and i'm surrounded by balls of crumpled paper / untitled documents with two sentences written on them / short snippets of a screaming heart / words unable to complete the feeling.
in my bedroom in the middle of the night / willing inspiration to come / an escape from the yelling outside the door / but my mind is full of lead / barely able to think anymore.
it's the middle of the day, in a school library / bell rings / can't finish.
another unfinished poem hits the drafts pile, thrown into [?]
girl in the butterfly wings,
why aren't you flying away from here?
girl in the butterfly wings,
do you ever want to disappear?
the world is broken and hurt,
shadows chasing light out of the sky;
bloodstains cover your pink skirt,
yet i never seem to hear you cry.
is there something i can't see?
how much pain do you bury inside?
you could be gone, even free,
yet you choose to stay, suffer, and die.
perhaps one day i'll fathom
why you accept the world as it is;
you'll teach me mind and atom
to let go, return to states of bliss.
for now, i'll just sit and stare
and admire your spirit from afar;
the way you dance without care,
though your shoes conceal a scar.
girl in the butterfly wings,
why aren't you flying away from here?
girl in the butterfly wings,
do you ever want to disappear?
writing is harder on an iphone than on a computer, but it seems fitting. the world is crashing down around me, engulfing me in its rubble and refusing to let me escape. my headphones cut out the rest of the world. could you find a way to let me down slowly/a little sympathy i hope you can show me. i feel the same anxiety that i felt on that day, the one i have named to be the worst in my life. this one might win over that, though.
what do you do when you don’t know if you love anymore? when there’s no explanation for it, when it’s unfair and ugly? if you wanna go then i’ll be so lonely/if you’re leaving, baby, let me down slowly. i wish i didn’t have to shatter a heart in order to gasp for air again.
i nearly cried today. the doctor said i was well-adjusted and had a good head on...
counterfeit presents and halos of light.
barefoot doc martens and blind iphone photos.
ginger-beer flavored laughs and how i met your mother.
rants about disney and hands hidden in each other away from the cold.
kisses stolen in the wind and the moon gifted on a chain.
old superwholock memories and grunge pinterest boards.
long family calls and desperate yawns.
strawberry lips and cream-covered dreams.
cd walls and lovers rock - tv girl.
sci-fi aliens and super smash bros ultimate.
endless instagram dms and forgotten friends.
posters of benedict cumberbatch and indie music.
theater 16 and age 16.
the holy day is here again. my eyes wander from the man in the brown suit to the stained glass that reaches from floor to ceiling. i count the black iron crosses embedded in the window; each one sits upon an earth-toned hill, staring down upon me in silent judgement. when i was younger, i would trace the shapes with my finger, swirling it up and down and feeling the colors on my face. they tasted of conviction.
i remember when i first met God. i was sitting above a slot canyon, etching hearts with initials inside them into the dusty red-rock with a stick. voices rose and fell below me, friends and family and teachers. if i looked close enough, i could see the glowing flames of the campfire they were all sitting around. but i could not look at them. the sky was too deep, the awakening stars too numerous, the wonders too endless. the wind blew, and...
you come to me,
presenting your poor broken heart in a box with shaking arms.
i accept it and put it in the corner of my bedroom.
you tell me to take care of it.
make it better again.
the box still sits where it was placed,
gathering dust where i have failed to touch it.
i've been busy, i tell you.
i'll get to it soon.
i saw you yesterday.
you were pale,
your eyes brimming with sweat
and your face stained with tears.
you asked me, how much longer?
tomorrow, i promise.
we haven't spoken in weeks,
and perhaps it's for the better.
i avoid you on the street,
pulling up my hood to cover my face.
i don't want to tell you that the box still sits unopened in my bedroom.
you tell me that i need my heart back soon.
i don't know how much longer i can live.
please, fix it...
the altar is cold and unforgiving, hard stone against soft skin. tears cushion my damp cheek as it rests near the patch of moss. this shrine has not been used in years, and the wood sitting on top has wilted in the rain. it is funny how the world is silent in the face of abandonment.
i turn my eyes to the stars above.
i used to come here every day, faith strong as iron in my heart as i stood steadfast, my young face turned to the seemingly unending pillar of belief in quiet awe. now, i am much older; there are bags underneath my once-sparkling eyes, and my body is tired. i do not even know why i came here. nobody can help me under these blanched columns.
