the sky was earl grey
and the clouds were steamy sips
and i wanted to drink it all.
the leaves were star yellow
and the bark smelled of coffee
and the bakery was selling a moon made out of cheese.
there was an old man on a bench
he threw his wedding band in the sewer
i cried for him.
the birds were dreams
and the mountains, my obstacles,
tally ho young adventurer tally ho
i ran into an artist today
he drew signs on corner post buildings
but he also gave his lunch to a homeless boy.
my mom holds black holes beneath her eyes
and for the first time in days, she spoke to me,
"i'm worried about you. try to make some friends?"
dear mom, i am trying
i played chess with a man in the park
i helped a girl find her parents
i am content with who i am, mom,
now i am just trying to help others achieve the same.
i ran into the artist again today
and he taught me how to paint
and then he smiled at me and said, "you're different than the rest."
we made plans, me and
the anguish of the sky.( look up and get lost )
for the sky is a thief with a pocket full of jewels
that gleam through the holes of his trousers-
and each night he fiddles with his stolen treasure
crudely fashioning constellation crowns for his beloved.
but often times, she disappears
and the sky cries in comets and meteors-
as the thunder rolls around the earth
like the unsaid prayers on his tongue
and you can see it in his planet eyes,
he is nothing when her light is gone
and he stumbles blindly across the galaxies
with black hole corneas and wet eyelashes.
adieu my love!
he cries as dawn kisses the horizon-
but the moon never replies,
too caught up in her own lust
( chasing the sun )
a siren's song.her ribcage burst into flowers
as her lungs swam to sea
and the world was silent
-like a film set on mute-
as it watched her dance
into her coral grave.
she grinned and laughed
and all you could hear
was the metallic scraping
of her tongue on her teeth
as her coppery laugh
fell into the ocean-
like a penny onto concrete.
her hair was a tangle of seaweed
drenched in brine
and adorned with salt flecks
that caught the sun in waves
crashing along the shoreline
in the treble notes of symphonies.
ensnared in wanderlust,
she ran towards the current
in hopes of finding herself
among the lost.
she wore fish-scales
on her clavicle
and sung her way down
to the bottom of atlantis.
the ships out at bay that day
only remember one thing:
she sunk like the titanic,
her bones tearing at the seams
and all that remained of her
were two hands
(whose knuckles were mountains
and skin was land)
receding into the curls
as the earth drowned into the sea.
and there was nothing left on the horizon
. “You won’t allow me to go to school.
I won’t become a doctor.
One day you will be sick.”
Poem written by an 11 year old Afghan girl
This poem was recorded in a NYT magazine article about female underground poetry groups in Afghanistan. An amazing article about the ways in which women are using a traditional two line poetry form to express their resistance to male oppression, their feelings about love (considered blasphemous).
you are all lovely.thank you all so much for 9,000 page views and over 300 watchers! it's amazing to see how much i've grown on this site with the help of every one of you. i just wanted to make a watcher appreciation journal to remind you guys that you all mean so much to me, whether you've been with me since the beginning or have just recently browsed my gallery. you guys are special, fabulous, wonderful, and amazing.
as such, i realize i never do features (because i am lazy and there are way too many great artists out there) but i thought i'd do a small one showcasing just a tiny amount of the great work coming from my watchers. thank you for all the love
Barren Branches by TwilightPoetess:thumb327033989::thumb358068297:daedalus by IOwnSarcasmtragic by JaditeUntitled by trembling-kneesStar Man by TheMoorMaiden
looking for something to read?here's some hand-selected picks by wonderful writers from their own galleries as well as a friend's happy reading!
From Afar, Thunder Roared by introverted-ghostInvention of a Character by Arrow-of-the-SunThe Rotting Queen of Portugal by TheMoorMaidenpebbles by cristinewakesuphappyhoney-filled hearts by saltwaterlungs
favorites from a friend's gallery:
6wortgeschichte by miserabelThe Transformation Of Waste (A Qit'ah) by tiganusidavid and ruth laskin by your-methamphetamine:thumb357909982:Grains of Sand. by lauroticaPlyushkin by RussianTimIn Fair Verona by GuinevereToGwenFire With an Aftertaste of Chocolate by arisen-arisu
sometimes you just need a pick me upi think everyone just goes through ruts, and we need pick me ups. i thought i'd share with you my pick me ups
foods: tomato bisque soup, macaroni and cheese, vegetarian pizza, mint chocolate chip ice cream
drinks: tea, tea, more tea and a dash of caramel coffee
and any christmas song regardless of the time of the year (they just put me in a good mood!)
so what are your pick me ups? in the winter season, it's easier to slip into bouts of sadness and loneliness, so it's good to have something to turn to when you want to feel a little better (:
oh and here's hugh jackman singing at the oscars: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Terhj8mjPwY
so excited for les miserables!
welcoming the new year with a smile.hope everyone is having a wonderful holiday season regardless of what you celebrate, if you celebrate at all wishing you all the best end to the year 2013 and the greatest start to the new year!! thank you all for 13,000+ page views and for sticking with me through this dry spell. i've been super busy with life and hearing good news so it's been a relatively happy break for me
hope you've all been doing well and looking forward to seeing your creations in my inbox
Autumn was my first love.October, I follow you -
from the magic lights of New York
to moonshines in Georgia,
until the colors dissolve.
