The day winds down with me staring the ceiling once again. I try to count each rotation of the fan but I get lost somewhere in the spaces between.
The cold, lonely sheets almost eating at me with every thread they were weaved from and maybe this could justify the cracks on my skin, like the walls of this room with dirt seeping in.
Tangled once again in a blanket of thoughts that don’t provide warmth anymore, I think about you for a second and try to let go with a sigh, but darling you’re the spec of dust sitting on my desk, that lights up with the sun and I, am a follower of the moon.
You’re like a fire that doesn’t go out and the forest of my being is beginning to perish. I am not a place for settlement, but there’s no stopping you, with words that heal the ground during this drought.
Come, touch my fate. Bury yourself in my hands and leave, like it was all just a dream. There’s nothing more I could ask for.
The day winds down with me staring the ceiling once again. I try to count each rotation of the fan but I get lost somewhere in the spaces between.
you love someone: touch their hand, their knee; gently press three fingers against their forehead. softly brush their hair: a touch. run-on sentences through their teeth with your tongue//lip split, crooked nose, surefire and alone. if we were braver, less suspecting, a little bolder: say it to the mirror, wipe your eyes and straighten your back. they are sitting on top of a kitchen table. you are running through a sprinkler, catch their hand, catch their hand. like catching sunlight while riding a bicycle, so beautiful want to to touch it and hold it so we may feel light rip at our lungs. want to pull closer, but alone. want to rush, but afraid. and soft love like quiet field of wheat on Sunday, after unsuspecting children discover kisses behind the cover of their hands.
They say you always remember the first man who broke your heart; I was 5. That night I slept hiding under the sink, on a bathroom floor. My head, in my mother’s lap as she wiped my tears away. “It’ll be okay, darling” she said, again and again but his words were still the last thing I heard. I’m sorry, I don’t recall them as of now.
I always wondered how you talk to your dad, or how they help with your homework or read you bed times stories. Its hard when you realize at a young age that movies are just scenes shot under perfect lighting to show you what you don’t have and I still think about that one night we danced, I don’t think I’ve ever been happier.
Remember the night you told me that I was unwanted? You think one says things like that in a fit of rage and goddammit I knew you were drunk. You
were are always drunk, well during the night at least. I kept telling myself that it was just the alcohol and then I remember thinking, aren’t people supposed to tell the truth when they’re drunk?
Time and time again it was my fault; more bathroom floors.
At 11 you really don’t know what to make out of hearing an argument between your parents. “You cheated?!” The words still haunt me and I’m pretty sure that was my fault too or it should have been because I’m what causes all the problems, isn’t it dad?
Once in a while, you send me chain texts about how glad you are to have a daughter, because today you feel generous or is your suffocating conscious rising up from the water, because I don’t know what to make of this anymore. And either way, you can’t wash off the smell of floor cleaners with sorrys.
At 22 you’d think I’m used to it. Every time I look at ice hitting a glass, I shudder. The twist of your wrist as the whiskey swirls in with the water, I panic inside and after all this time, it still hurts. The sting of words is more than you can imagine and even skin gets sensitive after being out in the sun for a while.
It’s not a good feeling when people see your “daddy issues” instead of you and pity is not a gift you want to receive. It drives you to a point where you don’t want to look back and I’ve made some horrible choices before. I became everything you saw in me, to make you happy but I realize I’m fighting a lost battle and I give up. I have nothing to prove to you anymore.
Here’s the being the daughter you got.
Here’s to being the daughter you didn’t want.
Here’s to being the daughter you didn’t deserve.
Here’s to being a useless piece of shit, that’s what you call me right?
- Love, S.
I’m breathing in
empty stars and acidic
disease as the holes in
the road scream for my
every limb and I can’t
help but mimic that
When the sky
rains rusted needles
onto its own
beauty ceases to
So I rip away
these rotting cells
in search of
a little flash of chemicals
to brighten everything
split second before
The problem with picking only perfect looking fruits,
Is that you leave us,
we, the undesirable,
hanging in a sort of arboreal purgatory
and defenseless to our nearing fall.