my mind has not stopped whirling around in circles, and it is beyond me why i cannot grasp the confidence i felt all those years ago. how did i kneel...
i. nails are broken from clawing at stone.
ii. heart is broken from beating fists against wall.
iii. ceiling sinks lower but doesn't touch head.
iv. lips long to touch dirt and weeds.
v. devil is breaking loose tomorrow evening.
vi. rub wrists raw with worry and friction.
vii. rhythm rhythm rhythm beat.
viii. pen draws on paper and time draws in veins.
ix. gods in the sky don't care about scratches on wood.
x. sun rises and sets and rises and sets and sets and rises.
xi. singed hair tickles noses.
xii. waiting game.
xiii. drink holy water to save souls.
xiv. don't cut tongue on paper instead poke holes in...
i was once a lone traveler, a small being on a large ship in a large ocean.
if i looked into the water, all i could see was my own pale face staring back up at me,
and if a tear caused a ripple that distorted the image,
nobody was around to care.
it might have been enjoyable,
being the master of my own ship;
but all i found was nothing --
not even a seagull passed by my mast.
the ache inside me grew.
it was early on a misty, foggy morning,
when i heard it for the first time.
it sounded of candy floss and dreams,
of silk and passion,
of parchment and intelligence.
i don’t know what came over me --
my mind was fuzzy and blank --
but the next thing i knew,
i was in the water,
eyes full of blur and nose full of salt and mouth full of anything but air.
hello there! is it okay if i show you something?
sit at the top of the hill, right there in the middle of the street.
go on, sit down! there's no cars coming. promise.
alright, can you see the rows of houses clearly now? no?
come, get a little closer to me.
you see it now, right? yeah. now, i want you to follow my finger,
down a little. there! that's it!
yes, look right along the asphalt. don't touch your face to it, though! that's too far down.
look at the sides of the road. notice the little flickering lights?
i want to tell you about them.
the boxes you're seeing are actually paper bags,
filled a little with sand.
in every single one of them,
there sits a little candle, dutifully flickering and burning.
you see, every household on this street has lit one.
each one holds the breath of a wish,
the merest whisper of hope for...
it's salt and storm and laundry detergent that fills my nostrils, cold and snow and silk pillowcases surrounding my head and now it's my mother checking in and asking what i'm doing at an hour and six minutes past midnight and what can i tell her except i have ideas that cannot escape my mind, they need to get out and i need to let them out before they take over and i'm no longer myself anymore. it's the sound of bathwater running and my father's snoring, the racket raised by my hedgehog as he runs on his red plastic wheel and my cat just groaned in his sleep. you'd expect the house to be silent at an hour and nine minutes past midnight but it's not, not really. the atmosphere is still cool from when i had it open a moment ago to let in the sulfur-scented air but then had to close it because the cross-breeze made my...
this one is named bobby.
he's a caterpillar. one day he'll grow into a big giant fluffy moth that sits on lamps like all of the others. but not yet. now he's still a kid, and he really wants to leave. being a grown-up feels like ages away and he can't wait to fly underneath the big black sky and feel the air under his wings. how much longer must he wait for this? if he was brave enough he'd race right out the front door and not even tell anybody where he was. he's told to enjoy the moment and live while he's still young but he's so caught up in his daydreams that right now seems like something made up by bigger bugs to keep him from knowing what they know. he's restless and anxious and his chores are getting sloppy but who cares because the world is so much bigger than him and he can't wait to...
some days, i'm floating.
you'd see that as a good thing --
i'm above the ground, soaring above the clouds.
i'm slowly lifting away,
untethered to reality
unable to distinguish right from wrong.
it's not as beautiful as you'd think up here;
there's hardly any oxygen,
and i can feel
my head spins;
where am i?
who am i?
