All ready to
But you can never reach the
Your soul is
You are an
Chained to the
i'll count to twenty-three and hold my breath.i saw a boy the other day when i went to an art museum,
and he stood for twenty-three minutes staring at the self-portrait of some lady
no major art enthusiast has ever heard of,
becuase i guess she isn't cool enough to hang beside monet.
i wish i could remember her name, but more than anything i wish that i knew his,
becuase then i would have part of him in my mind, and those syllables could echo when i'm sitting in calculus class with nothing to do.
i could write poetry with those letters if i knew them,
and then crumple up the pages and leave them lying on my floor,
like the december snow i want so much,
but like his hands i'll never have.
there's something you meant to tell me.my friends warned me about love back when i first started high school because i didn't know anything about anything important
all i knew was poetry and art and world war two and they knew that wouldn't get me very far but i guess they knew i wouldn't get me very far either
and last night it was dark when i was driving home so i was just thinking about everything and in the midnight darkness all i could see were girls with pale pink hair and boys with pastel lips and i realized that both were far more dangerous than driving drunk or smoking three packs of cigarettes a day and maybe if i listened to my friends i might still be alive
but i'd rather be killed by the people i fell in love with than just being alive without nothing to paint into the night sky when i drive.
everything's freezing.monday is the only day i like,
because it gives me something to live for;
my hopes that maybe you'll love me
on the weekend.
its 8 pm, and i'm just trying to forget."hey, your shoe's untied"
shouldn't be romantic, and it shouldn't make my heart flutter
as i lie here in my bed and imagine that the lines in my ceiling
are the perfect blue veins
coursing beneath the flawless ivory flesh of your careful hands,
that never shake like mine.
but those four simple words you said one day across the halls,
before we ever really met,
were the nicest thing you ever told me,
because it showed how much you cared,
but i guess that was back then.
"i love you"
should be romantic, and it shouldn't make my heart shatter
when i look at the polaroids taped to my wall,
and think about how much brighter your eyes always seemed at night
when we danced beside the waves.
but you spoke those words as you stood by the door
with a question mark hovering in the air;
the air that choked me when you walked away.
"i'm sorry" still lives deep within my walls,
and reverberates every time i scream your name.
you were nice enough to shatter me.and i know you have a lot on your plate right now,
what with college, your mother's death, and all,
so don't worry about inflicting your venom;
i hate myself enough for the both of us.
the shadows beneath my eyes remind me of you.i got bored in class last friday,
so i wrote a poem upon my hand,
and when my teacher walked by he read it.
"that's deep," he said.
"i know," i told him,
say something, skylar.and my fingers are freezing as i type these words,
the joints only bend at the angles they would take
wrapped around your hand.
it's cold out here,
but i'm reluctant to leave your graveside.
i'm immersed in the expectation that a few letters from now
when i unfurl your name,
my fingers will find warmth or numb so i can't feel.
it sounds cold outside.i feel an overwhelming homesickness
as i haunt through the corpse-cold corridors of my house.
my bare feet are numb to the frozen oak stairs, and
echoes of my parents' shouting wisp against closed doors
like an ungraceful reflection of the ocean's gossamer stutter
trapped within a shell.
i don't know where i am,
but please just take me home.
ReflectionI want to sprinkle a piece of me
Into bit-code hoping it sticks.
But no one cares about the truth
Unless it's funny.
And I've lost sight
Of what that is;
I've been taught that it's all relative.
We're all irrelevant in the end
And so, the fire that use to burn in my heart
Is all Charcoal. And I've been trying
To see with no eyes; to drive with
But now I know I want to melt
Together people's 90 degree angles,
Until the world knows everyone's rights.
I want to melt together the distance
That separates prose and poetry;
Fact and Fiction; light and darkness.
Dead or alive?I feel numb
Is this death?
Or am I still alive?
If I'm alive
I shouldn't be
Because death is better
Than this cursed life
He only dates broken girls.I will destroy you. I will
make you love me
without even trying;
you’ll love the scabs
on my knees, the bruises
under my eyes, my
singed hair. You will love
the rush of holding
my hand as we cross
the bridge; you’ll feel
like a hero each time
I don’t jump. You will buy
me chocolates, the most
expensive, to guilt me
into eating. You will buy
me seeds instead of flowers,
to give me a reason to
get up in the morning. You
will make me dependent,
even as I feed your white
knight complex. I will destroy
myself, and so you,
and you will know why storms are named after people.
While You Were SleepingWhile you were sleeping
to whisper about you jealously
in their tiny little chain gang
bigger, badder, better.
While you were sleeping
their undying bond of friendship
and every face hardened
sadder, snider, solid.
While you were sleeping
conspiracies rose and fell
with your breath
and They rustled with laughter
more, malicious, mayhem.
While you were sleeping
Cancer shoved over other kids
in the playground
and took their place
suddenly, so, scared.
While you were sleeping
you were overrun
and we can fight it, of course,
with artilleries in the arteries
we'll, wield, weapons
but while you were sleeping
they took a misered,
into tumultous, tumourtuous, laughter
as you lay undefended
and they captured your heart.
Ignorant WisdomThe best of us die young
We are blood and body
Mind and muddled matter
That decays from the very air
Necessary like an addiction
Our eyes are skin and sinew
Senses intaking a surface
But to the machine of faults
What is there lost to us?
The best of us are of will
As what will be passed belief
The demanding of subconscious
Edicts of the soul
Then why do they die?
Why must a will be severed
When it drives our existence
All that there is
And will ever represent us?
Why do vessels feed the muscle?
Bones hold up our legs
And a head with strong neck
That its aspirations rise?
The best of us accomplish
Tasks of a higher calibre
Like a barrel of the cannon
One volley into the stars
They undertake with all motive
And lose the unwinnable condition
For through their demarcation
Revitalize our weak hearts
The best of us die young
Because they are not us
And remind us what we should be
Through the greatest league
Of history's lessons
They sacrifice their chance to live
As watcher of the
coming of agethere are parts of me
you can still hear
on the radio;
at first, you'll mouth
the words, but you
won't be able to tell
if the static touching
your ears rests in
memory, and memory alone.
my love is not leagues deep.
you'll always be the one
to decide if i'm worth standing
in up to the ankle,
lukewarm and lapping,
or if you'd like to sleep
beneath my shores, miles
below discernible life.
the long lesions scoring
the belly of my pride
have scabbed over,
and trust me when i say
i clench my fists upon
remembering those who have
bruised me in the name
of disgust -
trust me when i say
my teeth are bared
and i am snarling,
the blood from past fears
staining my lips.