flowers mean nothing, i desire apologies & actions
petals pressed in enveloped sleeves, know, please
hearts need more than undug, rooted holes. don't
plant promises you can't uphold, try to send
hope in forms of light on fragmented souls; me--
i like how they sparkle like stained glass. flowers
grow then die at your fingers, just as men. please,
borrow and barter memories--don't
pluck delicacies, it wilts them to tragedy. send
bottled words tightened by actions; know me
as the lover who craves time. not, flowers.
symptoms of poetry.
a poem is a disease with never-ending infecting;
where veins are thinning, skin's purely ash—
nothing becomes your own anymore when
society prints thoughts as words, quickly how
language is released on its own accord to the world;
people snatch it up hungrily and their fingers stain carelessly
as the echoes of meaning hollow through distinct dissecting.
they say a masterpiece is worth more when one's deceased;
but darling, you can have any of my work without a penny
as long as i'm breathing.
the sound of your voice crawls against my throat [it's a tickle, a mockery, a mimic i cannot make / i crave, i'm addicted to the words that tumble from your mouth / i rather hear you again every day than feel the brush of your lips.] from the taste of my fantasies, my tongue has shriveled from the melancholy it leaves behind [i recommend to those who have never felt so unclose, don't recall the good times, since it reminds you that you can't go back to the past.] my soul associates, people with poetics: i remember people as lines, i press the seams of melodies so to see the shapes of their bodies [and that pitch she sings, the chorus of her tragedy / it's the chord i know your name by, it's a tune that i ache to share with you.] soon they whisper to me, though their comments slip past me entirely, the idealism of moving on [fictional concept if you ask me, there's always one song you hear once a decade yet still quote the entire thing effortlessly; you're that song to me]. my only wonders lay, in the safety you've become to me [does leaning far too much make you imagery or hate me?]
be my fable—my moonrise tea,
be my shot of stability.
hold my heart and hand & kiss my curves softly.
but more than anything, tell me your thoughts (please):
sculpt your mind with unfiltered phrases of raw words,
fresh cut slabs of verity.
because my soul craves organized chaos,
collateral spontaneity, it tastes like warm honey
gold tongues of destiny.
i’ll let go for you; it hurts, i know
every other word is an echo; memories burned on hollow bones
life's an endless spiral. i'm not crazy, i know; but stability hates me
& it's crushing me. i've lost over twenty pounds in months less
than your fingers can hold; my mother's screaming, saying silence
can't be your diet. rub the makeup off my face, ask me six months ago
i thought i know where'd i go. whisper my name now, i'll cry.
nothing's the same yet there's still an outlining. you cannot love
a broken girl; she doesn't want you tumbling down her unpaved roads.
plant a tree for the memories, care for it as your own; perhaps one day
she'll be there to watch it grow.
what keeps reality frigid, is knowing it was real; that the heart bleeds,
even if time dries it out. selfishly i ask for a moment, a dime to hold
in a future when she's stitched up enough to be considered as whole;
not a fantasy ending - she never quite believed in those, just a
friendly reminding, of a time you were there when she needed a hand to hold.
you've become a piece of her soul; but you need to let her go.
you call me a poet // i call it vocal sin.
speak(ing) of the devil, he rides the train
past heaven, licks his lips and pulls in
humanity's station - there i'm waiting,
for him. there's a numbing in my bones
i've yet to know // watch the fish ripple
through my veins; still, there's no name
for my condition.
pre-paid tragedy // not made for loving.
the devil draws his head back to laugh,
my sweatt drips down the suitcase -
blood red - in my hands. weathered skin
crushed against expectation, raising my arms
to show him // the devil hisses, said
rewriting stars is a dreadful art, leaves you with
half finished hearts. i would claim the devil
a cruel man - if only, he had no truth to him.