Sew my mouth shut and shrink my head,
I'm feeling like I'd be better off dead.
Little Velvet BoxLittle velvet box,
Sitting in my hand.
You whisper words,
Warmth and love,
Inside you rests,
To be spoken,
And your true power,
Shall be seen.
FallThe yellowing of leaves,
Crunch of grass,
Smell of dirt,
Playful wind tugging,
Hay being stacked on a trailer.
LeftOne day you'll wake to find,
Beauty you once thought mine.
Is merely an empty shell,
I know this quite well.
You see this has happened before,
The day he walked out the door.
He told me his love never was,
And for another his heart does.
I've found liking of me to be brief,
Soon you'll leave like a leaf.
Queen DawnSo fair, so bright.
The morning light.
Pink and blue.
What glorious hues.
The golden circlet.
That graces Dawn.
Queen of the day.
There she lays.
For all to see.
Her true beauty.
And now I sigh.
She has gone by.
periphrasiswhen he asked me how i wanted him to build the house,
i answered him truthfully.
i said i wanted the pillars to be made
of pages from every book ever written,
curled in on themselves until
they could hold a roman arch.
pour words, strong and weak, into
the earth instead of cement-
let it be flexible to adapt
build the walls from the ground up
through prose supporting the bricks
layered by memories forged
along the path we took
to arrive at eden.
tilt poems into pyramids above
our heads, ceilings just high enough
to be within earshot of every
laugh we'll ever make.
empty emotions into a template
of a window and slide it into
place without a way to get it
after i was done, we stood on that
vacant lot, ambiguous thoughts
flitting across his face and down
into my fingertips.
he told me i was crazy.
he told me i was beautiful.
he told me he would build it.
Yes, I Have a PenisYes, I Have A Penis
Do not assume (if I hold the door for you),
that I am making a statement
about your inabilities
to open the door for yourself.
If you hold it for me,
I'll say 'thankyou'.
Do not assume (if I pay for the meal),
that I am underestimating
your earning capacity
as a woman.
If you invite me out for a meal,
Do not assume (if I defend your rights),
that I am belittling
the attempts that you have made
to defend your rights yourself.
If you defend my rights,
I'll consider you human.
Brown Eyes Compliments, and AnalogiesBecause I'm sick of people saying there aren't any.
Your brown eyes are like the deep intoxication of campaign wine, bubbling with hazing richness and expensive taste.
Your brown eyes are like the color of mahogany wood- comforting and home-steady toughness that lets me know you will be the beams of supporting me.
Your eyes remind me of Dove chocolate, smooth, creamy, delectable, and melting.
The color of brown eyes remind me of mountain terrain and nature, something subtle, but beautiful in every form and season.
Brown eyes make me think of Devil's cake, taunting and tempting, curtained by black lashes, the symbol of rich seduction.
When brown eyes delve in love, they become the color of a leather book, promising a story of loyalty, long-life, and devotion.
Your brown eyes remind me of mysterious secrets, dark to cover the pain of ignorance, opaque to cover to want of another.
Brown eyes are like the stable ground, steadier and prepared to embrace you when you fall, into a nurturing a
a moment of your time I am a writer because my mother says so.
I am a writer because I am teaching myself to look for my pothole blue eyes, fat stomach smile, and popped-bubblegum cheeks in mirrors, television screens, and reflective surfaces. I am a writer because one time I had an innocuous crush on my second cousin and I still cherish all of his two-line emails. I am a writer because I am the stereotypical, spoiled, overloved only child.
I am a writer because my grandfather, whose name is utter gibberish and the colors blue and red and green and radio talk shows and old black-and-white television sitcoms and whose beard is a medusa's pond of browned acid hair, tried to teach me to draw, croissants for eyes and big butterflies for chins. I am a writer because the entire time all I wanted to do was write poetry, turn a phrase,
o balmy breath "Everything became quiet. Everything was the same as always.
'No, not everythingtomorrow you will come,' Cincinnatus said aloud, still trembling from his recent swoon. 'What shall I say to you,' he continued thinking, murmuring, shuddering. 'What will you say to me? In spite of everything I loved you, and will go on loving youon my knees, with shoulders drawn back, showing my heels to the headsman and straining my goose neckeven then. And afterwardsperhaps most of all afterwardsI shall love you, and one day we shall have a real, all-embracing explanation, and then perhaps we shall somehow fit together, you and I, and turn ourselves in such a way that we form one pattern, and solve the puzzle: draw a line from point A to point B... without looking, or, without lifting the pencil... or in some other way... we shall connect the points, draw the line, and you and I sh
manic depressive the sky has shed its coat, blooming gray before me. someone is releasing the rain from their palms, sliding down their knuckles, melting off of their fingers. the water is clingy, and it hits the ground with a full-body slap, quivering the life out of it, sending it up to the stars. the lightning extends, three thousand arms reaching, afraid of all that it will touch. the thunder growls, a cat with its toy, a stomach that has not been fed in weeks.
it cries, bleeds, a thrashing wave of terror, a living creature storming. my hands begin to shake. outside the rain whips through the screening and throws itself onto the porch, frightened.
i look upwards, try to throw my hands there, toss my palms and let go of my flesh. it doesn't work. my skin stays still, quiet, hushed, stuck solidly to my unforgiving bones. something in my elbow snaps and i close my eyes to feel it out. the temple
senses poemsSenses Poems
1) meet it halfway
when hope finds you it is yellow,
and it is underfoot, leaves crackling
like a spine,
and the earth cries it out,
spilling it from the green-smelling
tree branches, and it is
pacing around your room, hands
quivering with prickly words and sweltering language,
exploding stars inside its mouth,
and you expect to see white and gold glitter
fall through its lips, but
there is nothing; and
when you open the door, metal in your mouth,
it turns around and reaches
2) that other organ
the bluejay hits your window with
his wings spread out, eyes open,
and you listen for the sickening
slap and the smell of your window
slipping up with feathers and blood,
trying to hold onto the small blue
and the bird is the red-stomach curls
on the tip of his head, and the bird is
every endearing little girl asking you to
be the other sack of tissues and nerves
on her see(sea)saw, and the bird is every
old man who tugs at your ears with a sick
take my hand. I.
It all boils down to fear.
You just watch. Your depression, your anger, your terror: fear (manifestations of, lovers to, expectations within). I know you have these things and I know what you make of them, because no one knows you quite like I do.
You sit and you are afraid of dying and you are afraid of madness and you are afraid of losing and clutching and grasping too deep, and you are afraid of other people and their unpredictable interactions and words they expect you to reply to, and you are afraid of what the world can do to you and how little you really can do for the world, because trees grow and they die and you bury more seeds but there is nothing there, because you are afraid of n
How to love a girl who can't love herself.one.
When she cries herself to sleep
six out of seven nights a week you must
say nothing. You must simply take
her in your arms and kiss her gaunt,
pale cheeks and wait for her to
slumber at the sound of your heart.
On the days where she wishes she
were part of the stars, tell her
no. Tell her that there are too many
lights in the sky and that just one
would be forgotten the moment you looked
away from it. Tell her that she is perfect
the way she is: completely human.
Don't let her think about the scars
that no one but her can see. If she
says "I think I'm broken" smile like you
know a secret and say, "No, you're mending."
But do not be the one to fix her - no, she