Mother Nature.Mother Nature.
She is the world’s most notorious serial killer.
No other can be more creative or spontaneous.
Obscuring her weaknesses as her strengths,
Eradicating masses reducing flesh to ashes.
She turns all novels of life into a vengeful thriller.
The effects of her actions are simultaneous.
Her native reach is beyond any man’s length.
The fact is while we worry about taxes,
She could strike again at any given time.
After generations of countless preparations.
We still cannot calculate her complex design.
As she alters her variation to suit any situation.
Some pledge their allegiance to her,
Others doubt whether she exists.
Regardless of the feelings you have towards her.
It is still her terrain to retain, tangle and twist.
With minimal effort she controls the deserts, the concrete and the seas.
She is capable of making grand buildings tumble to their knees.
With ease she can encourage the streets to flourish with disease.
And afterwards create ever green trees with hom
LearningI discover more about you,
you teach me what love is.
I unveil hidden knowledge
everytime you give me a kiss.
The most genuine wonder
when you caress me softly.
Could you help me to discern
dream from reality?
All the ways to love you,
so different from all I knew.
I want do discover everything...
loving you is just so new!
The DreamerEvery morning I wake up laughing
From a dream that I can't remember.
The forgotten memory will be the closest I'll ever come
To having positive emotion envelope my body.
All alone, all alone.
But why say "all"?
I'm the only one.
It's my own fault.
I forced solitude upon myself,
In attempt to escape those that I loathe.
Nobody approaches, fearful of my one-word hostility.
I'm stuck in my own banality.
There's a lack of significance, a lack of motivation to change.
It's too late anyways,
Nothing in this day has changed
So why should I?
It's over now anyways.
I hope I remember that dream tonight.
I've never laughed so hard in my entire life.
Old hauntsNumb fingers fumble at coppers
and a dodgy purple lighter which is unfit for purpose.
Giant splodges of stars
as if God - in a frolic of youthful exuberance
went wild with a paintbrush.
Granite delicately held by shape and contour alone.
Slotted together: a melee of ankles, hips, spontaneous larynx.
Careless hopes, dreams wide, menthol cigarettes.
Thoughts all quiet.
37rumbling like common thunder
wooden chair leg staggering
across the jarrah verandah
accompanied by the
slowly akimbo keeping
the smell of a day off
like the visible fibres of a home
goldthe surface ripples.
you are the sun and alone,
the radiance of a halo not Luna,
whose visage is pale
as bone, whose flesh is cartilage.
peel the wallpaper away,
as grayscale as my touch silver
fades to sparks of ash.
a mist dissolves
to day. and you linger so transient
layer to layer, the clouds set as sheets
on an expanse of skin. tremble:
sea and sky
converge only to exhale
as they expand,
once. atmospheric pressure builds
where stars fall to water.
Wyrmling Ghostwritenew millennium toothache
w feeder hand, aluminum
bubblegum knuckle muncher bumpin' phoenix plumage...
& I rock the Rings, now!
supernova falcon flipper -
was-a-real-boy chicken shitter -
fist-fuck photon vision sifter -
soullost, anon forgetter -
so lost, rewind protector -
dead princess bone collector -
hopelessly tethered to the Ghosts, remember?
Nah, man, I don't know any of the Ghosts by name
but I've been following the will'o'wisps
chasin' knowledge, speed & blame
tryin' to play that Martyr's game
Inhale, exhale, cause & effect
momentum, inertia, stardust & breath
Sleep becomes Death...
I can only fathom three modes of the Dream:
get fucked; feign sleep; & cheat Doctor King -
the triumvirate stains Red, White, and Green,
all for Tide bleach and Amerik
The Friend Who CaresI can see the pain in your eyes,
Something hurting deep inside,
Offering a hand to hold,
Your turn makes the moment cold.
It hurts me to see you there,
Pretending that you don't care;
I might not be what you need,
But I'll try to place every seed:
Hope for light to find your way;
Strength to see another day.
I'll hold to what I know is true:
That no matter what I'm here for you.
No matter what it takes,
A kind word, a warm embrace,
Just the gift of a friend:
To stay 'til the very end.
I know you'd do the same,
For trust is not a game.
Even if I never know,
I promise to not let go
You Slept Through The Alarm Again - Little AubadeIf, perhaps, you had turned at that moment
and your hair had caught in your fingers,
the straw being fed into the spindle, struck
by the high, thin light of first waking, the whorl
of a single line descendent from the sun, born
watery from the gap below one velveteen curtain,
all of it staining over gold and dusty and slow,
the edge of your mouth might have met the edge
of my mouth, narrow gaps both without attention
openingif, perhaps you had turned again,
your hand could have met the curve of my neck,
your canvas rough fingers tying knots of my hair
and I would have sighed, thick spreading in your ear
like the light itself learning to speak in tongues
you might understandif perhaps you had
opened your eyes, squinting, eyelashes caged
together, it all would have been edgeless and bright.
The Strong OneIf I look up into the sky
And wish on every
Star at night,
One of them has to be
The first one, right?
I wish I did not
Have to be
The strong one.
I am nearly helpless-
More dependent than I seem.
So I wish that for once,
I could be held,
Instead of holding.
SufferingI'm the high school girl who sits alone at lunch.
I'm the boy who's teased for not taking a punch.
I'm the nerd who's only friends are her books.
Because the words they say about her stick like hooks.
I'm the homeless old man who ignores the peoples glares.
I'm the little boy who cries because he thinks nobody cares.
I'm the freak who tries so hard to act like she can blend.
But she knows she'll never really be accepted in the end.
I'm the orphan boy who is left week after week.
I'm the girl who's so depressed that she chooses not to speak.