The anxious poetry of autumn
made a memory of me.
Here’s to things I take for granted:
country road thunderstorms.
Unspoken words, unwritten ideas.
October, I follow you;
I thought I saw you on the shore
where the river runs through gold
on the last boat leaving the city of a hundred spires -
or perhaps Pittsburgh
(it was the lights I guess).
Here’s to the things we leave behind:
sunbeams in November,
letters addressed to no one,
poems, wounds, dead birds.
I’ve got that summertime sadness.
Maybe you’re gonna come back;
we’re changing our ways, taking different roads
and loneliness knows me by name
but October, I follow you;
without you I’m a winter heart,
a love story you don’t want,
a November shade of grey hunting ghosts
in cities that sleep inside our heads.
You told me you lied the night you kiss
AffannatoIf my ribs were weighted keys,
I'd play you an ocean song that tips you
right off the edge of the earth,
and clinging to my last phrase, you'd say
'what a tragedy, what a helpless dreamer,
such a beautiful pair of lungs gone to the dust'.
And night would hold us in that distant desperation,
playing our heartstrings so we couldn't keep up,
no, not with that soulful, off-tempo portrait
of who we could have let each other become.
I'll crawl back to bed on my bare boned knees
and when I wake to the black holes you've burned
into the sheets you and I were 'us' on,
I'll write you a desert song
about how I jumped off the edge of the earth
and you weren't there.
you are nothing but
an injured bird,
losing your way
in a world of uncertainties.
have been clipped,
by their ignorant words
(not good enough, not good enough)
and you’re grounded:
unable to rise
to the light of the sun –
instead you’re alone below,
drowning in the droplets
of their adamant rain.
not good enough,
they whisper once again,
not good enough…
summergirlNow read aloud over here. Do give it a listen, won't you?
you are crowthroated and tumbling
through the aspen grove
hair on fire with sunrise, lungs
full of sky.
eyelashes like wildflowers
and every morning brings
a new spray of freckles
and a sharper curve to your collarbones.
the cornfields hold no shadows
for your lighthouse eyes
and there are no endings in that
ii. you have grown
autumn finds you with broken ankles
leaning on an oak branch
and watching the skies.
crow to sparrow--you are quiet.
summergirl, there is peace in silence,
fallen antlers in your hands.
you will come to mourn your deer.
keep them close.
iii. by winter you have paled,
and like the streams
your eyes have frosted over.
you feel the chill--
there is no need for sight.
SurrogateI stopped using his full title
because it started sounding too formal,
and it’s hard to be standoffish with someone
who swaps albums and memories so generously,
who loves German chocolate but hates the smell of oranges,
who knows me by my boneless,
drowsy form on the couch and by my words.
And maybe one day he’ll ask
me to drop the title altogether and call him Brad,
but I won’t.
Because it sounds too much like dad,
and I’m afraid of slipping up.
confessionalthey say sad girls change their hair color
and forgive their monsters.
i change my morals
and become one.
He doesn't write poetry anymore.He doesn’t write poetry anymore,
even if he still collects it, reads it, saves it, treasures
faded verses from his wife the way connoisseurs
savor vinyl over metallic rainbows on disc.
I don’t mind not knowing, but I can’t stand not asking.
The record needle hits the groove wrong;
he stumbles over words that aren’t there,
rummaging for an answer he doesn’t really have.
He doesn’t write poetry anymore
and his confusion is strangely endearing.
But there’s a lyricism to his words that I love,
poetic lines inserted between the daily grind
of character names and who said what;
voiceless boys in white and draymen carting the dead to saltwater lakes,
elegiac undertones that haunt historians and forlorn painters.
He doesn’t write poetry anymore –
except when he does.
autobiographythere's a broken boy
that lives down the hallway -
a collection of worn-out dreams and wanderlust
sewn together by all the promises they never kept.
they say good things come to those who wait,
but he's been waiting
and w a i t i n g ,
so long he doesn't know
who or what he's waiting for anymore.
he doesn't know what he wants.
because mother wants him to go to college,
brother wants him to stop pestering,
daddy doesn't say.
but he wants out.
he wants to run away and never look back,
change his name and never be seen again.
stop existing to the people who push him too far.
he wants to discover new places,
find love in the corners
of old caves and stonehenge and paris.
the city of love, they call it.
he can learn to love himself.