,,icarus is flying too close to the sun.,,
it burns and burns, didn't you know?
my stomach is continually lurching when i look down.
i want to vomit,
but i don't know where my mouth is.
other days, i'm sinking.
that's usually how they describe this, isn't it?
an endless pit
or perhaps an ocean that consumes.
it's not like that.
it's the ground simply opening up and
the shape of my body fits perfectly.
i can't breathe, but it
isn't like drowning.
when you're drowning, ...
your skin was perfect.
you were praised and idolized,
and for no reason.
the only reason they loved you
was because of how you looked.
they didn't even know you;
they were just lying to you over and over again.
so i had to ruin you.
it hurt my very soul to shoot those arrows into that smooth skin,
your blood pooling on the ground like a forgotten rose.
you cried out, and my heart crumbled at your pain.
did you even understand?
could you hear the regret
ringing through my veins?
did you see the tears in my eyes
as i did what i knew must be done?
i asked for forgiveness once.
you said no. absolutely not.
i know i didn't deserve you.
i know i didn't deserve those late nights we spent together,
your fingers running through my hair.
i know i didn't deserve to see your smile light up the room.
i know i didn't deserve...
my skin was perfect.
smooth, unmarked and unblemished,
soft to the touch and pleasing to the eye.
i was admired,
i had it all.
you just had to ruin me, didn't you?
you just had to shoot those words at me,
silver daggers glinting in the sun of your hatred.
were you jealous?
did you relish in my blood
staining your hands?
did you laugh mirthlessly,
finding delight in the ugly crimson scars
forming obscene words on my once-beautiful features?
you asked for forgiveness once.
i can't even remember what i said.
you didn't deserve my attention.
you didn't deserve the love i had once given you.
you didn't deserve the strokes of admiration i left with my fingertips,
flowing through your hair.
you didn't deserve to own that little section of my heart,
and yet you did.
you occupied my mind,
you still didn't deserve me.
i had just stitched up those wounds. ...
it plays over and over again / invading my ears / i can't hear anything else anymore / you'd think i'm sick of it / but no / what else am i to do when my life is shattering like a wine glass dropped onto a paint-stained basement floor?
the clock ticks down / a bomb about to explode / what it counts down to / i do not know / and i'd rather not find out, really / so instead i'll just sit here / and look at the hourglass printed on the cover of this book / it represents the time left in a person's life before they die / and i suppose it's relevant enough.
seven minutes and two seconds / how many of those can i fit in a single hour / i'm beginning to find out / it's almost dreamlike, isn't it / it drowns out the hushed voices from next door / i wonder...
to the child who wanted to be athena:
never stop dreaming. they'll try to yank you back to reality (of course they will -- imagination is reserved for children), but your mind is a haven that you build for yourself. mold it into whatever shape you want it to be, and let it form into a castle underneath your very fingertips. when all else fails, it will always be there for you.
never stop dancing. even when you get judgmental stares from shoppers in the supermarket, let yourself be free to move to music playing inside of your head, closing your eyes and getting lost in your body. let it take ahold of you and guide you by your hand through the clouds, maybe even soaring above the sun.
never stop telling a story.you observe the world in such a way that lets you create characters out of people and view life as...
she lives on, surviving the day again and again.
a speck of dust in the wide expanse of the universe,
simply breathing in the fumes of reality.
and she's only one out of 7.594 billion people doing the same thing,
but if a tiny rock falls, does it not cause an avalanche?
her life is a song,
sung on the wings of the bluebirds
that flit and flutter across the sky.
if you open your shutters,
perhaps you can hear it.
it sounds like a violin and a viola.
she finds beauty in the smallest things,
though isn't that what they always say?
perhaps it is a phrase that was created for her,
sealed with her name at the beginning of time.
keep that one reserved.
the poets know not who it's for.
words dance underneath her fingertips,
frosting the ends of her eyelashes.
they surround her head,
only sometimes getting tangled...
they're all wearing black leather combat boots.
laughter fills the heavy air,
curses and slurs bouncing off of bandanas.
the road is a playground at their feet;
camouflage-print shirts that carry the stench of tequila
barely visible as the motorcycles fly past,
marked solely by the sirens that follow.
heads turn and shake disapprovingly;
mothers cover their children's eyes
and pray that the new generation of youth
never turn out like these thugs.
cops sigh in resignation at the mere sound of their bikes,
silently hoping to hear the familiar sirens pursuing the rumble
so they don't have to do it themselves.
the newspapers list all the crimes they commit on the daily,
and everybody knows when to keep out of their way.
nobody likes them.
the thing they never tell you
is that their cigarettes smell of vanilla.