I'm the grad student who's life has been so rough.
Yet he's finding that still his earnings aren't enough.
I'm the girl who sobs in her closet every night.
I'm the girl who's too tired to put up a decent fight.
I'm the guy who thinks that he should end his life,
So his parents have a chance to get over all their strife.
I'm the mom who wonders if her kids are doing fine.
I'm the man who competes because his job is on the line.
I'm the thirteen year
on 'the Father'mr parker lined up
his children with an ax,
lined up twelve small
disciples of hard work
and the Depression,
twelve small chickens
hollering with tremors,
twelve disciples hungry
for the Fruits of the
previously to this,
he severed many of
mrs parker's tendons and sculpted
her face with a frying pan.
she bled on the floor and
crawled somewhere, the lioness
in her made the unseen more
powerful than science
and far more previous to this,
mr parker sent mrs parker to my
great grandmother's childhood home
with a basket of vegetables and pork
and bread. my great grandmother says
that whenever her family couldn't eat,
mr parker made sure that they could
and so mr parker has lined up
his children, and mrs parker has
miraculously sent for the sheriff
and mr parker has run behind the barn.
the sheriff, thumbs tucked in the
waist of his breeches, walks
quietly in the dewy fields leading
to mr parker. mr parker has tied himself a
noose from the rafters and is standing
calmly on a stool. he
My Mother and the BoyWhen that boy left, he left Mama a wreck. She sat in that creaky old kitchen rocker, her thin hair disheveled above clammy, transluscent skin, her black, birdlike eyes glittering like beetles, sunken and strange in her pale face. She moaned whenever anyone passed, but without looking at them, her hands in frantic and mechanical motion knitting row after row of snarled thread. "I let that boy into my house!" she muttered. Occasionally she would get up and pace back and forth across the kitchen, restlessly wiping at various surfaces with a greying little dish towel clutched in her bony fingers.
Then Joey and I went off to school, and she was alone in the big house, filling the silence only with her own mutterings and the anxious clicking of her knitting needles. The neighbors would grab our sleeve on our way out sometimes, and ask if she was still alive in there, because she never showed her face.
One day, when I drove down to visit Mama, I found her stan
Sweetheart in A-Sharp"You're the knife."
Words. Clumsy words. Taught to me by my father, and his before, and worn into my skeleton like a bad habit. This was a bad habit, and still is.
"Be the knife."
A hoarse whisper in the dark against the swinging, hanging light. Ten competitors, thirty spectators; all losers. Two in the middle. All my life I've practiced and trained and pained for something so much greater than this. Means does indeed, unfortunately, make the man.
As I grip the soft leather of the knife handle, circa 1909, I hope these letters find you well. I hope they find me well, too, and I'm sorry for the three of us that it's come to this, cher. I'm sorry that every night for the last eight months I've promised I would come home, but haven't. I can't. Every penny here is ten dollars at home, and ten dollars we need. Every scar over my cheek a simple victory. Every meal is a regret. Every night is goodbye. I miss you. I've never said it, and I can barely think it. Now it's time to set these heavy,
Ignore AdviceWrite ten bad poems.
Write one hundred
Write and drink.
Keep a notebook with you,
write in public
and make sure that others
know that you are, in fact,
Write a love poem,
then throw it away
because all the good ones
have already been read.
write about the decision
instead of the feeling.
Write one sentence
say to yourself that
this is it, THIS is IT.
and tell yourself that again.
Poets should never make ghost children.I whisper cheap metaphors
into your needy ears until, like
funeral flowers, they rest upon
the atlas of your mind. You
with your napkin love letters
and cloudy storm eyes
are the only one to ever
make my scaled spine quiver.
But, my veins ache
from consuming too much ink.
I am gagging on black blood
as it spills from your fingertips
to rest upon my lips.
You asked me once if I could read
the words carved into my limbs
like prophecies of you and I
we were written in the universe
of freckles dotting my thighs.
I tried to plot constellations
along this neurotic cadaver skin
and only managed to contradict you.
This is Me and It HurtsCan you feel it?
This needle beating inside my chest...
It tells me it's my heart,
but why does it hurt so much?
It feels like somebody once broke it...
And then someone came along and sewed it back up
but left the needle as a reminder.
But.. if I were to remove this needle
everything would just break again.
Can you feel it now?
Can you see it?
This isolation that I live with daily...
It tells me it's my home,
but why does it feel so empty?
It looks like a house, with four walls and a ceiling...
But hatred seeps from the walls
and broken chains lay along the floor.
But.. these chains are also binding
trapping me, alone, in this house that's no longer a home
Can you see it now?
Can you hear it?
These screams breaking the inside my of my head...
They tell me everything is alright,
but continue to destroy who I am.
It feels like I should be dead...
It feels like this negativity owns my life
and I think it is my life.
But.. it's the only thing I live for.
Life without a heartbeat.
A Title About HeavenThe Other took The Speaker's hand.
"Why are you holding my hand...?" the question was blown softly into the night.
"Because it proves that you are real," murmured The Other, "And I haven't held your hand in such a long time."
"Perhaps I'm not real," smiled Speaker, "Maybe I'm just in your mind, your dreams."
"You are real," came the solid reply, "Because I love you and as long as I love you, you'll always be real."
"You've never held my hand before, not properly," muttered The Speaker.
"Because I've never come so close to losing you," said The Other, "Those days before you left I was worried that you were imaginary. That you were too good to be true. When you came back I realised that you were real. And now I'm not scared to hold your hand anymore."
"What if one day I don't come back....?" asked The Speaker.
"Then I'll be glad that for one day, one moment, I touched your hand and kissed your lips. I'll be glad that you were real."
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