[broken boys make for good poems,
but recovering cutters don't just happen.]
bad days.on my bad days,
i open notebooks like bibles and hold pens like lifelines.
i keep opening the book of my memories
just to see if it still leaves a bruise.
i am covered in the bruises of your hand
your ghost is in my bed. i can't sleep there,
again i find myself miles from home
wishing on stars i can't see
and spitting memories into the ocean like watermelon seeds.
i sit on my longboard like driftwood and send my shivers into texts
like letters i never should have mailed.
on my bad days,
i wear cuts like ropeburn,
like i just don't know when to let go.
i get lost inside the sadness and hold tea thats long since gone cold
as hours escape like small birds set free.
i forget to open the blinds
and paint my fingernails black
and stare at the too-big numbers aligned on the scale i can't stop stepping on.
Loving a WriterWhen you read their work –
and it is work,
and you will often come second to the job –
it’s best to know which pieces are fictions,
which ones are wishes,
and which parts are for you.
wallflower clippingsthere's scar tissue in her throat,
swollen around the words she never said;
dark rings around her eyes
like planets unremembered, and
a staleness to her touch,
the crystalline Dead Sea.
she's living like a story
that's already been told
"if no one loved you
would you mean anything at all?"
in that moment,
we forget to exist.
astronomerswhen we're together
dusk is containable; the moon in my palms
and the stars on your ceiling.
we lull the city to sleep
with our theories of life; my tongue curling
do you remember,
when Jupiter was a silver wick, lighting its countless moons?
you balanced a cigarette off your lips,
and I watched the vermillion flame burn life
as a newborn sun;
planets moulding and constellations snaked
above our eyes.
what it would be like to be curled
inside the embers creator and destroyer
so close to your lips.
Confessionsthere’s a lot I never told you
1. I have a habit of lying, about
the simple things (like, yes I
forgot to remember and I swear by
soul mates and I’m in love
with your susurrus voice
and no, I’m really doing fine).
It was not an act of infidelity because
I believed it, too.
2. I’m infatuated with the concept
that I am more or less fictional, the
delusive beauty a million men will
dedicate novels to: I am fragile,
a dust angel sent to save the world
from commonalities and
3. Since I’m not allowed
to remember your name
I will commemorate you
in acts of escapism,
killing off the pieces
of the person you left behind.
4. I believe in a past life
I was a bird with a tendency
towards tall buildings; the sorry kind
of bird with heavy bones and crumpled wings
who never quite learned
to fly away.
5. I miss you. I used to think
you were a person, but now I know
you’re the happiness I will never
6. I'm sorry.
CardiganI liked your cardigans because they were as soft as your skin
and they seemed to match the atmosphere when we would sit at park tables,
eating our words with silver spoons
and sitting next to each other rather than across because we didn't like the rules
of platonic relationships.
You were left handed and your fingers and elbows would sometimes
accidentally collide with mine and you apologized
and I said that it was okay
when I really wanted to beg for more.
The truth was that I only ever wanted to know you and
touch your jaw and your fingers
and your elbows and your collar bones but that was not
appropriate for park tables and silver spoons
and you only wore cardigans around people who you thought of as just friends
and nothing more
stop me if you've heard this one beforei.
there is a man on the corner of my street
who gave me a bottle of bleach
and told me if i drank it, i'd finally feel clean.
but i gave it back to him, and went home to take a shower.
because i am almost happy,
and i do not want to mess that up by
chugging bleach or fingering knives or thinking too much
about that man who turned my insides cold
from inside of his car.
because this has to be happy.
this has to be what happy feels like.
it feels like god gave me a vodka bottle
filled with nature and people and oceans and deserts and seas,
cause see, it feels like i'm drunk on life.
i have this nervous habit of scratching holes in my skin
and my mother says it's because
i'm trying to find something beautiful inside me.
she said i need a psychiatrist.
my friend asked me if i needed itching crème.
i keep laughing about stuff that's probably not funny.
i don't want it to rain anymore.
used to, i liked the rain,
because if i squinted, all the lines would be blurred.
pressure.she was cracked in places only she could feel, and where the blood could only be tasted, and not seen.
her lips, fingertips and inside her chest. she learned that there are certain body parts prone to being cut or bruised, and her white laced knees could attest to that. but there comes a time when cutting your leg on the coffee table or pinching your stomach with your belt buckle, isn't an accident anymore. its something more, and you know it is. but you can go so long without ever admitting it to yourself, and even longer for anyone else.
internalwe had a code, a way of telling the other that our mind wasn't stable that day
'i feel like smashing all the plates in the house again today'
not so secret; not too clever
but it worked
you said it every single day for two weeks, and it was always followed by you tossing your head back to gulp down half a
bottle of rot gut. i told you to stop it, and you tried.
it lasted two days.
then it got worse.
worse, worse, worse. i started to wonder if you were just getting more 'you'.
maybe you were just an inherent fuck-up, and it was hardwired into your dna.
god, you really were more than just unstable.
but you were delicate.
god dam this world makes me mad sometimes. everyone is too busy trying to stop
people hurting other people, that they don't notice those hurting
i noticed you.
no-one else did though.
no-one ever fucking does.