Mulch on the ground, fermented potential,
non-sequential attempts of life, to excell,
But we didn’t look the part,
so we fell.
There’s something I’ve been struggling to comprehend lately and I’ve tried to express my feelings in a few pieces I’ve written but I can’t shake the feeling that I’m saying it all wrong or not putting out what I really mean or not saying it the way it should be said but today, while in conversation with a friend it all seem to fall into place. Words flowing in a fashion I approve of, saying what I’ve been feeling and its all about inspiration in the end, isn’t it?
We talked about rain and reading into things, which lead to me exploring the age old connection between permanence in fleeting moments and how you remember it rained when you first kissed her. Heartbreak and pain, movie nights and dinner dates. Hellos and goodbyes, that are not lost but forgotten in our vast sense of the world and you feel it and then you don’t.
Everything was perfect, then. The second your lips touched or when she spoke. You were alive and the stars shone bright and the flowers bloomed and the winds blew. A scene in a movie, verse in a song trying to capture something we felt and its gone forever; a memory.
There’s not a
breathing thing for
miles in all directions
all dimensions and I’m
copying all the
instant messages and
texts you ever
onto the sides of
infinitely rising mountains
using the blood drooling
from my arteries
I’ve memorized every
word you typed with those
paper fingers painted
fucking Ulysses to
I’ll never let them
disappear like the
world does when
God, if you
only knew what
I could do
for those irises that
leak with every
if you would allow me
We could set the
universe on fire
We could drown it
in our grief
We could die over
and over again
until we become
as the graves
dug into our
dissect my very being,
to find what we buried
among these bones,
covered with a flesh you
wince to taste, now shoved
in mud from a grave un-dug.
A familiarity in the flowers you
bring and we drink once again to
our inevitable end, darling cut me
open on this table we once shared-
There’s an odd, stale smell hovering
over my head.
Kissing vibrant sunsets
through lenses that define
saved with memory,
a piece of evidence.
But what is beauty
if not a second of breathlessness
as you fill up your lungs with the color red.
- Inspired by this
You’re the string of lights on wild bushes
when the night comes, darling we crawl
from underneath our words and back again
because the sky is too vast for you and I
to look at the same star; you
seem to carry the moon in your heart.
And where do I go among rushing waves
that you pull closer, I am just a wolf
and the shine on fallen flowers,
only disheartens me more.
Catch me between your wires; autumn leaf
in the wind, crushed beneath your feet.
You walk along without a clue and I,
moved by just a touch.
the-wilde-poet asked: Hi I'm kind of new to poetry (been writing for about a month) and it would be awesome if you could give me some tips? Thanks :)
Hi :) I think learning to write/developing one’s voice as a poet is really a process of learning other writers’ ‘rules’, and then breaking them for a reason. Here’s a list of tips that are really important to me as a writer. I hope you find reasons to break them.
- Be vulnerable. By this, I do not mean profess your existential angst through generic cliche (‘my soul is a void’, etc.); I mean bleed. Retch. Crawl. Get your hands dirty. For a long time, my poetry was just one thinly-veiled cry for help after another, and it was awful. Cry for help if you need to. Demand the emergency room. Don’t get tangled up in long pretentious words and convoluted metaphors that serve only to distance your reader from what you really mean. You are controversial. Embrace it.
- Nouns, nouns, nouns. Abstraction is fine in small doses, but to me, what really make a poem are the intricate details. Tell me about the mildew in the corner of your speaker’s shower. Tell me about her teeth. Vivid, symbolic imagery is crucial to a poem because 1) it gives it an identity of its own 2) it provides your reader with something to ‘latch onto’ and 3) it makes the poem incredibly intimate and personal.
