The ground of celestial perfection is infinity away from the tallest tower.
The VoicesSpeak to me
Call me names
Tell me to do things
I don't want to do
For some reason
I listen to them
And I hate it
I want to do what I want to do
How often do these voices speak to you?
And how does that make you feel?
You did not just ask me that question
I makes me feel like I'm not in control of my life
What do they say to you?
(Please be an easy case)
(Don't already be a criminal)
"Think about the consequences"
"Don't cut yourself"
"Don't eat that last cookie"
It doesn't seem like you have a problem
But I do
It's these damn voices
But they're good voices
You're lying to me
Why are you lying to me?
I'm not I just think you don't need and medicine for your "problem"
You are supposed to help me
But you don't have a problem
Now I have another problem then
What would a story be?
If there was no one there to read it.
What would dreams be?
If there was no one there to conceive it.
What would a picture be?
If there was no one there to see it.
What would a secret be?
If there was no one there to keep it.
What would love be?
If there was no one there to feel it.
What would a song be?
If there was no one there to sing it.
What would the truth be?
If there was no one there to admit it.
What would advice be?
If there was no one there to give it.
What would life be?
If there was no one there to live it.
Math and PoetryShe used to tell me
of math and poetry
by the length of her arm
and rhythm of her heart
condensing verse and fraction
with form following the function
of communist theories
and greek philosophies.
she beat out aesthetics
with a perfect symmetry.
because no one understands
the relationship between
seafoam and shoreline
the way she does
[swimming in saltwater sorrows]
reimagining time in an hourglass,
she shot up infinities with a glance
and left me moondrunk in the night.
she emits sparks throughout my system
breaking and entering--
my kingdom under siege.
her name was an amalgam of numbers
1.61803399 . . . .
and I loved her by design.
I'm here for you
I know it hurts for I've felt your pain
You want to give up
and let the enemies erase you
So I'm telling you now
That your life isn't over
There's still a chance to find happiness
and to have a smile
There's many who feel the same as you do
and I'm sure you know that is true
But did you know that I'm one of those people
who wishes they'd disappear?
I plaster a smile on my face around you
and everyone else
But inside it's cold and dark
and taken over by misery
So I'm telling you now
that all my words are true
I want to be the one
you run to when you're scared
I want to be the shoulder to cry on
when your broken down and alone
I'm always there for you with arms opened wide
please don't over look me now
I'll gladly push all my pain far away
if it would help you recover
And if all you need is a hug
then I'll hug you tight and not say a word
All I'm saying is you're not alone
I'm right here for you whenever you need me
I'm your friend
queen of nothing.what I've learned:
I still remember singing in my room when I was six, and having my mother come down the hall and slam the door so hard that the windows shook.
Her nails hurt when she scraped the tears off my face. "It doesn't matter what you want," she'd always tell me.
Like, when that drunk driver swerved and hit her car I didn't want her to leave me, and it didn't matter.
Once on vacation I bought a pair of fuzzy leather heels for two hundred dollars, and when I wore them to dinner, I found out that
1. "Suede" is a fancy word for "fuzzy leather."
And 2. Good things don't last: That night my cousin told me that she thought 135 pounds was a little too big for five foot eight. So I tore my tights up to the thigh and threw those new suede heels in the garbage.
It felt good later, to know that they couldn't hate me more than I hate myself.
My six-word story from ninth grade reads, "If I don't laugh, I'll cry."
When I read that treating people like trash to gets them to nee
i have you bookmarked -vii. Sometimes breakfast, lunch and dinner were like art; food was flung from each corner, creating a futile canvas on every wall. I played a scale of musical doors as they slammed one by one. I'm sure I broke a few
vocalchords too. He was always right beside me, yet so far.
But we mingled together. When his hand gripped mine with his feathery touch, it seemed okay to pretend. Maybe my mind still needed to develop, needed watering. Or maybe together we just made feelings obsolete.
iv. And we did.
We sat on park benches blowing smoke kisses and watched movies, that only seemed good because everything else on TV was crap.
Bubblegum. Pot. Gallons of ice-cream. We fed two pigeons and named them Ben and Jerry. We danced to Genesis, even though we both knew that they were possibly the most overplayed band in the world-universe-all-shopping-centers-in-London-ever.
At night we slipped between the park gates and sat by the lake. It felt like the moon was right ne
HubrisThe world is not a skeleton. It does not ache bone-deep with our atrocities, nor is it fragile and ready for the breaking. It knows nothing so human, except perhaps to forgive our pride. Let me explain:
Young, I am a bright star with small, pudgy hands for guiltless flower-crushing. Before even that, I am a wispy squall for food, unused to knowing anything but myself, and warmth, and hunger.
The concept of a hero is a natural progression from understanding speech. I am Me. I am the one all the stories talk about, born special, to whom both innocence and wisdom are possible. I am so great a part of my own self that I do not know it can be detached.
I am eleven, narrow-boned and alone in the red earth, when I first feel it.
A seagull slews out of the bright sky and pegs its beak to the stones, draws it up wriggling. I watch its gullet bob. My hand floats up to mirror the lines of its head against the air. There is a cry, and its eye is a pond of yellow fire staring at me, the air a storm
The Death Within LifeRaging Seas
That is what life is.
