soft like silken honey.
Your words ever venomous,
glimmer like sugar,
itty bitty sugar crystals,
bending light as they
pass between your lips.
The Secret to good PoetryShow me the honey comb in her hair. Show me
how it bleeds amber on your shaking fingers; how
your fingers part the honey waves as you caress.
Don’t tell me you ran your fingers through her blonde hair nervously.
Play me the sounds of the cello in your breathing. Play me
the tune of a low bass rising to a treble, faster. Crescendo.
Play me your breathing as your fingers strike the note of his body.
Don’t tell me your breathing was deep and heavy.
I want to see what love is, fading spots dyed into your skin. I want
to see the plums planted in your flesh, bruises left by lips seeking
to conquer every inch of your neck. I want to see the love in the kiss.
Don’t tell me love is anything. Show me.
Colored Man Chapter One: My ChildrenA sudden tap at his bedroom door brought John back to the present. He had been staring at a little hand painted portrait of a dog sitting in the middle of a lawn. Again the tap on his door came slow and deliberate.
“One moment,” he said setting the piece down. “I'll be right there.”
He straightened his blue collar and brown belt then walked over to the front door. Peeping through the peep hole he saw them. The men in the black suits came to collect him. They appeared as if someone had cut and pasted the same person ten times over in his hallway.
“What can I do for you fine gentleman?” He called through the door.
“Mr. Carlon we're here to take you into custody. You are accused of a color violation and as such must be immediately taken to the House of Eyes. Please do not refuse or we will use force.”
John unlocked the door and presented his wrists. The men in suits restrained him and proceeded to lead him away. Another group of men walked p
Working ReflectionsFrom a commuter bus window, I watch
the world. All these cars, meant to go
over rushing streams and dirt roads,
over long paved roads and dimly
lit tunnels, could drive a thousand miles
on this island, but never get anywhere.
From this window I can see people
rushing to be where the buildings stand
like giant stone idols to paper vomiting
gods, or memorials to human decency.
There in masses, knelt prostrate
in leather thongs and chains, praying
for a dream that never comes. From
this great wide bus window I see
my reflection pondering every word
I write in memoriam of the dream
I'm told must die.I refuse to put down
my pen, to cease my scribbling on
the empty spaces between humanity
and the blank page. I do it not
for immortality or the glory of a coin,
but for the memorial of the human being
I watch slowly die. From my miniscule
window on this bus going nowhere,
Empire of DustCan you dream it? Can you build the sky?
Will you take the clay and help the world mend?
When all is dust, will you refuse to die?
Hear the sound of the crumbling stones nearby,
and feel the parched earth tremble to our end.
Can you dream it? Can you build the sky?
You broke the seal and let your arrow fly
which made the rain twist and rend all the men.
When all is dust, will you refuse to die?
We built our towers to touch the high
and whispered irreverent in our sin:
“Can you dream it? Can you build the sky?”
When all was pleasing to the greedy eye
you found the hunger and asked it, though blind,
“When all is dust, will you refuse to die?”
There is no one left to weep, none to cry,
or even miss our empire or mind.
Can you dream it? Can you build the sky?
When all is dust, will you refuse to die?
The Desert in MeSomething in me feels of sand. Of flesh slowly
rubbed against the grain of the sort used
to strip the surface of wood. Each minute
of everyday, though I walk with my back straight
and eyes forward, I feel it scrape. Every organ
and bone in the center of my body is felt slowly
worn by the movement of being. In being alive
I feel the sand like coarse salt in freshly cut
meat press into my gut, into the imagined hollow
where the soul is supposed to be. Though I am used
to the sensation of the sand in my ever present wounds,
I can never get used to the sand filling every vein
and spilling over the breach of my waking mind.
The sand grinds in more than just my gut,
but in the corners of my eyes, in the corners
of my lips. It grinds in between my teeth
and pours out of my mouth in obscenities.
Work in Progress: Matchlock PoetStand the gun with its barrel up and remove
the cap from the powder horn. Tip a little
of the powder down the barrel. Ram the shot
and a paper wad with the rod until you hear
the packet sink to the bottom.
She sits all alone eyeing the letter in her hands
curiously as if the letter would talk. Her fingers
move as if trained to do so, shaking as if it is
the first time she traced a line. Her lips purse
as if to kiss an unseen person before the utterance
of a word. Issued from her lips, she reads out loud.
Thumb open the cold lip of the breach cover
to expose the pan. Pour a little powder into
the small bowl and close the cover shut.
Take the match cord in your hands and blow
until the cherry glows. Pin the match
to the firing arm, and lift the gun to your shoulder.
Her lips tremble as she issues each word in a voice
reserved for the quiet corner of a library. The tip
of her tongue dances around the curve of every vowel
and consonant. Gingerly the tongue meets teeth
and the teeth meets l
Valentines Day ChallengeThere are no songs that I could sing
above a whisper's pitch,
no tone or sound to match
the humming bird flutter of your breathing.
The feather of your sleep, dances on your lashes;
the soft smile
warmer than down across my chest. I place
a single kiss, upon your sleeping breast. I watch
your lips part at my affectionate intrusion.
In silence like a dreaming bird, I listen.
SorrowI feel it. Water, salty to the tongue, fills up the cup
cut into the space in the hollow below my sternum.
It fills to the brim, flowing from nowhere, and overflowing
it spills into and over my veins. In waves that ebb and thrust
in the canals of my nerves, the water rises to my brain. It
sinks down into my legs, buckling my knees in the force
of its weight. The tide is rising, and I am made an ocean
in the form of a man. The water trickles down from the corners
of my eyes becoming a channel for the ships of my grief
to sail out into the world that does not recognize the man
I am. An entire ocean bubbles and rolls behind my face.