my best friend is content to watch the snow fall for hours on end,
but when they're asked to do a single task that takes a mere minute,
they can't bring themself to do it.
my best friend says that they dance to express themself,
but i know that that isn't true;
they dance to escape the world they live in.
my best friend calls the bugs their friends and carries them to safety.
when they find an ant laying dead on the sidewalk,
they cry until their nose runs.
my best friend wants to meet more people,
to find someone they can hold close to their heart and soul,
but they can't carry on a conversation to save their life.
my best friend is always lost in their mind,
looking without seeing,
a gentle nudge needed to bring them back to reality.
my best friend reminds me of a young child;
confused and lost in a department store,
enter the depths of my mind;
swim in the possibilities of my reality.
keep safe everything i have let you find,
and let it float through the prospect of amorality.
slip your fingers through the silk of my mortality/
dance with the demons that invade my thoughts/
take me into your world and never let me leave/
hold me in your arms and kiss me until i have nothing left/
invite me into your deepest secrets/
pull me under like the tide at my feet/
command the seas to part for my feet/
promise me you'll always be there for me/
and, my dear, if we were to part/
i'd always wonder if i could have danced/
this terrible dance with you/
one last time./
tears of white lilies fall down his cheeks.
shaking hands try to stop them,
but underneath the barriers it sneaks.
staining his shirt with their purity,
leaving behind blazing tracks that burn into his skin
and leave his features in obscurity
scarring it with marks of gold;
forever a symbol of his fragility --
a timestamp of his weakness for all to behold
judgement is thrown at him from podiums of pride;
splattering all over his marred face,
letting the shameful marks hide
he’s normal now.
forget what you’ve seen.
tears of white lilies wilting in the sun
is all that is left
of the battle that pride won.
behind the stars, there is a city.
nothing tangible dwells there. it is inhabited only by things the mind can imagine.
to the dreamers:
the ones who paint worlds in the air,
aided only by their imagination.
the ones who stand in silent awe
as symphonies of colours swirl around their heads,
filling the space inside and outside of their bodies.
the ones who invent chimeras and infinities
beyond our scope of reach,
the only key held on a silver necklace
hung underneath a turtleneck sweater.
the ones lost in a cosmos of ideas,
soaring above all reality.
pick the worlds you've painted out of the air
and place them into your palms,
holding them to the eyes of others.
fill your life with the kaleidoscope of images,
surrounding your being with all that you've created.
turn the impossible into a reality,
master the art of change;
pull out the key and unlock the door for all to enter,
living in the present
but integrating your inconceivable into it.
she wears a heart on the cuff of her jeans, but it's not the same as the one on her sleeve. mud splashes onto it as she runs through the street, the crevices caked with debris and gunk. ashamed of the state it's in, she cuffs her jeans further up her leg, hiding it from the judgement of others. the one on her sleeve is always on display; she's proud of the curating and time it took for it to be presentable. at night, before she slumbers, she cleans it out, polishes it until it sparkles, and sets it gently on her nightstand. the one on her cuff, however, is shoved into the darkened closet and left crumpled on the floor until she's forced to put it back on in the morning. its presence follows her all day, and she knows that if she were to display it to the public, everything she ever knew would shatter into oblivion.
the stars pour out of their confinements in the heavens.
they land in whitened palms
gently lifted to pale rose lips.
whispers skim across their surfaces,
their pure blue light
now tinted with tears.
soon, they will travel back with celerity
and return to their spot in the sky,
coruscating and twinkling.
but for now,
they're held fast to a heaving chest,
illuminating the pathway
to a liberating land
full of azure oblivion.
intricate stone patterns climb up to the sky,
trying to touch the tips of the autumn-coloured trees.
small streams of water,
pummeling down glossy rock,
easily glide underneath the spindly bridge,
eventually landing in a pool of its own kind.
the smell of pine, moisture, and ecstasy
fill the light air.
breathe, breathe, breathe it in
as if this breath was your last.
art stares from the weathered walls,
a reminder of the things that were,
the things that are,
and the things that have not yet come to pass.
let your thoughts escape you.
let them roam through the twisting halls,
the spiral staircases,
the river that runs to infinity.
don't call them back.
let them live there,
moving, thinking, breathing,
dancing among the voices lifted above the clouds.