- AVOID ARBITRARY LINE BREAKS & PUNCTUATION. I cannot emphasise this enough. Never insert devices simply because you feel they are ‘appropriate’ at that point in the poem - think about why you’re putting them there. In my opinion, there’s little room for tidiness in poetry so if you’re only enjambing a line to keep the stanza neat, rethink your decision. The form of the poem is just as significant as the words you construct it with.
- Force yourself to write. Sadly, writers do not wake up every morning with a flurry of new ideas in our heads. Worse still, we get rusty without practice. My rule is that if I haven’t written anything in 3 days, I have to sit down at my desk for one hour and brainstorm new ideas. No matter how uninspired I’ve been feeling, this always gives me something to carry forward.
- Do things with people. I’m definitely guilty of hiding in my room, turning down invitations and ignoring everybody when I could be out collecting experiences to write about. However, the more you interact with the people around you with the ulterior motive of observing their behaviour, the more interesting it becomes. There’s something truly intoxicating human behaviour, and it makes great writing material.
- Read. This one’s obvious.
- Show people your work. Scary at first, but the exposure is completely necessary if you want to gain confidence and ambition as a writer. Plus, if somebody is expecting you to write a poem, you’re more likely to get on and write it than if there’s no external pressure/acknowledgement of your goals.
- Ultimately, just be passionate. What has always driven me forward has been my excitement about the writing process, and my complete infatuation with other writers’ work. I know I’ve read something inspiring when I want to jump around and scream and swallow it and tattoo it all over my body and cry out of jealousy that I didn’t write it, etc, etc. If words move you with a similar intensity, you’ll find a way to use them yourself.
this is important
Life stands loosely before us with little more than a wisp of the reality we think exists. Conceivably there isn’t much to contemplate on the surface of any daily routine we inherently attribute to being human, we rise, we eat, we shit and we sleep, rinse and repeat more or less, and yet in this strange and odd but appealing way—it has become a linear exaggeration that is easy to understand. We inadvertently fill those meager daily tasks with a plethora of thoughts, many of which lead and point to three oscillating questions that have perplexed us over time. Why am I here? Does God exist? Am I alone in the universe? Each of those questions has bred endless debates and speculation, not to mention filled millions of books with mindless contemplation, and perplexing as it all is exorbitant amounts of resources have been waged to uncover the answers to those three questions.
Questions that I think are just beyond the grasp of our ability to reason with any hard accuracy a single complete answer to any one of those questions. A part of me wonders sporadically about two of those questions, while the whole of me refutes completely the existence of an Omnipresent God, but of course that is my belief. I have no desire to debate it, or relay to you any admissions I may have found to lend credence to that particular argument, for or against God’s existence.
I’m content with one overwhelming thought that only strengthens my resolve, and that is simple to also understand, if God exists then God and God alone will forgive me or condemn me to pass judgement over my soul. Here are some interesting thoughts that also continually creep into my mind, every now and then. Approximately every twelve years since the year 2000, we as a collective society will irrevocably change the earth forever, better or worse, by adding ONE BILLION more inhabitants on its surface. Currently there are SEVEN BILLION people that call earth home, and that sweeping mass of people inhabit any number of countries across the globe, and in 2024 it will be 8 billion, in 2036 it will be 9 billion, in 2048 it will be 10 billion and that year will also be the tipping point where it all that changes.
Starting in 2048 with a population of 10 billion people, that shift in population growth will start to grow exponentially, due in part to something called the Fibonacci effect, where it will begin to spiral out of control, and in just 5 years from that date we will add 2 billion more bodies, in 10 years from that date we will add 5 billion more bodies, where in 15 years from that date we will add 9 billion more bodies. If you’re good at math you understand that in the year 2063 we will have a population of 26 BILLION people that are living (if you want to call it that) on the surface of the planet.
