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.
Love is a PhoenixI have seen nothing more tragic,
Than watching love die.
Enduring it’s painfully fade,
As it stubbornly clings to life
The slow death of a love,
That’s filled with years of life.
Or the sudden snap,
As it blinks away in a lover’s eye.
It doesn’t go easy,
And it doesn’t go fast.
It goes out fighting,
Because love was made to last.
It is a brilliant flame,
Drowned in water.
It clings to the air,
With all its dying embers.
Yes, I have seen no sadder sight,
Than watching love as it dies.
But I have been blessed to gazed upon no otherworldly scene,
Than watching love be born again, anew and free.
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
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
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
AbuseGoodnight, he had said, I love you, he had said.
Hate you hate you hate you, let me out of here, let me out! I'm so scared, please, just go away, I-
Love you too. He nodded and left-
My room, I can hear him walking a few paces away and stopping so he can see-
Me alone, changing into my pajamas and going to-
Hell, because I was a bad girl, he said I was a bad girl and I didn't deserve-
Sleep. I always sleep-
Horribly. I know he's still there, waiting for the right time, so I curl into a ball-
With an old stuffed bear because-
Mom likes to see me with it, even though the bear gives me nightmares, because-
He gave it to me. I fall-
Onto the floor. He's kicking me hard, and it hurts, it hurts, it feels like he will never leave so I can fall-
Asleep quickly and have-
Nightmares of his spawn inside of me, kicking my insides like he kicks my outsides, destroying my-
Dead WrongDear Boy with the Broken Eyes.
Just because they have always said it, things have always been difficult. And they are right. Life has always been difficult. Things will never happen the way you want them to happen. Broken hearts are so much easier to find than mended ones. And dreams? Well, if the world ran on dreams, we'd be building a whole new universe already, just to escape our own jaded one.
When I met you, you had already seen the worst of this world. They told you that you were not allowed to love because you couldn't do it the right way. They informed you that you weren't a poet, just a vagabond with tragic fingers on a broken instrument. They explained to you that you couldn't rise above anything because you just weren't special. And that every step of the way, they would be breaking you down, just to watch you fall.
Of course, they didn't mention that when you speak, your voice holds a lost song within it. And when you sleep, your guitar is an inch away from yo
Dear GodDear God,
Let me just start out by saying that
I know I don't believe in you
- I don't think I ever did.
I know church was just an obligation to me,
Filled with psalms and flickering candles.
I know I've "sinned",
And I'm sorry
- that's what you say
When you're in confession,
Right? I'm sorry?
(more than I've told the truth),
I've committed blasphemy
Godhow I've used your name in vain).
You could even say that
I'm not happy with what I have
(is this body really something to be proud of?).
But worst of all those sins,
I've committed murder.
I've killed the person
You used to know.
That innocent little girl
Who used to balance your book
In her tiny hands
And caress its weight to her chest;
Those papyrus-thin words
Rustling as they impacted
Her still developing morals.
The little girl
Who created ripples in
Your bowl of holy water
- watching as they rebounded
And slowly stilled into
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
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
Love LetterYou are re-creating the word love for me
I have never felt anything in my heart so deep
I'm so in love that I'll never be the same
I just want to be with you every single day
You have touched my heart in many different ways
And now from my heart you'll never go away
I feel so warm every time you're here,
I feel so cold whenever you disappear
Though it feels like you are already mine
Who knows if that's real, who know if it's a lie?
I just think about you every single time
Every time I write, and when I close my eyes
But I'm just waiting for that special day
For when you finally say, yes
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.
magic doesn't die.I've lived where the ghosts sleep.
The streetlights are broken but they still stand,
arching over empty alleys filled only with dead cats.
Stardust is littered over the river,
drifting on the black water almost like moon beams.
You asked if I knew where I was going.
I told you, this was my home.
Once, I ate the lies of children, the dreams of dying leaves
and the stones that words have become
along with the ghosts of the town.
This torchlight might let us see the dirt on the ground,
but it will never detect their movements.
I know them.
They are quiet, almost silent.
They will never speak but they can scream.
They will scream you all the way into Sunday,
right past Wednesday and Friday,
the days they'd lost their bodies.
And watch your step.
If that board creaks, stories underneath it will haunt you.
Those stories are not fantasies. They are not pretty.
Between the cracks of moon light, I know their eyes are on us.
I know their feet are following our shadows.
I've made my bed where the