Keep on WalkingStretch your toes across the carpet
You won't be grounded for long
I'll watch you grow butterflies
As long as you keep those caterpillars safe
Sometimes twisted roads can twist your mind
Make you burn the maps
And find your own way
Among the wreckage of your late-night dreamings
Trains don't run where we're going
I can promise you that
Sometimes the future can be frightening
Unsalvageable negatives from your camera obscura
Sometimes your feet outgrow
The shoes you've walked here in
And sometimes the wash
Won't clear the stains from your clothing
But the world won't grow from the maybes
The foundations too thin to house your children
Sometimes all you can do is let go
Find a way through the rubble
You have two good legs
-Keep on walking.
Life on the ShoresI felt you faded, felt you washed up on my shores. There we sat, you choking up salt and me staring at the sunset. All purple and orange and blue. Our toes in the sand, touching and grazing at shells and rocks and feeling the breeze nip at the wetness. It was under my fingernails and at the tip of my tongue. I wondered vaguely how far the sand had gone up my shorts, whether it was caking my hair and lining my ear canal. Checking would only make the damage worse.
"I'm happier as friends," You said. And I felt my chest deflate, felt myself taking in water and sinking in a ball to where the seaweed and man-of-war lived. I could feel the waves pounding against my skull, the truth washing my rocks into splinters. I knew you were right. The kissing was unnatural, the sex was forced, the awkward smack of limbs against limbs. As much as I loved to trail my fingers across your pale skin, watch it stretch and pull to my padded splendor, the obvious fact remained: I would get over you. Soon I wou
How I Spend My Tuesday NightsI noticed you in the diner before you noticed me. Sticky red lipstick on your cup, old 50's band crooning some tormented love song through muffled speakers. This is the kind of place you wear heels by accident, you put your hair down because the tight up-do is starting to hurt, and you become best buds with your waiter. It's always some guy with a wife and three kids trying to sell you half a cow with a cracker on either side. Mentioning Mitch Hedberg will get you a frown and a shake of the head, but you'll try and crack a smile anyways as you down your milkshake and feast on pickle organs until your dish arrives. The soup is exquisite. Chicken noodle, but with actual chicken in it, the good kind, and the noodles that twirl and fall out of your spoon.
This is the kind of place where you don't leave without browsing the cakes behind the glass counter and hum and haw over whether or not you want mint chocolate chip ice cream. And you knew this, of course, as you checked your hair
Stir CrazyI can feel my room getting smaller. The window is laughing at me. The curtains refuse to block out the light, shedding their weight just to torment me. I cannot sleep. The sheets don't like to stay on my bed; they wrinkle into the edges of the cheap and glossy wooden frame, proclaiming their dislike for my solid turquoise mattress. I was once told that these are the same mattresses that they use in prison. I'm not sure if this is true.
This could be a prison, my prison, this campus with its half-constructed decay. All the fishies that swam in this school, the clowns and the bettas all swimming in filth, cigarette butts littering the ground like our whole snow globe setup is an ash tray. But all that is left is that goddamn plastic diver and a half-baked tray of dirty dishes. In this corner, fighting for space on my shelf, are a collection of video games roughly a century and a half old, labeled with white stickies and black sharpie pens – back when the sharpies would be like sniffing g
Freud and Broken Christmas TreesShe spilled the news on me before I even had the chance to react. And what would you even say to that, anyways? I'm sorry? Geez, that sucks? How's it feel to be an only child now? No. Never. You don't say that kind of stuff. You will never be able to find the words to say until it happens to you, too. God forbid.
And she just kind of stared at me. That look was piercing, haunting. It froze my tendons and turned my thoughts to dust. I was a nothing, I was worse than the dirt under her shoes. Because I couldn't solve anything. Because I couldn't make it better. Because I was just as helpless as she was, and she hated me for it.
The feeling wasn't a red, or a black. It wasn't any colour I could really name, but it wasn't a gray either. It was a block of things, a puzzle, the outline of a crumpled soda can. Edges poking inside to spill the remains out through the tiny pinpricks, the fractures in the metal. I could go on and on into metaphors but she – I don't have words to describe her eye
Bathrooms and Other MetaphorsI've spent my mornings
Hiding in the shower curtains
Watching the steam of the sunrise
Turn into clouds over my stomach
Washed my face clean
A new 5-ply sheet
From the roll
And into my typewriter
Swirl my refuse
Into the pipes of my trash can
My hands are-
Dirty fingernails and-
Starting fresh from
Wack-job. Murder. Knock-off.
Kick the bucket.
Q-tips are cue cards
Pulling thoughts out my head
Through my ears
Brushing teeth is printer maintenance.
Stash my pens behind the medicine cabinet
Put the white-out with the mouthwash
Writing is a job
Best left alone
But I don't like people to see my shit.
Authorshipyou’re the author
of this story - and yet
insist on playing
the role of a foil
when you could
rewrite the pages
as you wish.
And in this dark harvest of season
My life has completely lost reason,
For which or against to decide.
All lost in a savage and endless, bleak tide
In sadness and in kindness
In light and in darkness.
In a boat made of hope
I shall sail to tomorrow,
In a winding hurricane
Made of treachery and sorrow.
There's a spear, endless, and colossal spear...
Piercing, slashing though my head.
Starting somewhere in heaven,
Ending somewhere in hell.
Fighting, burning, crying, crashing.
Are the armies within.
In my head they are all thrashing.
On the heaven's and hell's whim.
To be light or to be darkness.
A perpetual array.
It's not merely my choice,
But the choice of the way.
It's an option of the voice,
It's a thin line of gray.
Is it a choice forced by fate,
Is it a pre-set time and date?
Or a choice to which I myself sway?
But here's our story anyway .
"Nothing that I do will matter.
As all things will merely shatter!"
All my hopes thus darkness scatter,
As it shoves me a decree.
As it si
after the explosion
are these suns,
a faint projection
from an unreachable darkness,
And then everything is simultaneous;
the entangled mess,
And maybe it's all about editing and being edited-
The pilot painted across a desert,
A desert painted across the pilot.
Or the holographic drift, a surface reflection-
The expanse outside echoed inward,
Jagged orange treelines over the firefly black like someone holding onto a woman
(or the memory of a woman).
Or maybe just the T.V. relay
as I struggle to sleep,
from both dimensions
glowing and whispering:
The horses of your apocalypse/the apocalypse of your horses.
glass in the throatthere's something about that
hollow quiet in the night
that bite of air
beneath the clouded moon:
something like calm words,
falling through the gaps
between stained teeth
something like a dull thud,
a stumbling fawn
bruised by a wheel.
something about that
clinging crowding darkness
a sweet invitation:
prey on us sinners,
at the hour of our death.
Fixing the damageYou feel damaged
Just like me
We can change that
We can fix each other
So don't give up
We need each other
All Hallows EveThey say that on this night the witches ride,
that spirits walk and churchyards spew their dead.
It isn’t true.
It’s said the stench of hell infects the earth
and healths of heated blood are downed.
But Hamlet lied.
The dead know nothing, the living less.
There are only poets with blood-nibbed pens;
souls hung between high heaven and deep hell.
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