uncompromisinglydesperate to shine.ii. counterfeit & clockwise,tasting words on herunworthy tongue.iii. with a dysfunctional mind& apocryphal dictionary,she cannot clone it all.iv. "say anything," the penwhispers as she tremblesamong ink-scented fraudulence.v. but she just laughs & plays the part,forgetting what the pages told her:"truth is stranger than fiction."
Dandelion QueenI dream of the ocean;that paper-thin line wherethe current swallows the starsand the water churns violet(you tell me to bequiet,dandelion queen, we'veheard all these words before)tonightI will sleep heavyand wake a few hours before dawn,only to forget my namemy wave-weathered heart will cry,I will cry (my biggest fearis drowning in too manyof my own weighted wordsyou tell me to bequietso I can hear the world breathe)I want to go home
unfilteredii’d tell you I hated youif you had a voice or a face,or any sense of tangibility asidefrom the spider fingers you useto crawl through my brainyou are not beautiful, likeall the other poets protest. youare the red in my eye, likea pen bled; the ragged tomy fingernails, the hitch of my breathwhen it catches in my throat.iibefore i go, i’ll write a million letters (a millionpennies for my thoughts, bitter, embeddedunder my tongue) and send them to peoplei’ve never met, telling them how my eyes were bluewhen i was little but now are the same grayi’m choking on, how i am maddie and how that’s shortfor a name i was never graceful enough for, howi tell myself stories of lives i’ll never live so ican go to sleepbecause when i’m really gone, that’s all that’ll be leftof meiii(it’s funny what peopletry to justify with words)ivyou never loved me,you selfish thing, i wonder whyi wasted so many nights relivin
it's the little things that follow you to sleeplately, i’ve been wasting every minutechoking on inevitabilities; wonderinghow many times i’ll promise myselfthis year i’ll be different untili move on to something lessunattainable. truthfully, i’m just sorryfor the ones who still thinki’m tryingand i have been waiting anugly amount of years for myprophetic completion-- a love likei say you’re beautiful when really i meanyou make my heart stop, likei was born to meet you or perhapsi’m actually breaking some universal lawof equilibrium; loving somethingso unnaturallybeautiful.i want a love like that:napkin poems, handwrittenand tender and accidental collisionsigniting a thousand forest firesbeneath my skin; me,blossoming like a wildfloweron a california highway, baskingin the sun and ignored definitionof earthly limitations. i want to believethat somewhere, there’s a boybuilt of summer sunsets and shooting starsfor every homesick girl who neverquite fit in, t
in which I become beautifulI drown my conscience inthe holy water of my wrists,I carve hearts from emptypaper for my galaxyboywith stars written in his skin,and I swallow moths tomuffle the emptiness andhelp me fly away.
as numerous as the stars under your skinand here I am, reinterpreting the definable universein relation to you, the poet, and the gravitationof your hips (the parentheticals of your sighs, the longingin your star-ward cries, the vespertine scent lingeringon your weary skin).I would love every piece of you. I would stay up too longand watch the night crumble away, to whisper togetherthe scraps of your misdirected sanity. I would call you perfectwhen it wasn’t true, and become the answeryou spent an entire existencesuffering for.You owe me this, sugartongue; the sweet silenceof your teeth. [this story is like a million othersrejected before it, glorifying earthbound angels:please]rewrite the world for me.
NaPoWriMo Day: 1I’ve got 30 daysto defy Icarus:teach this rose thorn hearthow to fly.[ All I want to be is the space between the stars. ]But, I’m here,ripping holes in blank pageswhile nursing nebulae knuckleswith white plastered walls.
I'm talking myself in circles,I screamed,"There is nothingwrong with me, not a damnthing.”I wanted to believethe big dipper on my armmeant something morethan sun marks & kisses.But, how can I trust wordsthat slip through my teethas easy as breathingwhen this starhas only ever learnedhow to f a l l ?
Poetry,Poetry,it’s like cultivating a greenhousewith broken fingers.-dp
Loving a WriterWhen you read their work –and it is work,and you will often come second to the job –it’s best to know which pieces are fictions,which ones are wishes,and which parts are for you.
Eau de InsomniaYour smell lingers on my pillow,so I do not sleep.I choke on the oxygenwe no longer share.It's laced with thoughts of you;misty tendrils that take holdand spread like ivyalong the walls of my lungs.How can I close my eyes whenI see you imprintedon the insides of their lids?As if your face was the sun,and I stared for too long,welcoming the blindnessthat never came.
If you drink enough vodka it tastes like loveHe’d whisper sweet nothings to treesHoping the roots would remember his nameI watched him drop pieces of himself like bread crumbsHis lantern limbs quiveringI don’t think he ever really knew how lovely he wasAnd on a sunny day when the pavement was sweatingOut onto the roadsideEveryone else found out tooI don’t think I’ll ever forget him because he was like a dream catcherSo quiet and magical in the way his eyes turned green in the darkAnd blue in the winterLike he stored the world’s secrets behind his cuckoo spit heart
A Poet's RomanceShe was the quiet sort,tsunamis tuckedwithin her eyes,anxieties pinnedto pottery skin;she would mold herselfinto moonlight butterfliesand glist'ning calla lilies,pure and white andbeautiful.and when night castitself upon her inheated, hard'ning flames,she’d smash herselfupon the rocksand in morning startagain.
AquariusShe is the winter's heartand a January zephyr—amethyst ankles frozen in time.(eleven stars circulate her glacial ribs)Forever shin-deep in the seas ofa conformed humanity,she shall always sanctify the stains.