[eudaimonia]we are kingsof empty castles.our transparent veins are bruisedfrom the lingering storm andsomebody has hidden the skeletonkeys.
[dear old soul]this year,i. learn to be bravebcos it's about time.defend yourself, speak up. heaven knows you keep too much buried.be honest with yourself and with others.love again.ii. watch the starsso that you never forget how small you are or how fleeting your existence is.iii. go somewhere far from hereso that you will be reminded of the beauty in life.the world is waiting for you. explore.iv. learn to forgivelife is far too short to hold grudges.michael was a lesson in moving on.what happened with priscilla brought you closer to the people who matter most.don't let the heartache stop you.v. visit the ocean more oftenit's where you feel most at home.vi. writeoften. it puts you at ease.even if you feel that you can't gather a decent sentence, write.work on your novel.vii. express yourselfthrough drawings or writings or the spoken word.even if your hands tremble."even if your voice shakes."viii. do what you lovewhen
[victus]delilah tied her husband to a fencejust before the light brokebecause the trumpet plays at dawn and shecan't stand the sound.and samson scares the crows awayalthough he desperately wants themto stay.
Spectraphotons like phantoms cross our pathsunseen except for their effects every poem begins with sometimesevery dream begins with maybe
five.Five is the number of times you worry he’s stopped breathing, as the surgeons carve around his heart, twisting away the plaque ridden arteries, and pulling a vein out of his leg. Five is the number of heart wrenching hours you and your family were waiting in the hospital room, worried that your lives would crumble, that there would be five members of the family instead of six, that five days out of the week he would not come home for dinner, that five kisses from him would no longer be given to his wife and four children. Five was the amount of fingernails you bit off while watching people enter and exit the waiting room, and the amount of minutes your mother spent on the phone, explaining that something was wrong. Five is the critical difference between holding a father’s hand as your mother cries into his heart shaped pillow. The difference between rejoicing and smiling weakly because he’s okay or carrying your father’s American-flag-covered-casket and watchin
Liquor is one way out an'death's the other The art of growing up,is to pour shots of whiskey into your coffee in the morningto make it throughthe day.when all you want to dois lie in bedinstead,but there’s nothingbeautifulabout thateither.
i hear knives in the windsomething in the timbre, tall heat,sugar licking palm fronds fat catssweltering sundays.wash the salt; wash the afterburn itisn't like we planned you neversay the words plain, only mm mm if we ever could we maybe staywe always tried but couldn't shakethe open space we make the world a-nother shape as we stand among thetimbertall sugar licking palm frondsfall. til heat escapes.
cynicism only gets you so fari've been bleedinglighter fluidfor quite a while now, i've beenwatching the sun rise through the websof skin between my fingersi've been stitching up my skin like it'san old pair of jeans, like tearing so easily isnormali think it's because this skin isn'tmine, it's an amalgamationof other people's expectations andscrewed-up pieces of paper andmorning coffee orpanic-induced nauseaand breath made for a different set of lungsi've been living offcaffeine and insomniafor quite a while now, i've beentalking to the moon through the diamondson my window panei've been throwing myself into the glass like i'ma sparrow, like i'm a blind birdbonei think it's because i don't know anybetter, i pretend to be the queenof the universe inside my room andthe ocean inside my teacup andthe lullaby i don't know the tuneor the words toand a lover wrapped in plastic for the holocene agei've been dreaming ofcityscapesfor quite a while now, i've beenthinking about running throug
dead dog julyI.the summer heat lays limp in the city’s lap,breathing long oppressive breaths.it does not even lift its lolling headto bark out hoarse indignancywhen a strange man brings the mail.II.there might be heavy rain today,they say,brought by some swollen, murmuring cloud.so what?the world will whirl and howl,then settle down,to die a little more.III.o, quickly, love,press your back against the wall in fearas the universe spreads her arms andshuts her eyesand starts to summon the end of all things.o, quickly,come with meto the place of windows full of speechless afternoonhot 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 forgettingand unwind all of our harshest memoriesand fill the universe’s mouthwith mute cotton.IV.i’ll whisper these words to you some eveningwith all my exigency in the hand i rest on your arm—and you
Short PoemHer eyes return my gaze,A gentle “Hello” at first glance.Those chocolate brown coloured eyes,So full of love and compassion. Without a sound from my lips, A solitary cry escapes. Her serene marble-like stare,
FloodgatesWe’re lined up as we enter Year Seven.Rulers are pulled out, skirts inspected. Three inches above the knee, no more.Our skirts are millimeters too short. We hope to pass. If we pass, we’re allowed into the house. Those who don’t are sent home so their mothers can mend what’s broken.They scour for torn hems, loose stitches, and find none. But Marissa filled out over the summer, and the back of her skirt rises up her thigh nearly an inch above an appropriate level. We share a knowing glance as she flows out of our line, thrust back into the office where someone will call her mother to gather her. Our mothers taught us to lean back when the ruler passed, to let the hem dip down to the creases of our knees. No one would know. When we pass, we share a silent victory.When they can’t hear us, we whisper about Marissa’s chest, how red splotches cover her nose and cheekbones. We think she won’t come back, girls like her never do, and seventh years a
AmberIt's begun again.The sun has extinguished itself; brittle ashes fall into our atmosphere and suffocate. Annihilate.The air is dry and the sky blackens, the thunderheads in my head threaten implosion.I whisper a sigh into the bright field of poppies, but they don't listen, they don't hear,and my whisper stains the stars with no promise of secrecyI am human, my veins run thin with led, with skin made of thin iron pallet, and a pulse that beats with norhythm, no rhyme, but eagerness to escape a euphoria higher than the heavens itself.My heart is a grenade, threatening explosion with every beat it dares tread, a disaster so imminent thattime itself is my enemyIt's begun again.andIneedmyfix.