No fairy godmothers
or knights in shining armor.
Only witches and cauldrons
recipes for disaster.
There are no three wishes
or steeds that fly.
No hero, no powers,
certainly no rewinds.
Life is but time
Spent by little moments
we call ours.
It is never enough,
they're left to remain.
Not even our mind, our knowledge
can prolong our hours.
To live them as they come
seconds remembered, never forgotten.
To let them pass
by our envy and our pride.
No wonder we are fools
both then and now.
Not one of us
Making us relish,
bathe in the honor
There was never a vow
of an easy way out.
Forever there will be work
never will it be clean.
Evil, never in absence
but nor will light and hope.
Perhaps all we can do
is to fight, to fall.
To live and die
done, broken heartBroken head
day I feel
like I'm about
to fall apart
I will shatter
if I'm not
one tiny slip
Everything is gone
I don't know how
Broken at the sound
of hate in
and broken sounds
my broken fears
my broken heart
it's aching, breaking
with each crack it's wailing, saying
finally, oh finally
My AmbitionsMy Ambitions.
People tell me I have talent.
And my attempts at poetry are noble and valiant.
I want my words to leave a mark on this earth.
I write for myself, to give me some sort of worth.
I still think anyone is capable doing I what I do.
Paint the same or an even better image of the one I just drew.
I've been accepted by a few, but rejected by many.
This life is perpetual and the strain is getting heavy.
I write for you, as well as for me.
I write from my heart, to set my mind free.
A man who writes poetry isn't the epitome of masculinity.
I had to disregard the stereotype and over come the humility.
My writing is all I have and it's the one thing I can control.
That's why its not just words your reading, it's a piece of my soul.
I want to be liked and to appeal to everyone.
But I've learnt this ambition can never be truly done.
I write for my family, so they can be proud of their first creation.
Although I don't show it, they will always have my love and appreciation.
I'm hoping a
Writers"Sticks and stones may break my bones but words can never hurt me"
How many times have we heard that?
What a fool that person was indeed for creating such a lie as that
Sticks and stones do break bones and words cut much deeper than a knife
Words go where no weapon can ever dream of reaching, our very soul
Words move us, inspire us, bring us down, create hate, create love.
Words can destroy just as easily as they build
Bring life as easily as it could death
Give hope and in the same second despair
Words can change the world for good or evil.
It is the job of writers to wield these weapons with care and maturity
We speak loudest with just a whisper
And quietest with just a shout
We create and nourish worlds for those who still believe in good
We open eyes and minds and hearts to the world around them
We become a beacon, and sometimes that beacon goes out
We forget what it is we do for this world and forget that we must tend to our gardens
We forget we're human and make mistakes
Within the heart of darkness.Tear tracks carve delicate patterns
Into to hollows' of my cheeks
Your beautiful face forever etched
Into the gallery of my memories
Choked cries mingle in the air
Twirling like a broken symphony
My eyes filled with fresh sorrow shine
Like the moon on a clear winter's eve
Sobs wrack my body uncontrollably
Moving it in a jerky puppet's dance
My hands desperately rake at the ground
Tearing at the Earth to try to bring you back
My heart splinters into a thousand tiny pieces
An exquisite jigsaw only you can complete
The fibres of my very being unknit
And unravel into a tangled web of colour and anguish
My soul yearns and searches for you:
A homing pigeon in the raging, rolling storms of my emotions
I lay on the floor defeated and wounded
A broken soldier bereft of a cause to fight for
Yet, in that night of madness and insanity
In which my world was turned on its head,
And my light and life had nestled so close
Then was snatched so cruelly away
The sun rose and brought with it new hope.
A Broken SoulA Broken Soul
One more broken soul
Laying shattered on the floor
Inside cut by cruel words.
Outside cut by the sweet blade.
A dream of a save world
In which can save me.
Reality hits me now and then
Because you can’t.
You would have to search
For every piece of my broken soul.
I can’t make you do that
All those shards could cut you
But we can’t both bleed.
What shall I do?
Wait until you can save me?
Save me and my soul?
I had that I can only deny this love to you
Because this love destroyed me
You broke me, you are the only one who can fix me.
Leave me alone
Retreating to the isolation inside my room
curling up in a blanket of misery
Memories replay and corrupt my peaceful slumber
"You're not good enough."
"You disgust me."
"Nobody cares about you."
Tears stream down my mask
The negative thoughts have made the positive evanesce
I just want to be left
Do You Think...Do you think if I could cut open my chest,
And spread apart my ribs,
You would stitch up my bloody broken heart?
Do you think if I could give you my attention,
For more than a second at a time,
You would spin me a tale of poison honey kisses?
Do you think if I could hang myself,
From your pretty, pretty neck,
You would wear me around like your new favorite accessory?
Do you think if I could live forever,
With no hope of ever leaving this hell,
You would do all in your power to take me from this pain?
Do you think if I could need you,
Like you've never needed me,
You would finally leave me to rest in the shattered pieces that I am?