A slow steady wave becomes a beast that cracks the green
glass surface of my sea. In the wash that sweeps
my sandy skin, in the sheen that shows where water once
rose, the man is lost in the wake. I break.
GnatsMy mind is buzzing like a million gnats
swarming over the fruit of my thoughts.
Though the mouth of one gnat is small,
together they feast on the flesh like the fangs
of a salivating maw. Obscuring the luscious
globe of imaginings, the zipping and zigging
waves of annoyance that no amount of
swatting at nothing, or nervously rocking
eat at me.
Forgotten HallsAn ancient, sprawling maze to me,
Familiar as I grew;
It housed the rise of many
And saw the doom of few.
Never did I stop to think
Of those that came before;
All I saw was my own path,
My own tracks on the floor.
And now I see it once again
Its age making it new,
Strangers faces alien
The air of nineties, too.
I stood there when they tore it down,
Laughing with my friends.
Not once did I stop to mourn
The era come to end.
How to Live in 2015Be born. That’s the easy part.
Beg for new toys or take someone else’s.
It doesn’t matter. Being selfish as a child is normal.
Being selfish as an adult is normal.
Get dirty. Stop taking everything
so seriously. You’re going to die.
Don’t worry, everybody does it.
Don’t fall in love, love is not a hole
to fall into. Run into love, headfirst.
Bite your tongue until
you can taste the word no.
Give away your secrets under a pseudonym
for someone else to sell.
Chop off your arms and legs to pay for college,
realize tuition rates doubled.
Get a degree. Find a job. Hate your job.
Find a vice. Keep it closer than your breath.
Find God in an alleyway.
Lose God like a set of keys.
Die and be reborn as a memory.
Die and be reborn as an afterthought.
Die and be forgotten.
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
PastRevoke your “was”–
Consign me not to “had” and “did”
But rather “does.”
I contain the infinite
–”Contain,” not “contained”–
And speak, soak, suffer, sit
In tongues newly-born that strain
After mine and sense that my
“Lives,” “breathes,” “dies,” “loves”
Expand into multitudes greater than
Things they don't tell you.Thngs they don’t tell you about losing your grandfather on a Tuesday night:
When you wake the next morning, you still
need to get out of bed in time for work, you still
have to shower, dress yourself, eat breakfast, brush
your teeth and hair;
and when your mother calls
to check in, you have to comfort her because she lost
her dad last night;
and when you call your grandmother
your voice cannot waver lest you upset her, because
she lost a man she's known for seventy years and even
though she would never hold it against you, you still
feel obligated not to cry;
and when you sit down
to do your job, you will have to do it with all your heart
because if you can
Reasons We Love Homestuck“Reasons we love H O M E S T U C K.”
Why do this love this web comic, you ask?
Maybe it’s just the way the fandom rolls,
or how mean Andrew Hussie trolls.
It could possibly be Eridan’s accent (WWyeh?)
or even Feferi’s keyboard trident. (---E)
Some people say it’s Equius’ broken bows and arrows, ( D →)
but what about Nepeta’s meows and roleplays? (:33 <)
We really do love Sollux’s lisp,
and also when Karkat’s pissed. (FUCKASS!)
Including Kanaya's fabulous lipstick,
it's also Rose's amazing magic.
How about when Dave starts rapping
and Jade Harley begins napping?
We love Vriska’s eight-pupiled eye,
and how John is such an adorable guy.
Or maybe it’s with all the sprites
or how prospit glows bright.
Can’t forget about Derse’s darkness
or Gamzee and all his soberness. (WHOOPS.)
There’s also this thing with Tav and stairs
which he t
Is It Love?If I hugged you,
would you never let go?
If I kissed you,
would you cherish that moment?
If I reached for your hand,
would you take mine gently?
If I needed a shoulder,
would you let me cry on yours?
If I needed to talk,
would you really listen?
If I needed to scream,
would you do it with me?
If I needed to go,
would you come with me?
If I fell for you,
would you catch me?
or just let me hit the pavement?
The Doner 7/27/15
I've had a good life.
I have no regrets.
It's time for me to die.
What will be my legacy?
These are things I wonder.
How will I be remembered?
Who will mourn me?
Have I done enough?
Did I appreciate the air I breathe?
So I made a decision.
A choice of the heart.
When I die I will donate
parts of me.
Parts I hold dear.
If in the future I can be helpful
to someone who is without - that will
be my purpose.
My corneas, which helped me view beauty
and ugliness in this world.
I will give to someone who can't see.
Maybe they have been blind all their
life or maybe it's new and it kills them.
If I can give them a glimpse of what
I saw then I will die with a grin on my face.
My lungs ( although I had asthma and suffered
occasionally when I was young ) could
breathe new life into a child or
a person with emphysema.
Maybe they will be thankful for a second chance.
And finally my heart. Which now beats faster
knowing my fate. I don't wish to die.
But the cancer is coursing throug
letters to nobodyi said I don’t want to
get out of the warmth of
this bed but in truth i
didn’t want to wake up.
last night i read until
i was drunk and in the
morning i did it again
so that i would not have
to deal with the hangover.
escapism; i am an alcoholic
who does not know what they
are running away from.
i said I write like this
because I like lapslock but
in truth i was afraid that
this raw thing in my brain
would not be so pretty with
the rough edges sanded smooth.
i put down words until there
was only me and you and my
line to the world went dead.
i want to die, one day.
in the meantime, i can only
live a skinny life so there
are less strings to cut
when we get there.
i said This is the world –
you are here and i pointed
to the emotional equivalent
of the middle of nowhere.
you are replaceable, even to
i know this because sometimes
i put you in my place, and
but the thing is, somebody
has to fill this spot, and
nobody else is