love letters to introvertsi.To the boy who prefers spending Friday nights at home:the world does not understand how beautiful silence soundssometimes. As you crack open that book you've been waiting to read, or plug in your computer, or listen to music, or, or, or, or just maybe stare at the night sky from your bedroom window-(please) remember what everyone else seems to forget;that being alone does not always equal lonely--and that sometimes no company is the best company there is. ii.To the girl who does not speak up in class: I was once you. You are not deficient, I promise, despite everyone telling you otherwise. You might be the only one who will ever know the universes tucked inside your head, because they are beautiful secrets you cannot bring yourself to share,for fear that they might be vandalized. When you speak,
They say the one who praysThey say the one who prays receives much morethan whom we pray for, shaping what we wantto what we get. We find a way to pourthe outcomes into candle molds we can'thave fashioned for ourselves. But then we lightthe wax and sniff the scent and call us blessedby blessings in disguise. For what is rightin contexts so complex we cannot test?For those who say that praying contradictsfree will or undercuts the will to changeinjustice, fine. You have no wax, no wicks,no blessing and no curse, you are the sage.I pray to sculpt the candle and the moldand scent with pity earth and heaven's hold.
Nervous MovementYou're a dime a dozen in a sea of billions.Individuality has no significance in numbers so vast.And while this fact may make looking forward hardwe can't keep living in the past.You're a nervous movement in a freeze frame scene.Steady hands won't help hold up such a fragile act.And while you take your time keeping characteryou fake what you can't take back.With nothing more than a thought we form our actionsand this is where we extinguish the lie they tried to invent.The lie that we painted our lives without passionwell conclusions are useless with no attempt to commence.You're a song I can't name stuck in my head.I've listened to you before and probably will again.And while I can hum the melody all day long waitingfor it to hit me I still won't know where you've been.You're a gust that has never changed direction.Nothing can touch you you're only felt as you brush skin.And while you can't be stopped nothing lastsnothing escapes time or an end not even the wind
fabled lifei.she talks through her wrinkles,'i have no desire for food', she says.i take her plate to the kitchennoticing how the beetroot shavings bled into the skin of the chicken and brown rice.it was blood, skin, and bone,and the rice was a million starlike cells floating between.this reminds me of my anatomy textbook:we've been learning what's beneath our skin,we learned that all cells divide. some cells often don't stop dividing.other cells divide and stop when they should...but not my grandmother's.starlike, they explode, they shatter, they consumethey divide.ii.i want to be mad at my grandmother's cells,but what would that do?i want to talk to my grandmother's cells,i want to tell them they can be aliveand not kill her.but first,i have to catch the moon,i have to visit hades and bargain with beautiful music,i have to sell my voice for legs,i have to sail the ocean blue in search of a good reason why cancer can't just be what it is.iii.this is not a fabled lifean
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.I smell you on the sea air, sometimes, when it rushes in past the thin white curtains you helped me hang. They still bounce with every gust like exuberant dogs. And I've been telling you how the salt has most assuredly worked its way into my marrow now, and maybe if someone were to put me in a pie they'd find it too brackish for their taste. And then I wonder just how much you taste like the sea.The ocean beats my heart for me nowadays. Even inside, even at night, I can feel each breaker rumbling through my sternum and radiating along my ribs. And I've been
PhantomShe's always seen duringdaylight -yet her beauty isnocturnal.I, with shaking hands[and nerves],wrapped her round melike a scarf,though she still givesme midnight chillsand spasms of pain Her friends pick daisies and pierce the stems with their fingernails, link them together like married couples who are pulled out of their beds by love[pushed back downby alcohol and theneed to please].She bent o
a timeless ringshe wears me uponher withered hand:an angel's halowith no beginning orend infinite.she didn't likemetaphorsor goodbyesbut he brushed away thedrops of jupitertwinkling on herface,promising toreturn but it wasjust a fool'serrandand now i ama memoir ofreminiscence;because he isdead but he isnot, he isgone but he ishere, he isa ghostalive withremembrance,a memory preserved;she wears me uponher withered hand:the crown of aking lost in battleand shegrazes me with herlips andtremblesbecause soon iwill be ametaphor andshe will be thegoodbye.
love people"We call everything a river here." --Richard Brautiganthere's a love paradethis sundaybeautiful blue and white housesspill children into the streetlike beads of happy colored glass--music all over.the trees are spring,fall, and summer,apricot angelsgreen yellow maplesall love peopletwo moons to a faceI think of a quietpebbled stream in this moonlightand a younger woman,like a single brush of ink,dipping softly,as the pebbled stream dips,into winter, or untimed wild.
five hour energyi supposelast week was only an aftershockof the earthquake you were before.this place used to vibratewith metal strings and melodic,off-key shouting-testimonies to life,emitting coffee-scented moodsand the burn of it too.i had memorized thesounds of silence,a cacophonyso despisedi couldn't help but relish it.no longer had i knownthe sounds of folkand scent of mocha-you became nothing morethan an echo of the laughteri so desperately needed to hear again.then the echoes got louder,bouncing ferociously off the wallsto be made manifestand dissipate.i walked into your roomexpecting exactly what i found-an unmade bed,bare desktops,and an empty beer(the one that you insisted you neededjust days ago).i pressed my noseinto the pillowhoping desperately,begging silentlyfor incense and cologne and starbucksto penetrate my mindand thinking fervently"you bastard,i already knowwhat a clean sheet smells like."it's amazinghow strong an aftershock can be,but st
[songs of rain]forgiveness in the third chord,like silence or the momentartemis pulls the arrow free,thanks the buck for his sacrifice.lightning in my lungs.saltwater in my lungs.i, storm,will rage & pass on.