That’s in roughly 50 years where we will have reached what the scientific community calls critical mass. We will have saturated and populated every conceivable frontier on the surface of the earth. By then I suspect we will even have floating cities anchored out on the ocean, off of each coasts of every single continent on earth. I hope that I never see that day, I hope that I am long dead and buried, standing up if need be, or incinerated where my ashes might be used in some off shore landfill project. At that point I also think or believe that the existence of God will be at least settled, and that all factions of each and every religion that still stands will undoubtedly come to their senses and put down their weapons.
As far as the other two questions that have completely entertained me for a large portion of my life, as to—why am I here, and if I am alone in the universe, really won’t matter all that much by then. The one thing that stands out, in all of this, will be the expanse of humanity, is the flip side to all of this critical mass that will also be addressed once and for all too. That being those that were comfortable in that 1% will have to finally see the numbers for what they are, and they would be seriously stacked against them regardless of the sums of money they might have stuffed in their mattresses, for the remaining 99% will take umbrage at that point, and what governments remain will be keenly aware of their own demise. Things will as they say quickly fall into order, or they will rot and decay—vigorously.
Resources if there are any that remain will probably be used to send a select group to the outer reaches of perhaps the moon, or maybe Mars will be Tara-formed by then, escaping this critical mass will not be first come first serve, it will be elective and surgically executed. In the coming years humanity will suffer beyond any scope or understanding that we can fathom or even grasp at his point, although the tiniest silver lining will more than likely be that death will become a voluntary option, open to any who wish it. Of course this is all speculative on my part, it is only my outrageous belief, and you may see it completely different than I, and perhaps maybe you will be one of those that will be able to have everything, I just hope you have somewhere to put it.
There’s a moment between half finished sentences or the second our lips touch or the way you run your fingers down my spine; I am in love. Nothing more and nothing less, there’s an explosion in the sky that spells out your name and we are lost between the stars. I’m where I’m supposed to be, love and everything is right in my world for now.
I was naive before you sprung down from the sun and darling the leaves don’t dance with just anybody. But you, the wind between my hair and I caught more than my imagination allowed me to comprehend. Bubbles burst, and darling you’re the pin I would stand in front of over and over again. But now you’re gone and I’m moving on.
People say there is pain in giving yourself away and its never easy being a puppet, strung in someone else’s hands. Consumed by an ache you can’t understand, but oh lord do you feel it. Word, not enough and a touch could change your world but being complete was never the goal. You want to be lost, but not alone.
I stand in the middle of a ghost town with my chest pressing down, deep beneath my skin; a piercing pain to revive feeling where its lost and you should think, I’m okay walking in a new place. Everyone searches for new beginnings and I got mine under a sky for of stars, but who do I wish for in this lonely desert?
Love; its horrible either way, as we live in memories of yesterday and perfect moments don’t come by too often. There’s a second, you’re in love and then out, all alone. Where do you go between the hurt and aches and pain, darling there’s no cure and no running away. What good is fighting it, when you knew from the start, you’re doomed to fail.
- Fall in love or die trying.
you should stick to the things you know
like existing, like not dying, like imagining the desert
as a sliding glass door smeared with your fingerprints
and dust and dead bugs, warm to the touch,
solid but shaking in the wind.
this the construct that allows you to survive.
you see yourself projected on the screen.
you are both woman and screen.
the image rains down into your hands
and drips through your fingers.
it reacts with the dirt and the scent
pulls you through space and time until you are
dizzy with it. i dreamt about you since i was a child.
i saw you happening everywhere.
even when the grass pushed through my face
i knew i was becoming you.
You hide parts of yourself, because J.D Salinger said “Don’t ever tell anybody anything. If you do, you start missing everybody” and he still seeps under your skin sometimes, with words that weren’t meant for only you. So, this time you pretend to be something you’re not, but darling that’s the thing about caring, you don’t realize when someone has the power to make you smile. Even if the origin stems from something fake and you never think that the blunt edge of a table could hurt when you’ve walked around a dark room for a while, oh darling, but it does.
- I’m trying to stop hurting from something that never was, but memories know how to clog your pores and dirt always finds a place to crawl in.